Page 85 of This

“Maggie,” I say, “I got your bananas and peaches, but I broke the flower rule again.”

I lift the bouquet of daisies out of the other bag and smile at the pop of color.

After I find a vase buried in the cupboard and fill it with water, I put the flowers on the table. It brightens the entire space. I finish putting groceries away before I head to Maggie’s room.

“I know what you’ll say,” I tell her, opening the door, “but I really think—”

I freeze, my hand still on the knob, even though I can’t feel the metal anymore. I can’t feel the floor beneath me either, the ground, the earth below me. Nothing but my heart thrashing inside.

“Maggie.” The name sounds wrong, not like the other hundreds of times I’ve said it.

“Maggie,” I try again.

She stays unmoved on the bed, her hands folded on her chest and ankles crossed. I can’t tell if I’m moving or watching myself move when I step toward the bed. Blue and green yarn is wrapped around the knitting needles on the bed at her side. Her eyes are closed, face peaceful.

My body acts of its own accord, reaching out a hand to touch the cool skin of her wrist. My fingers slide around to the underside, slightly lifting her hand to feel for the pulse my brain already knows won’t be there.

“Maggie.” This time, it comes out as a strained sob, and the silence after is never-ending.

Backing up, I swipe at the hot tears streaming down my cheeks. I shut the door. I don’t know if I should leave her alone, but I close it and rush to the kitchen for my phone. My hands shake, tapping the numbers on the screen. When I turn to look at the door, I knock the vase off the table, and it shatters, hitting the floor. The operator’s voice comes through the speaker as I stand in the middle of the broken glass. The flowers trampled beneath my feet.

The next seventy-two hoursare a complete blur.

According to the local funeral director, who doubles as the county coroner, Maggie’s been prepared for this for well over a decade. Shortly after George died, she chose her casket. She dropped off the outfit she wanted to be buried in along with a picture to model her hair and makeup after. She picked her program and music. Even the flower arrangements have been decided.

“We’re all waiting for something,”she told me.

For her, that thing was to be with George again.

In my time living with her, I only remember maybe half a dozen people visiting the house, but there’s a steady stream. They give sad smiles and reorganize the refrigerator to fit whatever food they brought to mourn over. I take most of it to the church delivering meals to the homebound and anyone in need of assistance.

The same people come to the wake. I stick to the side of the chapel, lying low in my dark navy dress. I only have one in black that’s funeral appropriate. Anytime someone rubs their hand over my arm and gives condolences, I don’t know what to do. I wasn’t Maggie’s family; she didn’t have any other than a cousin. He lives in an assisted living center in Detroit and couldn’t remember her when they told him she’d passed. I’m just the girl who spent spring and half a summer with her, eating her cooking and marveling at how simple life seemed to her.

I decide to sneak out the back, claiming to a lady from Maggie’s church group I need air. Almost to the bottom of the broad church steps, I look up and suck in a breath. Dane is standing on the sidewalk, his beanie on his head and hands at his sides. I’m still processing him when Keaton throws her arms around me.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, high-pitched as shit, my face buried in her curls.

“Like I’d not be here,” she says. “Maine or Spain.”

Not ready for her to pull away, I squeeze her tighter in case she tries. I texted her about Maggie but never expected her to come. I had no idea how much I needed her here until now. How much I needed to see him.

My eyes lift to Dane over her shoulder. He moves aside to let a grocery clerk pass, heading inside to pay respects, but his gaze comes right back to mine. The three of us might stay in the odd embrace/stare-down limbo indefinitely if not for Liam. He yanks me from Keaton and down the last two steps into a hug. I haven’t seen him since his grandpa’s wake, and he holds me longer than he ever has.

“You look like shit, Bennett,” he whispers in my ear.

I smile for the first time in days.

He rustles up my hair, and I nudge him off. Liam glances over his shoulder at his cousin before grabbing Keaton’s hand and leading her up the steps. Dane hasn’t moved when the ornate wooden door bangs shut behind me, his mouth in the same downturn as the last time. My fingers itch to feel the chain of my necklace—his necklace—hidden by the neckline of my dress. Of all the distances, the current ten feet is by far the worst to overcome.

“Maggie died,” I finally say.

He nods. “She did. I’m sorry.”

“No one I know has died before. No one close—” My voice breaks, and I tug at my bracelet, pretending not to notice. “I don’t know what to do.”

His head tilts to the side, his brow lowering. “Come here.”

The words are a string, drawing me toward him. I walk until his body stops me. His arms fold around me as I fist his shirt in my hands, my face crushed to his chest. He stays there, letting me be the one to pull back. I tilt my chin up to him, and he brushes his thumb over my cheek. A Denton through and through. My Denton.

---