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“Hey, Liv,” Avery cut in. “You guys ready to leave?”
My eyes met Luke’s once again, and he gave me a soft smile.
“Wait. There’s something we need to do first.” He turned to fumble around in his bag, holding me in place with one arm.
“There it is.” He brandished his phone triumphantly at me.
I eyed it, one eyebrow raised.
“Remember? You told me to take a photo of you for my wallpaper.”
“Oh, yes.”
He opened the camera and angled it to face us, then snapped a picture. Bringing it up on the screen, he smiled, satisfied.
“Perfect.”
He’d captured me smiling dreamily into the camera, my feelings written all over my face, while his own face was hidden, buried in my neck.
I took a deep breath. Was I that obvious to read? Maybe it was clearer to me, and he wouldn’t notice. I hope. I couldn’t let him know how hard I was falling for him—he didn’t need that kind of pressure.
19
Luke
The mood in the tiny stone chapel was sombre, accompanied by the staccato beat of rain on the guttering outside. Martha’s funeral was attended by seven people; eight if you included the vicar. In addition to myself and Olivia, Martha’s son, Graham, was in attendance along with his wife and son, and Jodie and Kelly from the care home had also turned up to pay their respects. I shuffled uncomfortably on the hard wooden pew as the vicar spoke, concentrating on breathing in and out, willing myself to stay composed enough to recite the poem Graham had asked me to read.
A small hand slipped into mine and gently squeezed.
“You’ve got this, Luke.” Olivia’s soft voice sounded in my ear, reassuring me. “I’ll be right here.”
We hadn’t seen each other outside of work since Sunday, but we’d messaged each other back and forth several times a day, and she’d assured me she would attend the funeral with me, no matter what. Beyond grateful for her presence, I lifted our joined hands and placed a kiss to the back of her hand.
Releasing her hand with a final squeeze, I walked to the lectern and placed the crumpled piece of paper on it, wiping my shaking palms on my black suit trousers. Stay strong. You can do this.
Clearing my throat, I began.
“Thank you, Reverend. Graham has asked if I could read a poem by Mary Elizabeth Frye, ‘Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep.’”
Swallowing hard, I continued.
“Do not stand at my grave and weep;
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush,
I am the swift uplifting rush
