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1
Rowan
The last time I attended a funeral, I ended up with a broken arm. The story made headlines after I threw myself into my mother’s open grave. It’s been over two decades since that day, and while I’ve completely changed as a person, my aversion to mourning hasn’t. But due to my responsibilities as my late grandfather’s youngest relative, I’m expected to stand tall and unbothered during his wake. It’s nearly impossible, with my skin itching like I’m wearing a cheap polyester suit.
My patience wanes as the hours go on, with hundreds of Kane employees and business partners offering their condolences. If there’s anything I hate more than funerals, it’s talking to people. There are only a few individuals I tolerate, and my grandfather was one of them.
And now he’s gone.
The burning sensation in my chest intensifies. I don’t know why it bothers me as much as it does. I’ve had time to prepare while he was ina comayet the strange sensation above my rib cage returns with a vengeance whenever I think of him.
I run a hand through my dark hair to give myself something to do.
“I’m sorry for your loss, son.” A nameless attendee interrupts my thoughts.
“Son?” The one word leaves my mouth with enough venom to make the man wince.
The gentleman centers his tie across his chest with fumbling hands. “I’m—well—uh.”
“Excuse my brother. He’s struggling with his grief.” Cal places a hand on my shoulder and gives it a squeeze. His vodka and mint-coated breath hits my face, making me scowl. My middle brother might look dressed to the nines in a pressed suit and perfectly styled blond hair, but his red-rimmed eyes tell a completely different story.
The man mumbles a few words I don’t bother listening to before heading for the nearest exit.
“Struggling with my grief?” Although I don’t like the idea of my grandfather’s passing, I’m notstrugglingwith anything but uncomfortable heartburn today.
“Relax. That’s the kind of thing people say at funerals.” Two blond brows pull together as Cal stares me down.
“I don’t need an excuse for my behavior.”
“No, but you need a reason for scaring off our biggest Shanghai hotel investor.”
“Fuck.” There’s a reason I prefer solitude. Small talk requires far too much effort and diplomacy for my taste.
“Can youtryto be nicer for one more hour? At least until all the important people leave?”
“Thisisme trying.” My left eye twitches as I press my lips together.
“Well, do better. For him.” Cal tilts his head toward the picture above the fireplace.
I let out a shaky breath. The photograph was taken during a family trip to Dreamland when my brothers and I were kids. Grandpa smiles into the lens despite my tiny arms wrapped around his neck in a chokehold. Declan stands by Grandpa’s side, caught in the middle of an eye roll while Cal raises two fingers behind his head. My father shows a rare sober smile as he wraps an arm around Grandpa’s shoulder. If I try hard enough, I can imagine Mom’s laugh as she snapped the photo. While the memory of her face is fuzzy, I can make out her smile if I think hard enough.
A weird scratchiness in my throat makes it difficult to swallow.
Residual allergies from spring in the city. That’s all.
I clear my irritated throat. “He would have hated this kind of show.” Although Grandpa was intheentertainment business, he disliked being the center of attention. The idea of all these people driving out to the edge of Chicago for him would have made his eyes roll if he was still here.
Cal shrugs. “He of all people knew what was expected of him.”
“A networking event disguised as a funeral?”
The side of Cal’s lips lifts into a small smile before falling back into a flat line. “You’re right. Grandpa would be horrified because he always said Sunday was a day of rest.”
“There’s no rest for the wicked.”
“And even less for the wealthy.” Declan stops by my other side. He stares at the crowd of people with an unrelenting scowl. My oldest brother has intimidating people down to a science, with everyone avoiding his pitch-black stare. His suit matches his dark hair, which only adds to his cloak and dagger look.
I’m somewhat jealous of Declan since people typically talk to me first, mistaking me as the nicest child because I happen to be the youngest. I might have been born last, but I most certainly wasn’t born yesterday. The only reason guests take the time to speak to us is because they want to stay within our good graces. That kind of fake treatment is to be expected. Especially when all the people we associate with have a moral compass pointed permanently toward hell.
