Page 11 of Don’t Go Breaking My Heart

I felt like a voyeur, but I couldn’t look away. There was something beautiful about her endurance, the way she held herself amid the waves of sorrow.

The cemetery was quiet. The cool breeze felt sharp but I barely noticed it. I was caught in the moment, wondering what she was thinking. Was she remembering her father’s laugh? Maybe his love of fishing? Or maybe the stern look he used to give her when she stepped out of line?

Those were the kinds of moments that seemed insignificant until they were all you could think about. I knew what it was like to replay every second of the time you spent with someone. You tried to remember exactly what they said and how they said it. Every word, every look, and every meal played on a loop in your head until it started to fade.

I didn’t wish grief on my worst enemy.

The scene before me felt almost otherworldly, like a painting meant to capture the essence of loss and remembrance. I could see Merritt’s shoulders start to shake slightly, the first visible sign of her breaking composure. It was subtle, but to someone who knew her as well as I did—rather like I used to—it was obvious.

She finally sank to her knees by the graveside, her shoulders shaking with sobs. My chest tightened like a vise was around it. I couldn’t just stand by and watch her fall apart. I could be a mean bastard but even I wasn’t that callous.

Damn it.

I had to go to her. She needed me. She needed someone to hold her.

But before I could take more than a step, her friends came out of nowhere and rushed to her side. They gathered her up in their arms, their voices low and soothing, and they comforted her. Merritt buried her face in the slender blonde’s shoulder while the shorter one with thick black hair rubbed her back.

They formed a small, tight circle around her, shielding her from the world. I stopped dead in my tracks, realizing there was already enough support for her. She didn’t need me after all—or maybe she didn’t need the me that stood there today, hesitant and estranged by years and silence.

I retreated back to the shadow of the tree. Its bark was rough against my back as I leaned against it. Merritt’s friends led her slowly away from the grave, their steps careful and measured. They were taking her toward the hall where people would eat sandwiches and potato salad or whatever potluck items had been brought in. They would all stand around and talk about Gary. I couldn’t do it.

It was my cue to leave.

I turned my back on the scene and walked away, the gravel crunching under my boots. Gary deserved better from me, but grief wasn’t something I handled well. Not anymore. I couldn’t stand around sipping punch and listening to stories about him. I sure as hell wasn’t going to share my own stories. There was no way I was going to show my soft underbelly to these strangers.

I walked back to my bike and hopped on. I couldn’t decide if I wanted to go for a long, fast ride or get shitfaced. If only I could do both at the same time.

The wind hit my face as I revved the engine, decision still hanging in limbo. All I wanted was to feel the speed and freedom that a ride would give me. I needed to escape the tight grasp of reality that felt like it was choking me. I chose the road, letting the roar of the bike drown out the echoes of Gary’s laugh that lingered in my mind.

The scenery blurred into streaks of green and gray, each mile helping to loosen the heavy weight of grief that had settled on my shoulders. Riding was a kind of therapy. The familiar vibrations of the bike grounded me. The noise and rumble of the road were better than any conversation. It didn’t need me to say the right things or remember the past in a certain way.

By the time I pulled into my garage it was dark and the chill was getting to be uncomfortable. I climbed off the bike, my legs tingling. I headed inside, and before I even took off my jacket, I took the bottle of whiskey from the shelf. I grabbed a glass and poured it halfway full.

The liquid burned its way down, setting a comforting fire in my belly. It wasn’t the healthiest coping mechanism, but tonight I was giving myself a pass. I sank into the worn leather couch in my living room, the bottle resting casually next to me, ready to keep me company.

A sense of loss settled over me. Feelings clashed in my chest. Anger, sadness, and regret. I poured another generous shot to drown it out.

I didn’t want to feel.

6

MERRITT

“Is this really the right thing to do?” I asked Lucia. “It feels gross.”

“What’s gross about it?” Lucia asked as she placed a sticker on an ugly vase.

Fifty cents seemed like it was too much, but they kept telling me one man’s trash was another man’s treasure.

I looked around the living room filled with my father’s things. The driveway and front yard were cluttered with more. We had blocked off all the rooms, wanting to keep the bargain hunters in the main area. Lucia said it was to keep out the thieves. I honestly couldn’t imagine anyone trying to steal anything.

“Am I profiting off my father’s death?” I asked. “An estate sale? I should have just donated all of it.”

“Then we would have to rent a truck and haul it all somewhere and there was no guarantee the thrift stores would accept it,” Lucia said. She straightened a stack of dinner plates that were on the dining table. All of it was for sale. “Besides, it’s not like you’re asking for a million dollars. My mom would be all over bargains like this. A dollar for six plates is basically giving it away. You’re selling this stuff cheaper than what a secondhand store would sell it for. So basically, you’re doing something good for the community.”

I wasn’t sure I believed that, but the stuff did need to go.

I walked outside and spotted Dominique sitting in a folding chair at a table with the cash box. She looked so out of place in her fluffy pink beanie cap, designer jeans, and dark Chanel sunglasses. She wasn’t wealthy, but she dressed like she was. In reality, she was a bargain hunter herself and knew how to buy pieces that exuded luxury and paired them with secondhand jeans.