“When I was in New York, I had to set up a lot of travel for people. It was part of my job there initially. I got good at it.”
“I will pay you back. Just give me a total.”
“We can worry about that later.” Charlie fell back onto her bed. “Right now, I’m exhausted.” A beat went by. “This may have been ill-advised,” she said, pursing her lips.
“Don’t want to get back up, do you?”
“Really, really not.”
“I guess that means the bathroom is mine.” Emma gave her a small smile, grabbed her toiletry case, and disappeared through the doorway.
Meanwhile, she lay on her bed, alarmingly comfortable in more ways than one, and searched her brain to try to figure out why, despite somebody being dead and her spending time on a trip with the ex she’d devastated, everything felt perfectly, exactly right.
* * *
Charlie wasn’t sure what woke her up, but her eyes popped open, and when she glanced at the clock, she was surprised to see that it read 3:23 a.m. It felt like she’d barely been asleep for an hour. As she lay there, still, blinking in the dark until her eyes adjusted, she heard a soft sniffle.
“Em?” she whispered. “You okay?”
A sigh came from the direction of Emma’s bed. “Did I wake you up? I’m sorry. I was trying to be quiet.”
“No worries.”
“I don’t know why I’m upset.” Emma sniffled again.
Charlie sat up, now able to make Emma out in the night. Her dark hair was splayed out over the white pillow, her arms visible on top of the white hotel bedspread. “Your father died,” she said with emphasis. “Of course you’re upset.”
“But I didn’t even know him.” Emma’s voice cracked, and she lifted her arms and let them drop over her eyes in obvious frustration. “I’m so stupid. This is so stupid.”
“Hey.” Charlie didn’t even think. She simply slid out of her bed, made a scooting gesture to Emma, who moved over, and crawled into bed next to her. She lay on her side and propped her head in her hand, elbow on the pillow. “You are not stupid. There is nothing stupid about you.”
“Well, I feel stupid.”
“That’s the part that’s stupid. You feeling stupid is stupid.”
Emma squinted at her before a small grin peeked through. “Funny.”
“Thank you.”
They were quiet for several minutes before Emma turned to look at her again. Their gazes held. Even in the darkness, Charlie could feel the weight of it, the intensity. Even in the darkness, she could see Emma’s eyes well with tears.
“My father’s dead,” Emma whispered.
“I know,” she said, just as softly and with a slow nod.
A tiny sob escaped from Emma’s lips. Again, Charlie didn’t think, she just acted. With a small cry of sympathy, she gathered Emma in her arms and wrapped her up, pulled her close.
“I’m so sorry, sweetheart.” She pressed a kiss to Emma’s forehead, and Emma buried her face in the crook of Charlie’s neck. “I’m so sorry.” She tightened her arms, held Emma tightly, felt Emma’s arm go around her midsection, Emma’s leg slide over hers, as Emma simply cried. It was quiet crying. Soft, as if she didn’t want to disturb anybody with her emotions, but it was crying, and it was significant because Emma didn’t cry easily. That was Charlie’s job. Charlie was the crier. Emma was stoic.
But not tonight.
Charlie lost track of how long they lay wrapped up in each other, but she felt Emma’s breathing even out, deepen, and knew Emma’d finally given in to sleep. Out the window of their hotel room, she saw the horizon slowly go from black to indigo to deep purple before she finally followed Emma into slumber.
* * *
“Ready?” Charlie’s voice was quiet. Gentle. Not at all pushy. Charlie stood next to Emma in the very full parking lot of Germano’s Funeral Home, waiting as their Uber drove away.
Emma inhaled slowly and deeply and smoothed a hand over the hip of her all-purpose little black dress, the one she basically wore to weddings and funerals. Her shoes had a modest heel, and she’d pulled her hair back off her face. She gave her neck a stretch, one of her vertebrae popping loudly, and took another deep breath before glancing at Charlie.
