Page 274 of Remy

His voice soothes me. Everything about him does—his patience, his thoughtfulness.

“No, I’m okay.” I take the lead, approaching the open door to the windowless room that’s usually bathed in darkness but now glows in hues of orange.

I rush the remaining steps, panicked that Stanley left the retort open and unsupervised while heating. But it’s not the open retort that paints the walls in flickering amber. It’s the mass of delicate flames illuminated from hundreds of candles spread throughout the room.

My heart stops.

My eyes heat with that familiar burn.

My father’s casket rests on the feeder platform before the closed door of the retort while a picnic rug adorned with a mass of floor pillows sits in the middle of the room.

I step inside, gratitude clogging my throat as one of my dad’s favorite Phil Collins songs plays quietly from a speaker somewhere in the corner.

“This looks slightly more romantic than I’d anticipated.” Remy stops beside me. “I promise that wasn’t in the design brief.”

I scrunch my nose and turn into him, burying my face in his neck.

I need a second.

Just one.

“I’m sorry.” He strokes my braided hair. “It’s too much.”

“No. It’s beautiful.”

I’m so glad he’s here with me. I don’t even want to think about what this would’ve been like without him.

I pull myself together and turn back to the beauty of a room that has only ever been known for its sterility.

Without a word, Remy helps me load Dad’s casket into the retort.

He’s cuddled in behind me as I hold my breath and increase the rush of flame. Then he takes my hand, leads me to the rug, and holds me in his arms while the body I ran to for comfort, and strength, and the best goddamn hugs, is burned to nothing but bone and ash.

I cry.

I ache.

I listen to my father’s music and fall victim to the memories that awaken.

For more than ninety minutes I endure a gamut of emotions while Remy remains a protective force at my side.

Once it’s over, he takes me for a drive to get lunch while the retort cools.

We’re both quiet. Comfortably reflective in our own ways.

Then we return to the funeral home, hand in hand again, to sweep what’s left of my father from the retort and place him in the cremulator.

“What’s your favorite memory with my dad?” I ask from my perched position on the stainless-steel bench.

A grin pulls at Remy’s lips. “Without a doubt, it was when Carlo took me on my first walk through of the funeral home. It was two in the morning. Pitch black. And I swear he kept most of the lights off on purpose just to fuck with me.” He moves to stand between my legs. “He took me into the cool room—I’m pretty sure as a test to see how tough I was—and pushed one of the trollies out of the way that was carrying an elderly lady. I swear to God, Ollie, that woman groaned loud enough that my soul left my body.”

I burst into laughter.

“And that’s how I learned that dead bodies can sometimes make noise.” He grins at me. “Worst lesson of my life.”

I can imagine my father’s delight. How he would’ve chuckled at Remy’s fear.

“I love that story.” I continue to snicker as a vibration carries from Remy’s jeans pocket.

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