Page 70 of For The Record

“Hey,” Raina says, clomping down the stairs, her bare feet slapping against each step. I don’t think I’ve ever been so grateful to see her before. “What’s up?”

I gesture toward our aunt. “Aunt Flores is here.”

She and Raina have never been particularly close, so I’m not surprised when Raina doesn’t exactly fling herself into our aunt’s arms. I am surprised, however, that she walks right by her with an angry stomp, to go open the fridge. My eyebrows rise. “You’re not going to say hi?”

“I’m cooking,” she says, her head half-buried in the refrigerator. Not really a response.

“Since when do you cook?” I’ve been away so long that I wouldn’t even know if our mother taught her to cook, or if she learned herself. When I was at home, she was still so little that she would cling to my pant leg or our mother’s apron as we puttered around in the kitchen.

“It’s just a TikTok recipe, Leo, it’s not MasterChef Junior,” she says, all surly teenager.

Tia Flores says something disapproving about how our mother should have taught her to cook. Of course, that causes Raina to flounce out of the room in a dramatic temper tantrum. I sit at the island, head in my hands, and feel the beads of my mother’s rosary in my pocket.

It feels like the last piece of her I have left. And it might as well be utterly useless.

Chapter 33: Skye Holland

I need you. My parents’ funeral is today and I’d love if you could be there. Four pm today, at the Angelus. —Leo

His parents.All he has left is his sister.

I try to imagine being sixteen and having no one but Aaron and Isabelle. The image fades and I can’t see life as anything less than a living hell. And then going from a brother to a father-figure… the pressure would kill me.

Death is the end. Divorce? That’s an extremely bumpy pit stop, but it hardly has the same finality. It doesn’t separate you forever. There’s always the hope that they might come back. I know what it is to live without my mother as she left, and I know what it is to wish that she would return. I remember being a child and sitting by the window waiting for her car to pull up, waiting for her to call. I don’t know what it would be like to live without my mother, knowing that she was taken from me. Divorce, at least, leaves you with hope.

Death leaves you with a constantly frustrated wish, one that comes like the ebb and flow of the tide. Seeing someone’s hat or their coat on the chair by the door and thinking they’re home before you realize they’re gone again. Thinking, constantly thinking, that they might be here. Hoping that they might be back, that everything was just a horrible mix-up, a terrifying dream. Grief and love—they blind you to reality, and every time, reality strips the blindfold from your eyes and chokes you with it.

I need to be there for him.

The Angelus is a short-ish drive from my apartment, only thirty minutes, but I feel every second of it. The weight of worry, of concern, weighs on my shoulders, and it’s not even my own grief I need to be concerned about. Selfishness is easier. Shallow, immoral, but easier.

Inside, it’s quiet. Classy. Tasteful. Dark panelled wood, people milling around in navy or black suits and dresses, forest-green carpeting. Classical music is being piped in through the speakers, and despite all the other people in attendance, the only person I can focus on is the man standing in the middle of the room.

At his side is Raina. When she sees me, she waves, the ghost of a smile across her too-young face, but then Leo says something to her and gestures toward the refreshment table. She wanders off in black combat boots, hoop earrings dangling from her lobes.

I can’t imagine how it would feel to lose your whole family at the age of sixteen. My heart squeezes painfully at the thought.

“Hi,” I say, before scrambling to remember what people normally say at funerals. “I’m sorry for your loss.” He smiles, and it’s nothing more than a reflex, not a joyful expression. I’ve never seen one man who is usually so alive, so vibrant, so very cheerful looks so drained. So devoid of life. “Thank you for coming, Skye. It’s… It’s good to see you here.”

“Of course.” I fiddle with my clutch before stopping myself as a loose thread of my wrap snags on my hangnail. “I came as soon as I got your text.”

Leo’s face is carefully blank, some emotion I don’t want to guess flitting across his face. So much has happened between us, and yet, at the same time, nothing at all. What did we have, really? A handful of dates, a relationship with trust as flimsy as a house of cards, levying accusations back and forth at each other, thinking we would find the truth but only finding pain beneath the lies.

Yet, unexpectedly, he reaches for me. His strong arms pull me into a hug, his chin resting on top of my hair, the strap of my purse looped around my wrist as my hands go to grip his lapels. Everything and nothing sits between us, at that moment.

This isn’t about you, Skye. You’re here for him. To be there for him.

“I’ve missed you.” His voice is soft, breakable. I’ve never viewed him as someone who could be hurt before. Maybe that’s the problem behind all our other ones. We haven’t had much time to talk since the HR investigation into Leo started, right after Mark was fired. “I know this is hardly the time or place, but…”

“I know.” I swallow something in my chest that feels like a falsehood. “You don’t need to say it.”

“I do.” Leo’s tone is firm, as the sound of his voice vibrates against my cheek. “I will. After… after all of this is over.”

I don’t know if grief is ever really over. Then, I realize he must be referring to the funeral. Or maybe the hostile workplace allegations. “Okay.”

Around us, I realize the hall has emptied, the people dwindled to a handful. Leo releases me, straightening his clothes. I glance down at my purse, feeling cold, hollow, like a beer can someone drained dry and crushed beneath their heel. Then Leo opens the door where everyone is gathered.

His face is free of any emotion he might have worn when he was holding me. “After you.”

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