“He doesn’t sound great,” I tell him.
Jacob breathes out a sigh. “He didn’t seem great this morning either, but I don’t know…We’d probably feel the same way if the woman we were supposed to marry said she didn’t want to see us.”
“Right,” I say, but my unease must come through.
“Really, though, I think he’s fine. Physically, I mean. Emotionally, that’s another story, but I do think it’s understandable. Given the circumstances.”
“Mmhm.” I rub the back of my arm. “I guess I wouldn’t know the difference, so…I’m glad you’re able to tell.”
Jacob goes quiet for a long moment. “What you said yesterday—if I was in your shoes, if there was something wrong with my father and he hadn’t told me about it, I’d…I’d feel anxious too. Even if he said he was better. But I’d also feel…I’d be so angry.” He looks over at me, his eyes gentle. “And honestly—I’m surprised that you haven’t been angrier. That you’re here at all, helping out.”
“I’m angry,” I say. “I am. All the time.” A beat passes, and a strange laugh rises in my throat. “Sorry, that sounded so dramatic. Like I’m the Hulk or something.”
But Jacob doesn’t laugh in return. “You don’t have to do that, you know. Deflect that way. You can talk about it with me.” He pauses. “If you want.”
“I—” I’m not sure what to say. Just yesterday, this man was my father’s staunchest ally, and now he’s willing to listen to me tear himapart? Do I want to do that? Show him that this surrogate father figure in his life isn’t exactly the person he thinks he is? Ruin this relationship that’s so important to him? The way I ruined things between my father and Maggie? “I don’t think you’d want to hear that.”
“Try me,” he says softly.
We reach the entrance to the inn, and I grab the door before he can. Jacob’s already balancing so much: the takeout and his pipes.
“Maybe later,” I say.
“Neelu—”
“Later.” There’s finality in my voice, a mental shutting of a gate, because I don’t want to do this now. I can’t. “We need to get going.” I take the bag of takeout from him, my fingers sliding against his, a tingling sensation running across my palm. “I’ll take this up for him.”
Jacob watches me for a beat, then reaches back for the bag. “I can do that,” he says, and I don’t fight him.
Perhaps it’s cowardly, the way I don’t want to face my father. The way I don’t want to face the way his actions have made me feel.
Didn’t Jacob say as much? That I need to work through things, that I need to grow up?
He was harsh. I don’t think he’d say it the same way now, but was he so wrong? He’s lost so many people he loved, but he somehow was able to work through it. He went to therapy—something I’ve never done—and now he’s this steady, stable force in my father’s life. In Maggie’s life.
Meanwhile, I’m still bruised over something my father did years ago. Though it wasn’t just years ago. It’s been the past few months; it’s now. It’s the way my father seems to be open and interested in everyone but me.
Jacob returns moments later, his footsteps echoing in the lobby.His brows lower when he sees me, and his pace increases. “Are you all right?” he asks, and I squeeze my eyes shut.
I need to compose myself. I need to get it together.
“Of course,” I say. “Sorry, it’s just—I know we’re in a rush.”
He eyes me at that, skeptical, but he doesn’t push me. Perhaps because he knows we can’t get into it right now. Perhaps because he too is feeling some heavy emotions on the way to this funeral.
It’s an unsaid agreement, the way we swallow down our feelings as we march toward the kirk. Unsaid, the way we agree to walk in silence, moving closer and closer to each other.
Unsaid, the way his hand drifts as it swings in the air between us, the way his fingers deliberately reach out, brushing against mine.
15
The sky is gray. Any sunlight from before is completely gone now, and the clouds look heavy, as if they’re minutes away from pouring rain.
At the entrance, we stumble upon Elsie and Iain. They express their thanks once again and ask Jacob if he can start playing outside. After the service, they’d like him to lead the procession to the burial location and play the hymn they requested, then “Amazing Grace” once the burial is complete.
Jacob nods through the instructions, as if they’re familiar to him. I wonder how many funerals he’s played, and whether they all follow a similar procedure.
“Anything I can do?” I ask.
