Page 83 of Leave Before I Love You
Another handshake. Another sad smile.
The weight of it all presses down on my chest, and I feel like I can’t breathe. My dad—the one person who’s always been there, who’s raised me, taught me everything I know, been my rock—is gone. And all these people, with their kind words and pats on the back, can’t fill the void he’s left behind.
I’m drowning in it.
I scan the room, desperate to find a lifeline that’ll keep my head above water just enough to breathe and find it unexpectedly in the soft eyes of Beau’s sister, Avery. Standing in the doorway to the living room, she has her gaze locked on me, and like a miracle, when our eyes meet, I feel light enough to keep from sinking to the bottom. She’s wearing a simple but surely expensive black dress, her dark hair swept back, and for a moment, it feels like the world pauses.
She doesn’t smile or say anything as she walks toward me, but her eyes don’t let go of mine and her purpose is clear. When she gets close enough, she doesn’t reach out for a handshake or a polite hug like everyone else—she grabs my hand and tugs me out of the room.
“Avery, what are you—” I start to say, but she cuts me off with a look. The kind of look that says,Don’t argue with me.
She leads me down the hallway, past the kitchen where more people are gathered, and into my dad’s study. It’s quieter here, the noise of the wake muffled by the walls and the closed door. She lets go of my hand and turns to face me, her expression softening.
“This is total shit, Henry,” she says, her voice firm but gentle. “I can’t believe your dad died. I’m so sorry.”
Her words hit me like a punch to the gut, but in a strange way,they’re exactly what I need to hear. No sugarcoating, no platitudes. Just the raw, honest truth.
“Yeah,” I say, my voice cracking. “It is.”
She steps closer, wrapping her arms around me, and I don’t hesitate to pull her in. She’s smaller than me, but the way she holds me feels like she’s trying to take some of the weight off my shoulders. Like she’s trying to carry it with me.
“It’s not fair,” she says, her cheek pressed against my chest. “Your dad was one of the best people I’ve ever met. He didn’t deserve this. You didn’t deserve this.”
I swallow hard, my throat tight. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now, Ave. He was my only family.”
She pulls back just enough to look up at me, her hazel eyes filled with a mix of sadness and determination. “You’re supposed to keep going. You’re supposed to live your life the way he would’ve wanted you to. And when it gets too hard, you’re supposed to lean on the people who care about you. Like me.”
Her words knock something loose inside me, and before I can stop myself, I’m letting it all out. The grief, the anger, the overwhelming sense of loss.
Avery holds me through it, her arms wrapped tightly around me, her presence steady and grounding.
When I finally pull back, wiping at my eyes, she gives me a small smile. “Feel a little better?”
I let out a shaky laugh. “A little.”
“Good.” She reaches up to smooth out the lapel of my suit jacket, her touch gentle. “Now, let’s get back out there and try to get through this thing together. Though, I can’t promise I’m keeping these heels on. I don’t know what the hell Prada put in these, but I’m pretty sure it’s knives.”
I quirk an amused brow at her. “Is this your way of trying to get my condolences for your feet?”
She shrugs. “I mean, it’d be nice.”
Fuck me, she’s a character.
“I’m sorry to hear your feet are hurting you at my father’s wake, Avery.”
“Thanks, Henry,” she says, patting my shoulder before taking my hand again. She gives it a reassuring squeeze. “Now, let’s do the damn thing.”
Avery isn’t just my best friend’s sister right now. She’s the exact thing I needed.
We step into the noise and the crowd, and for the first time today, I feel a little less alone.
February 23rd
Avery
The diner is exactly the kind of place you’d expect June to love. Kitschy, borderline tacky, with retro vinyl booths and a jukebox in the corner that looks like it hasn’t worked in decades. The walls are plastered with black-and-white photos of old Miami, the kind of thing that screams “vintage” but is probably more thrift-store find than authentic.
It’s Sunday, and the place is packed—waitstaff buzzing around with plates piled high with pancakes and greasy burgers. The smell of syrup and coffee lingers in the air, and the low hum of conversation fills the space.
