Page 72 of Don't Tell

His eyes are tired, like he's been carrying my burdens as his own, refusing to let me see the weight of it.

I put my hand on his.

"Yes."

He breathes out and brings my hand up to his mouth. He presses his lips against the back of my knuckles and keeps it there for a second.

Then slowly, I see what I have just agreed to.

I’m going to a funeral with him, to be on his arm in a row of people who knew his father, who know his mother, who know his brother, who will look at me and ask who I am.

I’m going to be his in public — in front of his family.

We are no longer a secret, the two of us.

But what has been growing in my chest all this time is not what I expected. It is not fear, though I have known fear like a second skin, and it is not panic. This is something else entirely, softer and far steadier, a gentle warmth.

Against every odd in front of me, I'm somehow happy.

18.Suzanne

He hasn’t let go of my hand since we got in the car.

His thumb moves against my knuckles. The radio is off. The valley is two hours behind us, and the foothills are starting to flatten out into a long, quiet stretch of road. I have decided in the hour since we pulled out of the Cresswell drive that whatever I need from him today can wait.

Today is his day.

I’m here to be what he needs me to be.

I squeeze his hand once.

He squeezes back.

The house comes into view at the end of a long private drive — limestone, two stories, a slate roof, a row of sycamores that have been there since before the foundation. There are six cars in the gravel circle. One of them is a hearse.

He turns off the engine and lets go of my hand before he opens the door.

I watch him do it.

We walk up to the house together. The gravel under my heels is loud in the small still air. The entrance door opens before we have reached the top step.

A woman in her 60s with silver-blonde hair is on the other side. In her black dress, with warm eyes, she has the kind of presence that anchors a room without ever taking it.

Behind her are two men. One of them is in his early 30s, taller than Cade, lighter. The other is older, mid-60s, soft mouth, wearing a gray suit.

"Cade."

"Mom."

She holds him for a long moment, and he lets her.

She lets him go, steps back, and looks at me.

"Mom, this is Suzanne. Beau, Henry — Suzanne."

I shake hands with Vivienne, Beau, and Henry.

"She's one of the artists I represent. She wanted to come pay her respects."