Page 42 of Love, A Curvy Girl's Guide

The mattress dipped beside her. Ian shifting. His strong arm wrapped around her waist, his warmth pressing into her side. She wanted to sink into him, wanted to be held together by his strength, but grief had turned her body into stone. She was frozen in that moment, trapped between heartbreak and disbelief.

“I need to go home,” she rasped, uncertain if she was speaking to her mom or Ian.

Ian’s grip tightened. “I’ll drive.”

She shook her head, dazed. “I... I can’t believe this is happening.”

Ian didn’t try to say anything. He just held her, his forehead pressed to her temple, his breath steady while hers came in sharp, shallow gasps.

There was no undoing this.

Her father—the man who had been her rock, who had kissed her scraped knees as a child and whispered reassurances into the night when she was scared—was gone.

And nothing would ever be the same again.

Three days later,they laid him to rest.

The church was packed. People she hadn’t seen in years surrounded her, their voices hushed but ever-present. Murmured condolences, whispered prayers, the rustling of tissues—Haley heard it all, but it felt distant, like she was underwater, watching it all happen without truly being a part of it.

She had greeted everyone, shaken hands, and offered hollow smiles of thanks. She didn’t remember what she said to most of them. The words were automatic.

“Thank you for coming.”

“I appreciate it.”

“Yes, he was a wonderful man. Yes, we will miss him.”

It was all a blur.

And then she saw Aggie.

The sight of the elderly nurse from the hospital nearly knocked the air out of her lungs. Unlike everyone else, Aggie didn’t offer meaningless words or forced comfort. She simply pulled Haley into a warm, familiar embrace.

That was when the ice that had wrapped itself around Haley’s heart cracked.

“Your father was very proud of you, Haley,” Aggie murmured, her voice kind and knowing. “He talked about you every single day.”

Haley swallowed hard, barely holding herself together. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Aggie pulled back slightly and reached into her purse. “He wanted me to give you this letter. Obviously, he couldn’t write it himself, but I took down everything he said. When you get a moment later, you’ll want to read it.”

Haley’s hands shook as she took the envelope, staring at the neatly folded paper inside. Another piece of the ice fractured and fell away, allowing a tidal wave of grief to wash over her.

This is how grief was, they’d told her. It ebbed and flowed—sometimes overwhelming, sometimes gentle, but always present.

The church smelled like lilies.

Haley hated it.

The scent was cloying, too sweet, too strong, filling every corner of the space. It made her feel sick. Or maybe that was just the grief.

Frank and Bridget Johnson sat in the second row, their sons filling the entire pew, a wall of quiet strength behind her. All save Ian, who remained by her side.

He had been her anchor these past few days, stepping in when she couldn’t speak, when she couldn’t move, when she couldn’t even think. He had held her mother’s trembling hands, guided her through conversations she barely remembered, whispered reassurances when the world became too much.

If she had ever wondered before about the depth of her love for Ian, she would never question it again. She knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that the only way she’d survived thepast few days was because he had practically carried her—both metaphorically and physically. She was broken down, shattered, and numb. But he saw through the barriers, the tears, the anger, and the regret. He had loved her in the smallest and simplest ways, and they had spoken the loudest.

She squeezed his hand—likely for the first time in hours—indicating that she was actually mentally present.

---