Her dress was nothing short of stunning. Chic. Simple, yet elegant. Also black, but with capped sleeves and a layer of black lace that gave it texture and interest. Her heels were not modest—they were strappy sandals that put her eye-to-eye with Emma, and she wore her sandy hair down and wavy and skimming her shoulders. Very Manhattan. Charlie was the epitome of patience, not rushing her, simply standing next to her like a supportive pillar, waiting until she was ready.
With a nod, they walked forward together.
Emma wasn’t sure she’d quite absorbed what had happened over the past twenty-four hours. Part of her felt like she was functioning on autopilot, which she supposed was normal for people dealing with a sudden death. But why was it affecting her in such a weird way? She hadn’t seen her father since he left when she was a toddler. She barely remembered anything about him. She hadn’t spoken to him. Hadn’t tried. And yet, her heart felt like it was cracking in her chest with something that must be sadness or sorrow, right? She was smart enough to understand that there was also a whole lot of anger, but she was doing her best to keep that in a box for now.
There were a lot of people filing in for the calling hours. A lot. Were they friends? Family? She had no idea, and as they got closer to the front door, she felt her steps falter. Charlie looked up at her with concern evident in her hazel eyes, eyebrows raised as if silently asking if she was okay.
She swallowed, glanced down, and held out her hand. Charlie took it without question, entwined their fingers, and squeezed. Emma could hear the unspoken words in her head. I’ve got you.
They walked through the big wooden double doors.
The scent of the place tickled Emma’s nose, an odd combination of sterile and floral. The decor was typical funeral home generic. Uncomfortable-looking upholstered chairs, a matching love seat, and several metal folding chairs—the extras, Emma thought. There was a line. A long one. Apparently, James Grier had touched a lot of people. She and Charlie took their place, dropped their hands.
“Doing okay?” Charlie asked.
“I think so,” she replied. “It just all feels so…weird.” She punctuated that with a shrug because she had no other way to explain it. She noticed a few framed photos and a large piece of poster board with snapshots taped to it, but she yanked her gaze away, not feeling strong enough to study them.
Charlie gave her a sad smile and they took another step forward.
The soft buzz of conversation was all around them, like flies or bees, people trying to be polite by keeping the volume at a minimum, but also wanting to talk, reminisce, hug each other. The general wardrobe was split—some folks in suits and dresses like her and Charlie, others in jeans or shorts, maybe coming right from work. Her nerves rattled in her body as if they were made of chain and somebody was shaking them by the ends, banging them against her bones, her skin. She swallowed hard as she realized the line was actually moving along fairly quickly, and she looked to Charlie for reassurance. Charlie grasped her hand again, held it, and Emma felt it like an anchor, holding her steady, keeping her from being cast off into oblivion by the bizarreness of the situation.
They inched closer until Emma could make out the people standing in the reception line. An older woman, both distinguished and beautiful, her snowy hair cropped short stark against her mahogany skin, her stance tall and proud—though it did nothing to disguise the sorrow in her deep brown eyes that were red-rimmed. Next to her was a younger woman, in her early forties, maybe, her sepia complexion pale with grief. She was tall and lean, attractive in an effortless way, her dark hair combed to the side and off her face, about shoulder-length, tucked behind both ears. Her eyes were red-rimmed, too, and puffy, and she looked like a woman doing her best to stand tall for the two young boys on e
ither side of her, as she shook hands with a gentleman three people in front of Emma and Charlie.
Zaya. Her stepmother.
Her heart began to pound, and her hands became clammy. Still, Charlie held on, and they took another step. Zaya turned and met Emma’s gaze. Zaya’s eyes went so wide it was almost comical, and Emma would’ve laughed if she wasn’t on the verge of a nerve-induced meltdown.
“Emma,” Zaya said softly, and next to her, the older woman jerked her focus in their direction. Zaya reached a hand out to Emma even as her eyes filled with unshed tears. “Oh my God, you look just like him.”
“She really does,” the older woman said, and she too seemed on the verge of tears. Also reaching for Emma, she laid a hand gently on her upper arm. “I’m Mary, James’s mother.”
