Page 106 of Campus Crush
“Daniella Thomas lived a life of service,” Pastor Mike was saying. “She poured love into this community the same way she poured love into her family. When her daughter passed, she stepped up to raise her grandchildren with the same fierce dedication she brought to everything in her life.”
A sob caught in my throat, and Foster’s hand tightened around mine. I squeezed back, grateful beyond words for his presence. He’d been my rock through all of this, never wavering, never complaining about how little time I’d had for him over the last two weeks as we’d watched Gram wither away.
After the service, we followed the hearse to the cemetery where Gram would be laid to rest beside her husband. The graveside service was mercifully brief—just a few prayers and the somber lowering of the casket. I placed a single white rose on top, whispering a final goodbye that felt wholly inadequate for the woman who had been my safety net, my champion, and my home.
As we turned to leave, I noticed the row of hockey players standing at a respectful distance, all in suits, their faces solemn. Coach Maxwell stood with them, a beautiful brunette woman beside him. The sight of them—these young men who didn’t even know my grandmother—showing up to support my brother and me, brought fresh tears to my eyes.
Sam appeared at my side, linking her arm through mine. “Let’s get you to the reception,” she said gently. “You need to eat something.”
The local community center had been transformed for the occasion. Tables covered in white cloths held framed photos of Gram throughout her life. One showed her as a young woman, radiant in her wedding dress beside my grandfather. Another captured her holding baby Mason, with me—gap-toothed and pigtailed—grinning beside them.
“Your grandmother was a remarkable woman,” said a voice behind me. I turned to find Mrs. Henderson, Gram’s next-door neighbor, holding a casserole dish. “She talked about you and Mason constantly. So proud of you both.”
“Thank you,” I said automatically, the words feeling worn from repetition. I’d been saying them all day as people shared their condolences and memories.
“She made this community better,” Mrs. Henderson continued, her eyes misty. “We’ll all miss her terribly.”
I nodded, unable to form more words. Foster appeared at my elbow, as if sensing my distress, and smoothly took over the conversation. I watched him charm Mrs. Henderson, thanking her for coming and for the casserole she’d brought, which he promised we’d enjoy later.
“You’re good at that,” I murmured when she moved on.
He shrugged. “Years of practice at my parents’ business functions. How are you holding up?”
“I’m…” I searched for the right word. “I’m here. That’s about all I can manage.”
His eyes, full of understanding, held mine. “That’s more than enough for now.”
The afternoon wore on, a blur of faces and voices and memories of Gram. I accepted hugs from people I barely recognized, nodded as they told stories about how she hadhelped them through difficult times or brightened their days with her sharp wit and kind heart. Each story was a gift, a new piece of her to hold on to, but also a reminder of the enormity of what I’d lost.
I kept one eye on Mason, who had stationed himself in a corner, accepting condolences with nods and minimal words. Drew and Liam had taken up positions nearby, occasionally drawing him into conversation. I was grateful for their efforts, even if Mason seemed resistant.
Foster’s hockey coach approached me with the brunette woman from the funeral at his side. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” he said.
“Thank you for coming,” I said, the words automatic by now.
“Abby, I don’t know if you’ve met my wife, Maggie.”
“I haven’t. Nice to meet you,” I said, shaking her hand.
“You too,” Maggie said. “I’ve seen you at some of the games. If you need anything—meals, someone to talk to, whatever—please don’t hesitate to reach out.”
The genuine kindness in her voice nearly broke me. “That’s really thoughtful.”
“I mean it,” she insisted. “It’s hard enough dealing with grief without having to worry about practical matters.”
For some reason, her acknowledgment of the “practical matters”—all the logistical nightmares that came with death—hit me harder than the more general condolences I’d been receiving. