The funeral was ascheap as funerals get.
No flowers except for the single sad bouquet Grams had bought herself and a massive arrangement from Meg and the studio.No fancy casket—just a plain pine box that looked like it came from a discount warehouse.There’d be no reception afterward.No music except for the tinny recording of “Free Bird” someone had played on their phone during the graveside service.
Rosie had drunk away the life insurance years ago.What little money was left went to the hospital bill and the cheapest plot the cemetery would sell.
Vic stood in a borrowed black button-down that was too tight across the shoulders, staring at the cheap coffin as it was lowered into the ground.Grams stood beside him, small and steady, her hand tucked into the crook of his arm.A handful of old musicians and barflies had shown up—ghosts from his father’s past who looked almost as worn out as Rosie had at the end.Meg stood on the other side of Grams, sorrow clear on her face.
And then there was Conner.
Vic felt him before he saw him—that familiar prickle on the back of his neck, the same one he’d felt as a kid whenever his older half brother walked into a room.He turned his head slowly and there he was, standing on the far side of the grave like he was ready to bolt at any second.
Conner looked...different.Older.Harder.Tall like their father, but broader through the chest and shoulders.Dark hair cut military-short, a clean-shaven jaw, and eyes the same stormy gray as Rosie’s.He wore a plain dark jacket over jeans and boots that had seen real work, not stage lights.
Vic thought he was probably around eleven the last time he remembered really trying to impress his brother.
It was a hot Saturday afternoon, the kind where the air felt thick enough to chew.Conner was older, already taller, and even then carrying that sharp edge that made Vic both admire and fear him.They were in the backyard, Vic behind his battered drum kit, the one he’d saved six months of lawn-mowing money to buy, while Conner stood a few feet away with their dad’s old guitar slung over his shoulder.
“Play it again,” Conner said, voice impatient.“But don’t rush the bridge this time.You always rush it like a little kid.”
Vic’s hands were sweating on the sticks.He wanted so badly to get it right.Conner had been pulling away more and more lately.He’d been spending time with older kids, talking about how he was going to get out of this house the second he turned eighteen.Vic still believed if he could just be good enough—at drums, at music, at something—his brother might stay.Might see him as more than the annoying little tagalong.
He started the beat again, trying to keep it steady, trying to lock in with the riff Conner was half-heartedly playing.But his nerves got the better of him.He pushed the tempo just a little too hard on the chorus.
Conner stopped playing abruptly.
“Jesus, Vic.You suck at this.”The words were cruel, delivered with a sneer that cut deeper than any insult from the kids at school.“You know Dad only brings you to gigs because he feels sorry for you.You’re never gonna be good enough to keep up with real musicians.”
Vic’s sticks froze midair.His throat burned.All he’d wanted was for Conner to be proud of him.To look at him the way he used to when they were younger—like they were on the same team against the chaos of Rosie’s life.
“I can get better,” Vic said quietly, voice small.“I’ll practice more.I promise.”
Conner just snorted and slung the guitar off his shoulder.“Whatever.I’m done wasting my time.”
He walked back toward the house without saying another word, leaving Vic sitting alone behind the kit, the hot sun beating down on his neck and tears he refused to let fall stinging his eyes.
Just be better, he’d told himself that day, wiping his face with the hem of his shirt.If you’re good enough, maybe he’ll stay.
***
The second memory hitharder.
Vic was twelve when Conner and his mom disappeared.
One morning, they were there—Conner eating cereal at the kitchen table, his mom yelling at Rosie about another bounced check.The next morning, the house was quiet in a way that felt wrong.Vic had gone looking for them, only to find Conner’s room stripped bare.Closet empty.No note.No goodbye.
He’d stood in the doorway for what felt like hours, staring at the bare mattress and the faint outline on the wall where Conner’s favorite poster had hung.
When Vic asked, Rosie had shrugged it off, eyes bloodshot from another bender.“His mom finally had enough.Can’t say I blame her.”
But Vic couldn’t understand it.How could someone just leave like that?How could Conner—the brother who used to let him sit on the edge of his bed and listen to records late at night—cut him out so cleanly, like Vic had never mattered at all?
He’d cried that night in his room, face buried in his pillow so Rosie wouldn’t hear.Not because he was sad exactly, but because it felt like proof.Proof that no matter how hard you tried, no matter how much you wanted to be enough for someone, they could still walk away without looking back.
Vic blinked, pulling himself back to the present.
Fifteen years later, those same stormy gray eyes were staring at him across their father’s grave.Conner looked like a man who had built walls so high no one could reach him.The same way Vic had once fearedhewould become.
Their eyes met for a long, heavy moment.