My grandmother, Emma thought but couldn’t seem to make the words leave her throat, which had closed up unexpectedly. She felt tears spill over and course down her cheeks, and she squeezed Charlie’s hand so tightly, it had to hurt. But Charlie didn’t let go. She squeezed back.
“I’m Zaya. James’s wife.” She slid her hand down Emma’s arm, grasped the hand Charlie hadn’t laid claim to. “I am so glad to finally meet you.”
“I’m Emma. And this is my…friend, Charlie Stetko.”
“Charlie. Hey.” Zaya smiled warmly at Charlie but didn’t let go of Emma’s hand.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Charlie said, and Emma felt the tears well up again.
Good God, where had all this emotion come from? She felt like she might explode into horrifying sobs at any moment, so she clenched her jaw tightly to keep that from happening. Which meant she couldn’t say a thing.
Zaya must have felt it, the emotional precariousness, and pulled things together, took charge. Emma got the instant impression that was what she did. Zaya closed her other hand over Emma’s so she was holding Emma’s hand in both of hers. “Listen, can you stay for a while? Please? I’d really like to be able to sit and talk with you, but I have to…” She gestured subtly at the people still waiting in line.
Emma nodded and finally found some words. Words that surprised her. “Sure. Okay.”
“Great. Do you have a phone? I’ll give you my number and then I can text you my address. We’ll be there after the services, and we have a ton of food. We could use help eating it.” She voiced the last line as a question, as if she’d realized she was giving orders and tried to lighten that up a little bit.
Emma pulled her phone out of her purse, ignored the three missed calls and nine texts from her mother, and pulled up the keypad screen. Zaya punched in her number.
“Text me and I’ll send you the details, okay?”
Emma did so right then. “Done.”
Zaya took a deep breath and her eye contact was so intense that Emma felt trapped, held like a butterfly pinned to a board. “I’m so glad you came.”
With a nod, Emma moved forward, realizing she was holding up the line. Behind her, she heard Zaya tell somebody they meant a lot to James. When she glanced back, one of the boys was looking at her. He was at that lanky, awkward stage boys go through as they approach their teens, all gangly limbs. She gave him a small smile, then turned back toward Charlie.
“You want to do this?” Charlie asked quietly, and she knew Charlie was referring to the casket that lay at the front of the room. The one that contained the body of the father she’d never known.
“No?” Emma inhaled deeply. “But I think I need to.”
Charlie still held her hand, and Emma was almost startled to realize it. More startling was that she had no desire to let go. Charlie had been like a lifeline since they walked in the door. A tether of sorts, grounding her, keeping her steady.
They walked up to the casket together.
Emma didn’t kneel on the little cushioned bench provided. She just stood and looked down at the face that, even in repose, looked remarkably like hers. The slight almond shape of his eyes. The placement of his cheekbones. His square jaw. Even the long fingers clasped over his chest were shockingly similar to Emma’s.
She didn’t know what to feel. That was the hardest part. There were so many emotions rolling through her in that moment that she couldn’t focus on any certain one. There was sorrow and anger and confusion and so many questions…and also the knowledge that she’d never, ever get to talk to this man. Her dad. Never.
Emma swallowed, the lump in her throat so big it was painful, and she felt like her lungs wouldn’t hold enough air. Another tear spilled down her cheek.
“You okay?” Charlie whispered.
“I can’t breathe.”
“What do you need?”
“Can we go?”
“Absolutely.” Charlie tugged her away from the casket and past all the people—so many people!—toward the front door.
Once outside, away from the fog of sorrow and death and regret, Emma inhaled deeply, took in as much fresh air as she could, then bent forward with her hands on her knees. She felt Charlie’s warm hand on her back, rubbing in slow circles. After what could have been two minutes or two weeks, she had no idea, she stood up. Felt the tiniest bit better.
“Well. That was fun.” She turned to Charlie, whose eyes were filled with warmth and worry. Emma smiled at her. “I’m okay.”
“You sure?”
“Just needed some air.”
