Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 74730 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 374(@200wpm)___ 299(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74730 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 374(@200wpm)___ 299(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
Mom took her last breath six hours ago. She passed warm in her bed, myself, Oliver, and my father at her side, just like she wanted. In May, the doctors told us we’d be lucky if she made it to June. In June, they told us it was a miracle she’d made it that far. When July rolled around, we were quietly hopeful that she might make it long enough to get to witness the wedding. Deep down, we all knew that’s what she was holding on for. She might have lost her battle, but she put up one hell of a fight.
Somewhere in the depths of this never-ending home, my father is processing his loss alone. He’s never been one to show emotions in front of others. Looking weak isn’t the Delacorte way, he’s always told me.
Oliver copes by drinking until he can’t feel his face—or his feelings.
I’m numb. I imagine everything will hit me when I least expect it, but for now, someone’s got to hold this family together.
I sat by Mom’s bedside while the home nurses came in and did their thing, and then I locked myself in my father’s study, making all the necessary phone calls. When I came out, Oliver was stumbling around the bar, tears in his eyes, mumbling to himself.
My phone vibrates with call after call. I let them all go to my voicemail, where a freshly recorded greeting gives them the funeral details and directs them to my family’s public relations contact for any comments or questions. My mother wasn’t a celebrity by any means, but as the wife of one of the wealthiest men in the world, her death is going to make headlines.
“It’s bullshit,” Oliver slurs. His eyes are unfocused and I’m certain he’s talking to the universe and not me. “Why her? Couldn’t it have been anyone else?”
He slumps into an oversized leather chair, burying his head in his hands.
Glancing at my phone, I’m tempted to put it in do not disturb mode, but I don’t in case the funeral home calls. I easily could have outsourced this task to someone on my father’s payroll, but I want to personally ensure sure every last detail is exactly how she wanted it. They’re supposed to be sourcing daffodils and working on getting her favorite opera singer to fly in to perform Ave Maria and In Paradisum.
I lie down on the Chesterfield sofa, next to a sobbing Oliver, and close my eyes. I keep expecting something to wash over me, a flood of grief, but my insides are still a void of nothingness.
“You two doing okay?” My father’s broken voice breaks the silence after a while, and I find him standing in the doorway. His silver hair is ragged, like he’s been running his hands through as he agonized over the past several hours.
Oliver mutters something neither of us can hear.
“You should go home, Slade, get some rest.” Dad takes a seat next to me. “It’s been a long day.”
“I’m not leaving you two here alone.”
“We’ll be fine.” He speaks with conviction, though his eyes are laced with a desolate heaviness unlike I’ve ever seen. My entire life, this man has never shed a single tear. I realize now he’s been holding them back all day, waiting to be alone so he can finally let it all out. He doesn’t just want me to go, he needs me to.
“As long as you’re sure,” I say.
His lips turn into a hard line. “I’ll let you know if we need anything.”
“Keep this one away from the liquor cabinet.” I point at Oliver. “Not trying to bury two family members in one week.”
Dad nods.
I show myself out.
The instant I walk through the doors of my own home, something feels … off. I blame it on grief at first, and then I spot Campbell’s silver suitcase in the middle of the foyer. I hardly have time to process the fact that she’s here when she runs up to me out of nowhere and wraps me in her warm embrace.
“I came as soon as Oliver told me,” she says, her head buried against my shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”
Of course Oliver told her.
The man never wastes an excuse to be in contact with this woman in any way he can.
Holding my breath, I’m about to gently push her away when something comes over me. Instead I stand there. For whatever reason, I decide to let her hold me.
“I had no idea she was sick,” Campbell says. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“She didn’t want anyone to know.”
Leaning back, her deep blue eyes scan mine and her delicate face softens. “You held it in this whole time? Is that why you’ve been …”
Her voice trails to nothingness, the same nothingness that eats me from the inside.
“You don’t have to answer that.” She cups my face, a tender, unexpected move. And she looks at me with the kind of compassion I sure as hell don’t deserve from her.