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The kind of daisies she and I would make flower crowns out of as kids, and wear in our tree house, pretending it was our castle.
Waylon knows this, because he was there.
Mason too.
As we got older though, she was insistent on loving roses. So much so, that clearly even Mom and Dad believed her. I’m not sure why she tried so hard to love something more than she actually did—maybe it had to do with the whole piano thing, and what’s expected of her.
Renowned musicians don’t typically get wildflowers handed to them after all.
The priest wraps up his spiel, and muffled sobs surround me as we’re instructed to file up and say our final goodbyes.
Our row goes last, of course. And in that time, my mind drifts—the softly uttered prayers and farewells coming from where people stop to set their roses on the casket, flitting in one ear, and out the other.
“I can’t do this.”
Slowly, I pivot my head to stare at Waylon’s tight profile. It’s then I realize that Phoebe’s no longer next to me, but standing in front of the casket with her mom. It’s our turn. I didn’t even notice she released my hand.
“I can’t do this,” Waylon whispers again. The rose pinched between his fingers quakes.
“Then don’t.”
It doesn’t even register that the words came from me, not until hazel eyes swivel to mine, reddened and gleaming with a combination of unshed tears, and the lingering effects of the weed we all but devoured in the parking lot before coming down here.
People saw us of course. We didn’t bother to try and hide it.
No one said a thing. They never do where we’re concerned.
His mouth opens, closes, and then Ivy’s there, squeezing his bicep. Her gaze meets looks between us. “It’s okay. If you’re not ready, it’s okay.”
She’s speaking to him, yet it feels like the words are for both of us.
Waylon looks down at the rose, his brow furrowing.
Sniffing, he nods and lets Ivy take it from him. He quickly turns away, and makes a beeline for the parking lot on the other side of the trees.
Envy grips me, blurring my vision with fresh tears.
But I don’t let them fall.
I can feel people watching me, and it’s surreal to think how drastically I’ve changed in such a short amount of time. It makes me bitter, so fucking bitter, to think how stupid and pathetic I used to be, terrified of…of what? What people thought of me? What they were saying?
My sister’s gone.
She was ripped from us.
How does any of that compare to this?
“JJ?” I hear Dad say, but it’s as if it’s coming from very far away.
Waylon’s standing just past the tree line, barely visible, arms crossed, glaring down at the grass. Ivy’s jogging up to meet him.
I can’t do this either, I realize.
I can’t say goodbye. Not yet.
She’d never give up on me. What the hell am I doing here?
There’s a buzzing in my ears, and a glare in my eye from the cruel, heartless sun beaming down on us.
