He goes still.
Not a flinch, not a sound. Just… still. The way a person goes when their body understands something their mind isn't ready for yet, when everything just stops and waits. I was there only a few days ago.
"She woke up," I say. "She was awake, and she… she knew me. She was herself. She made Hayden promise to look after me, and she was so happy, Dad, she was really happy?—"
My voice breaks.
"She didn't make it." The words come out in pieces. "Her heart. They did everything they could. She was… at the end she was at peace, I promise, she was so at peace, she just?—"
I stop.
Because my dad's hand has gone tight around mine.
He lies very still in the bed, and he stares at the ceiling, and he doesn't make a sound, and somehow that’s the worst thing I’ve ever witnessed. The silence of it. The absolute, completestillness of a man absorbing the kind of news that restructures everything, that reaches back through decades and changes the shape of every day that came before it.
His jaw moves once.
His eyes go bright.
He doesn't look at me.
“I did everything to make her better, you did everything.” The words come out in a whisper, and all I can do is nod, because if I speak, I will cry.
“She fought for so long, now…now she’s gone.”
He just stares at the ceiling and holds my hand and breathes, and I sit on the edge of his bed and lean my forehead against his shoulder and cry quietly, and he turns his face into my hair, and we stay like that for a long time.
Hayden doesn't move from the other side of the bed.
The hours pass slowly. We talk, eventually. Dad asks about the house, about whether I've been eating. I tell him about Hayden's family, about his mom's cooking, about Mason eating everything in sight. Dad laughs once, short and rough, and it sounds like the most important sound I've heard in weeks.
At some point he looks at Hayden and says, "You've been with her through this."
"Every day," Hayden says.
Dad nods slowly and looks at the ceiling again for a moment. "The funeral," he says. "When is it?"
"A few days," I say quietly. "We waited; we wanted you to be awake."
"The cost." His voice tightens slightly. "Livvy, the cost of everything, the hospital bills on top?—"
"It's taken care of, Mr. B." Hayden's voice is even and complete. "Before you start."
Dad looks at him.
"Hayden—"
"It's done. The funeral, the arrangements, it's all handled. Before you say anything, I've already had this fight with Olivia, and I'll tell you what I told her. You're not doing this alone."
My dad is quiet for a long moment. He looks at Hayden with an expression I can't entirely read.
"Your family did this," he says.
"Yes."
"Then I'll thank them properly. When I'm on my feet."
"They won't want thanks," Hayden tells him.
