“I wanted to,” he said. “I mean, you shouldn’t—nobody should—” He cut himself off and exhaled, long and dark. “You did good in there.”
I barked a laugh. “I picked a casket out of a brochure and signed some papers. The real challenge will be watching them lower her coffin into the fucking ground.” Bitterness laced my voice as I spoke with grim intent.
“Right.” Caiden switched off his gentle nature and sped out of the parking lot, and I wondered if he felt regret for showing softness towards me because of how I pulled back so quickly.
I wouldn’t blame him if he did.
By the time we hit the turnoff for the motel, I didn’t realize I’d been holding my breath until Caiden slammed the car into park and yanked the keys from the ignition.
We sat there, side by side in the darkened car. The cold had crept up my spine, made my jaw clench with the ache of it, but I didn’t move to get out. Neither did he.
Instead, we just watched the fog roll in, the way it piled up on the grass and muffled every edge until the world shrank to this single parking space.
I wondered if my mother’s body was already cold, or if her soul was still drifting, like steam off cheap coffee, waiting for the world to stop spinning.
My throat felt tight. I wished I could cry, just to let some of it out, but nothing came. I’d trained myself out of tears years ago, long before I left the Bury for good.
Back then, Mom would start with the silent treatment and escalate to hours locked in the bathroom, curled up on the floor with a bottle of off-brand gin and a box of cigarettes. She used to say that if she had any sense, she would have run long before she had me.
A part of me wanted to tear the envelope in two, to deny my mother her final confession, but I couldn’t. I’d spent my whole life chasing scraps of her love, decoding every silence and apology. And now?
I wasstarving.
27
CAIDEN
Most nights,the memory of that house would crawl beneath my skin, burrowing like maggots.
Every shadow on the wall reminded me of him. My father’s silhouette, forked and elongated by the sick glow of streetlights pouring through broken blinds. Even breathing felt like treason.
I’d stand outside for hours, letting the cold strip me raw, waiting for a numbness that never quite came. Sometimes, I wondered if the house still stood or if it had finally surrendered to rot and ash, the way all ghosts eventually do.
I wasn’t sure if I even wanted to go downtown, but we decided it was better than sitting around in the motel.
I parked the car on the side of a street, then we just started walking together. Pathosbury was small enough. We could probably walk through the whole town, pass by the neighborhoods, and stop by every single spot that held memories.
Amelia didn’t look at me. Not once. Her profile was pale as bone, even in the sunlight. She’d pulled her sleeves down over her wrists, trying to shrink away from the world.
It made me want to grab her, to bury my face in her hair and beg her for forgiveness I didn’t deserve. Instead, I trailed a step behind, a shadow, barely holding myself together.
We passed the old barbershop. I remembered my father’s hand on the back of my neck, forcing me inside. The clippers biting at my scalp, hot foam smeared down my jaw. The barber’s voice, thin and tight:“Don’t move, son.”My father’s reply, a breath away from violence:“He won’t.”
He was dead now. Seven years gone. Alcohol did what nothing else could, wore holes in his liver until all that poison finally leaked out. He still found ways to live inside me.
His voice, spliced into my own thoughts. His habits wormed into my muscles. Sometimes, late at night, I felt my lip curl the way his did, and I wanted to put my fist through a wall.
I never did. Not anymore. The first punch always hurts the most. After that, you just got numb.
Amelia stopped at the corner, waiting for the crosswalk. Her breathing was shallow, fast. Like she was bracing for impact. I hovered behind her, hands working in my pockets.
I let out a slow exhale. “You hungry?” The words clawed up my throat.
She blinked, still facing away from me. “Not really. But we should probably eat.” Her voice was small. Crumbling at the edges if you listened closely.
I nodded, even though she wasn’t looking. We headed up the block, picking our way past a puddle of broken glass and cigarette butts glinting like silver fish in the gutter.
Amelia’s hair caught on her lip. She brushed it back, fingers trembling. I almost said something. I almost reached out.
