Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 68309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 342(@200wpm)___ 273(@250wpm)___ 228(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 342(@200wpm)___ 273(@250wpm)___ 228(@300wpm)
I wrap him tighter.
I don’t tell him about my decision to move to New York. Now’s not the time.
Instead, I swallow the breakup speech I’d gone over a dozen times in my head while he lay sleeping all night.
I can’t kick the man when he’s down.
18
Cainan
“Thank you so much for coming.” Grant’s mom wraps me in a powdery lilac-scented hug that takes me back to my youth. A pitch-black dress hugs her pleasantly plump figure, and she accessorizes with a gold cross necklace and teary eyes.
The place is packed, throngs of visitors making their way toward the lifeless body of Grant’s father in the front of the church, his casket surrounded by a hundred floral arrangements and potted peace lilies.
If I have half the turnout at my funeral, I’ll die a lucky man.
“Oh, I wanted you to have one of these.” She reaches toward a table behind her and retrieves a white and blue boutonniere, pinning it on the lapel of my jacket with shaking hands. “There you go. You were like a second son to him. You deserve to be recognized as such.”
“Thank you, Georgette.”
Michael “Big Mike” Forsythe was a tough-as-nails son of a bitch who’d have done anything for anyone. He’d survived two back injuries from his career as a construction foreman. A boating accident as a teen. A bout with early stage lung cancer. And a pulmonary embolism ten years ago. But in the end, a widow-maker heart attack took him in his sleep at sixty-three—a year and two months after he retired.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” I say. “Really going to miss him.”
Guilt gnaws at my insides. I should’ve spent more time with them. Growing up, I thought of them as my second set of parents while secretly wishing they were my first and only.
She swipes at a tear before running her hand along my arm. “Me too.”
“How’s Grant doing?” I’ve only been here a few minutes, but I’ve yet to run into him. When he called me two days ago and told me the news, he sounded numb and the entire phone call lasted less than sixty seconds before he said he had to go.
Her thin lips press flat. “He’s trying to stay tough. You know how he is.”
“I do.”
“Last I saw him, he was in the church library talking with our pastor.” She points to a hallway to the left. “Brie is with him. Have you met her yet?”
I don’t know how to answer that question in a concise, uncomplicated manner, so I shake my head.
“Oh, Cainan, she’s the sweetest thing.” Georgette clasps at her heart, a crumpled tissue in her hand. “You’re going to love her.”
The irony of her words isn’t lost on me.
“I’ll see if I can track them down,” I say. “You let me know if you need anything, all right? I’m less than an hour from here.”
I leave Georgette as she greets an older couple, and I make my way to the hallway to locate my best friend and his intended. My heart lurches in my throat with each step. My sister’s unmistakable voice trails from the other room. Up ahead, a group of guys we used to run around with in high school stand in a circle, half of them almost unrecognizable thanks to their thinning hair and bulging beer bellies.
Up ahead, I spot Grant through an open doorway. There’s a woman on his arm. Brie, obviously, though I can’t see her face from here.
My stomach knots with each step that draws me nearer.
The pastor shows himself out.
I linger in the doorway, the two of them oblivious as she cups his face in her hands and whispers something to him. Sweet, tender. Compassionate.
It’s a special moment, one that guts me from the inside out for a myriad of complicated, contradicting reasons.
“Hey …” I interrupt their moment because standing here any longer would be creepy.
They turn to me in unison, a team.
Grant’s eyes grow light when he sees me.
Brie lets out a quiet gasp, but her preoccupied fiancé doesn’t seem to notice.
“Hey, man. Thanks for coming.” My best friend doesn’t give me his famous handshake-side-hug and his eyes are a dull shade of brown, the whites bloodshot as if he’s been crying.
I’ve known the guy almost twenty-five years and not once have I seen him shed a single tear—except when the Ravens defeated the 49ers in Super Bowl XLVII and he lost five thousand bucks to a guy at work.
“Brie, this is Cainan.” He slips his hand around her waist and pulls her into a makeshift circle. Or is it a triangle?
“Nice to see you again, Cainan.” Her shiny chocolate curls bounce with each relaxed step. And she extends a hand. “Looking much different than the last time …”
I squint, confused, until I realize she’s referring to the night of my accident—which means she’s completely skipping over our brief exchange at the bar two Tuesdays ago. We didn’t flirt. We didn’t do anything wrong. Hell, we didn’t even exchange names. I can’t imagine any reason for her to feel guilty—unless she found herself attracted to me and has decided not to call off the engagement?