Page 245 of Remy

“Fuck,” I curse under my breath.

Jesus Christ, Carlo. Could you have picked a more painful reading?

Abri’s hand glides over my wrist, her fingers squeezing.

I bear my way through it—the reading, the continued diatribe from the celebrant, the sobs, and sniffs, and sorrow.

Then the celebrant moves away from the podium and Ollie gracefully takes his place.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I swipe a rough hand over my mouth, my chin, my neck. I deliberately dig my rings into my skin, distracting myself from the internal misery with the external torment.

Pull it together, you fucking piece of shit.

Her face remains unstained from tears.

She hasn’t broken. Not yet. But the fissures of instability show in her hitched breathing and the growing paleness of her complexion.

She raises her gaze to the room, her eyes meeting mine. I hold my breath, the air burning in my lungs as the kaleidoscope of her emotions morphs.

There’s desperation. Emptiness. Betrayal. Even a glimpse of acceptance.

The longer she stares, the more I see.

Fear. Hopelessness. Loss. Maybe even longing.

Then she winces and glances back down at her podium.

“You’ve got this.” Abri squeezes my wrist again.

I shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t have intruded.

I eye the exit and contemplate leaving for the sake of giving Ollie a few untainted moments to celebrate her father without me messing them up.

I shift, about to make an escape only to have Matthew counter my movement.

“Stay,” he grates. “If she can endure this, so can you.”

I huff a callous breath. “She doesn’t want me here.”

“I disagree, and the older sibling is always right. So shut up and listen to her eulogy.”

“Please, Remy,” Abri begs, not letting go of my wrist.

“My father was an incredible man.” Ollie’s voice drifts softly through the speakers, the tremble in her words the worst form of audible torture.

If I don’t go, I don’t know how I’m going to stop myself from going to her.

She needs to be held. She needs someone to help break down her fucking walls and let her goddamn grieve.

“I’m warning you,” Matthew growls as Ollie describes her father’s childhood. “If you make a move for the door I’ll land the hardest NFL tackle you’ve ever seen, then Bishop will cable tie your hands and feet?—”

“With pleasure,” Bishop mutters beside Abri. “I’ve always got them on hand.”

“—Then we’ll place you next to Old Mother Hubbard in the second back row.” Matthew jerks his chin to the crowd. “Because she looks like she wants to kick your ass more than I do.”

I glance to the row he’s referenced, finding the old woman in question. Fucking Lesley.

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