Page 149 of False God

“I’m named after my grandmother,” she tells me. “The original Elizabeth Kensington. I never knew her. She died when my dad was really young, so he never really did either. Hedoesn’t talk about her very often, and neither does my uncle Oliver. And my grandfathernevertalks about her. Grandpa and I are really close, but I don’t dare ask him. I can just … tell it’s off-limits.

“When I transferred to Cornell to finish my degree, I had to do a site analysis project in one of my classes. I chose the cemetery where my grandmother was buried. It had been designed by a French landscape architect. There are sculptures and ponds and bridges … it’s a beautiful place. The first time I visited, there was a man already standing at my grandmother’s grave. I wasn’t sure what to do, and then he looked in my direction, and I realized it was my grandfather. He didn’t say anything. He set down the flowers he’d brought, kissed my cheek, and left. We’ve never talked about it. I never told my dad.

“But I’ve gone back to her grave a few times, and there are always fresh peonies on it. She’s been gone for forty-five years, and he brings fresh flowers to her every week. My grandfather isn’t a religious man. Not sentimental either.

“My point is … there’s no right or wrong way to grieve. You don’t have to come here because you feel like you should. You don’t have to think he can’t hear you because that’s the logical assumption.”

I don’t come here to grieve my father. I’m still too angry to grieve him the way a son should mourn his father.

And right as I open my mouth to tell Lili that—to tell her why—the sky splits with a jagged flash of lightning. The deafening crash is followed by an immediate downpour, like the crack fractured the bottom of a full bucket.

I grab Lili’s hand and pull her toward the gate.

Another deafening crack of lightning reverberates across the open earth surrounding the cemetery, followed by the sound of thunder.

Kensington and Gilbert have huddled under a nearby tree. I’m grateful they didn’t bolt. It was stupid not to turn back as soon as the clouds thickened.

We’re not that far from the barn, but the ride back is going to feel like an eternity in this weather.

Lili drops my hand when we reach the horses, grabbing Gilbert’s reins and patting his neck. He prances in place, tossing his head anxiously. Kensington is calmer, but still uneasy.

Dripping branches sway overhead. They’re not providing much shelter, but better than nothing.

It’s a temporary respite though. We have to move. This is the stupidest possible place to be standing during a thunderstorm.

“Are you okay to ride in this?” I call out to her.

“I can handle myself, Charlie,” Lili tells me, then hoists herself into the saddle without bothering to find a makeshift mounting block. Not that there are many options out here.

“I know you can,” I respond, vaulting onto Kensington’s back. “But I’m still going to bloody worry about you. Ready?”

Gilbert takes off, and I urge Kensington after him.

The rain hasn’t lightened at all. If anything, it’s falling faster. I’m soaked in seconds, squinting through the sheets at the horse and rider ahead.

I can feel the ground rumbling beneath the horses’ thundering hooves as another roar of thunder rolls overhead.

Lili is crouched low over Gilbert’s neck, her seat steady as she steers him toward the barn. She reaches the stable first. The deluge of rain is enough to keep Kensington moving faster than his normal pace, but he refuses to accelerate into a full gallop.

By the time we reach the main doors, Lili’s out of the saddle, slicking her soaked hair out of her face. She shouts something at me as I dismount.

“What?” I yell back, pulling the reins over Kensington’s head.

“I said,I beat you!”

I roll my eyes, but I’m grinning as we lead the horses inside. A loud crack of lightning splits the sky, the sound making Gilbert shy to the left.

“You got him okay?” I ask.

“I’m good,” Lili responds, leading Gilbert straight into his stall and starting to strip his tack off.

I do the same with Kensington as the rain continues to assault the roof. It sounds like standing inside a drum during a rock concert.

The storm is still raging by the time the horses are untacked, groomed, and happily munching on hay.

Lili walks into the feed room right as another round of thunder shakes the foundation. She tosses the dandy brush she used on Gilbert into the plastic grooming bin. “Are you sure this building is safe?”

“It’s stayed up for three hundred years.” I finish wiping the bridle, then toss the towel away.

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