They stood quietly for a moment as people milled past them, in and out of the funeral home. Emma watched. Wondered who they were, how they knew James. Her eyes scanned the bodies as they moved by, but then her gaze stopped on Charlie.
No longer holding her hand, but right there next to her. Again, the word anchor popped into her head, and she had the sudden thought that she didn’t know how she’d have done this without Charlie. Hand still on her back, still rubbing gently, Charlie was also people watching, and as she studied Charlie’s profile, Dani’s words echoed through her head.
She’s unreliable. She doesn’t understand what love is. She’s blinded by material things. She doesn’t have your back. She’s not who you thought she was.
Emma blinked rapidly. Dani hadn’t been wrong—she’d simply been repeating the things Emma herself had said about Charlie over the years. But as she stood there now, she felt herself rewinding, reexamining, rethinking.
Because today? Charlie fit none of those descriptors.
Today? Charlie was their opposite.
Chapter Twenty-one
Emma was doing shockingly well. At least, up until now. Charlie had been watching her carefully, paying close attention to her eyes. Everything you ever needed to know about how Emma was feeling was always right there in her eyes, clear as could be. You just had to know how to look, and Charlie did. Even after all this time, she still knew how to read Emma. It was bizarre and comforting at the same time.
James Grier had a small family, but a lot of friends. He’d been a high school math teacher. A popular one, judging by the number of teenagers and young adults that had passed through the funeral home just in the short time she and Emma had been there. Now, at the Grier home, they sat quietly at the kitchen table, most people gone, the twins having been taken up to their rooms by Mary, who was just returning downstairs, and Zaya looking utterly exhausted.
Zaya poured four glasses of white wine without asking and carried two at a time to the table. Mary plopped down in one of the two remaining chairs as Zaya set the second two glasses down, then fell into her own chair with a sigh.
“What a fucking day,” Zaya said softly.
Mary shot her a look but seemed to think better of scolding her daughter-in-law for her language on a day like today. Instead, she held up her wineglass and said, “To James.”
Charlie picked hers up and glanced at Emma, who did the same, and the four glasses clinked softly, the only sound in a house that had buzzed with activity for the past three hours. Both Mary and Zaya looked weepy, but Charlie imagined the two of them must’ve been so tired of crying at that point, though there
would be plenty more tears, she was sure.
“So, you own your own restaurant,” Zaya said, her deep brown gaze settling onto Emma. “That’s impressive, especially given your age.”
Emma opened her mouth to talk, closed it again, and Charlie could see her brain sifting through her thoughts, trying to decide what to say first. “How…” Her dark brows met in a V above her nose. “How did you find me? When? Was he looking for me?” Charlie knew the tone. It was Emma’s I want to stay calm and in control, but this is driving me crazy tone. She’d used it on Charlie many, many times over the course of their friendship-turned-relationship.
Zaya exchanged glances with Mary. Then she inhaled deeply and let it out slowly, and it was as if she had known Emma’s questions were coming, had expected them. “Oh, sweetie, he’s followed your life for years.”
Emma’s eyes went wide, and she grappled under the table for Charlie’s hand, for stability, Charlie knew, and grasped it tightly. “What?”
Again, Zaya looked to Mary.
“Tell her,” Mary said with a nod.
Zaya took a sip of her wine as if hoping to garner strength from it. “Your father regretted ever leaving you behind. As you know, he was very young, and if he was here now, he’d tell you he was also stupid and selfish, as young people often are.” She folded her hands on the table and leaned slightly forward. “Look, I don’t know your mother other than what James told me about her, and it sounds like their relationship was volatile. She wanted to get married—he thought they were too young.” Zaya nibbled the inside of her cheek for a moment as she studied Emma’s face, like she was trying to decide how to say what she needed to say. Charlie could see the indecision playing across her face. The hesitation. “He and your mom were like oil and water, and when he wanted to split up with her, she made things very difficult for him.”
Charlie turned to look at Emma, and though her expression remained neutral, there was a pain in her eyes that she wanted to take away. She squeezed Emma’s hand tighter as Zaya went on.
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