Page 16 of One Foggy Christmas
My heart catapults into my stomach. “Wait. Are you serious?” You never know with this group. But none of them would joke about something like that.
“Yeah, she got the call about two hours ago and headed straight to the airport,” Allen says.
I hate that I wasn’t here for her.
I’ve gotten a phone call like that. It stops everything. Suddenly, nothing else matters, and nothing will ever make sense again.
“How did he die?” I ask over my racing heart.
Josie’s lips push into a frown. “She didn’t say, but Harper was sitting next to her when she got the call, and it sounded like an accidental drug overdose.”
Visions of my own brother’s addiction dance through my mind, and my heart breaks for Sadie and her family. She doesn’t even know yet how much this is going to hurt. The aftermath of his absence is worse than the initial blow.
“Should I call her?” My eyes stop on Reggie for some friend-to-friend advice.
“She’s probably in the air as we speak.” He lifts his shoulders. “When she lands, you can reach out and send condolences from Superior Health.”
Right. Condolences from Superior Health, not me. No matter my growing feelings for Sadie, she has Stetson. Even though they’re broken up, there’s a history there. He’s the one who will take care of her heart right now.
“We should send flowers,” I look at Grace. That seems like the bossly thing to do.
Harper flashes a sad smile. “That’s a great idea.”
But it’s not enough.
My mind and my heart are stuck on Sadie and the loss of her brother.
I know the pain all too well.
And I know sending flowers doesn’t cut it.
SADIE
I never thoughtI’d be speaking at my brother’s funeral—at least, not when I was twenty-four and he was only twenty-six.
Everything feels numb.
The past few days, I’ve just been going through the motions—writing an obituary, picking out a casket, planning a funeral, finding pictures to display at the church. It’s all so surreal.
But speaking and giving a eulogy is the most surreal experience of all.
I don’t say what’s really on my mind. Funeral talks aren’t the time to air out your family’s dirty laundry.
No, blaming your parents for the death of your older brother is done in the privacy of your own home. Lucky for all the guests here today, I’ve been doing that since I arrived in Skaneateles. There is no need to write my grievances into my eulogy about how my dad’s constant demand for perfection and lack of compassion drove Tate to this point.
I have enough love and respect for my brother to keep things focused on the incredible life he lived.
My eyes drop to the typed words, reminding myself of the next story I wanted to share. “Tate was the kind of brother that would do anything to keep me safe and out of trouble. I’ll never forget one night when we were kids. Tate had the idea to cut out a cardboard cat and place marbles in it for the eyes. We tied strings to it and hid in the bushes across the street from each other, holding one of the strings. Then, whenever a car came down our street, we’d pull on the strings and make it look like the cardboard cat was crossing the road. Once the headlights hit those marbles, our fake eyes would glow, and cars would slam on their brakes to avoid running over the cat. We thought we were so funny and clever.” The audience chuckles, half of them probably remembering the incident. “It was all fun and games until Mayor Anderson stopped and got out of his car. Tate told me to run and hide so I wouldn’t get in trouble. Then he came out from his hiding place and took all the blame so Mayor Anderson wouldn’t go looking for the other accomplice. Until this day, I don’t think the mayor or my parents knew I had anything to do with it.” Everyone laughs again, and I force a fake smile despite my glassy eyes. “But Tate was always more worried about protecting me than himself. He was selfless like that. The epitome of taking one for the team. And I was so proud to be on histeam.”
Emotion crowds my composure. I drag in a heavy breath, hoping it’s enough to get me through the last of my talk.
“No one has ever believed in me like Tate did. He was my biggest cheerleader and never let me doubt what I was capable of.” As I keep talking, my gaze sweeps over the teary-eyed guests, but one face catches my eye.
Nash Carter.
My heart swells, and fresh tears fill my eyes to the brim.
I register how weird it is that Nash is here at my brother’s funeral, six hundred miles from Chicago, but I can’t deny how much it means to me. I want to dissect what his presence here means, but I have to finish my talk.
