Page 95 of Broken Hearts
“I’m okay.”
“You keep saying that.” I close my eyes and inhale.
“One of these times you’re going to believe me.”
28
Rhett
The guys and I hang at the back of the room. It’s packed and so is the hallway outside. Most people I know, or at least recognize. Some I don’t. The sheer volume of people that came should be comforting. It isn’t.
I’ve been in this funeral home before, a bunch of times. Stood in this very spot, sometimes with Carrie, gone through the line, and offered muttered words meant to help, but that I’m sure didn’t. None of those times felt anything like this. She was only twenty-one. It just doesn’t make any sense.
Adam and Mav both insisted on making the trip to Minnesota despite my reassurances they didn’t need to. They flew in this morning, and now that we’re at the visitation, I’m glad they did. They’re providing excellent cover and stopping people from approaching me to offer their sympathy.
As if this situation isn’t awful enough, it’s the first time I’ve been back home since Carrie and I broke up. Everyone is looking at me with these sad, pitying expressions. Clearly, they don’t know that I no longer deserve those glances.
Along the back wall, three tables are pulled together. Collages with pictures of Carrie from when she was a baby to the present fill the poster boards. Many with me. Carrie and I started dating in high school. She was this beautiful, brave girl. She stomped around like nothing scared her, and I was in awe of that. Everyone was. It takes a special kind of person to walk through the halls of high school already knowing who you are and feeling confident enough to be only that. That was Carrie. Confident and fascinating.
“Woah! Is that you?” Mav asks, pointing to a picture of Carrie and me at a high school dance.
She’s in a sparkly dress, her hair curled, arm looped through mine. We were juniors. I was all arms and legs. Scrawny, bad haircut, clothes that my mom probably picked out and forced me to wear so I’d look nice for the dance. I wasn’t exactly shy. It was more that I didn’t care about being cool or fitting in. And I never liked bringing attention to myself outside of hockey. Not that I really needed to worry. If people were looking my way any other time, it was to stare at Carrie.
That uncomfortable, hide-away feeling never really went away until I got to Valley and gained twenty pounds. I still don’t give a fuck about fitting in, but I found my people regardless.
“Yeah, sure is.” I shove both hands in my front pockets to keep myself from running them through my hair, which is styled with gel for a change.
Maverick covers his mouth with a fist as he laughs. “Oh man, are those pleats?”
“We can’t all be as stylish as you were in high school. I’ve seen the photos of your nipple rings,” Adam says and nudges him playfully with an elbow.
Mav scoffs. “Those were awesome, but you wouldn’t have caught me at a school dance. Well, maybe in the parking lot passing around drinks and waiting for girls to get bored of the dance and come ditch with me.”
“Of course,” I say, a quiet chuckle escapes.
We fall silent again. My gaze keeps being drawn back to the front, where Carrie’s family receives condolences. My own family hasn’t arrived yet, but they’ll be here. The whole town will stop by either tonight for the visitation or tomorrow for the funeral.
I shove my hands even deeper in my pockets. I’m gonna rip the seams before the night is over. Guilt seeps from my pores like yesterday’s liquor, leaving my skin clammy. Carrie was on her way to see me, and I blocked her number so I didn’t even know. Did she call? Could I have answered and stopped her?
I know that I couldn’t have prevented the accident but maybe I could have stopped her from getting in the car altogether. Maybe I could have been a goddamn decent human and actually talked to her until she knew it was really over. Maybe I could have prevented the most awful thing to happen to her. Or that will ever happen to her.Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
When my parents arrive, my mom wraps me in a big hug. Her eyes are teary, but she holds it together. My dad shakes my hand. Then the guys’, all while wearing his best somber smile.
“Where’s Ryder?”
“We left him with your aunt Leah,” my mom says, then asks, “Have you been up yet?”
I shake my head.
“Come on. You can’t hide back here forever.”
She knows me well. I go with my parents, shuffling forward with the line. Every step closer, my nerves fray a little more.
There’s a large, framed picture of Carrie on a stand in front of the flowers. I can’t bring myself to look at it or the casket next to it, but even out of my peripheral, I recognize the photo. Two years ago, she had headshots taken for her college newspaper, where she wrote a weekly column. She was so damn proud—her smile had been so big as she told me about it. She’s not smiling in the picture, though. She wanted to keep it professional and serious. I’m glad it’s not a smiley, happy photo. I don’t know why. Not like it would make a difference.
I manage through tearful hugs from her mom, dad, and grandparents, and I’m thankful that my parents do most of the talking. And that her mother doesn’t yell and scream at me for breaking her daughter’s heart. I half expected that sort of reaction from her. She is so protective of Carrie. Was so protective.Fuck.
Actually it’s her dad I should be worried about. Cam is ex-military and could break me like a twig if he wanted to. Age has only made him stronger and scarier. He doesn’t though. No one seems to blame me. No one but myself.
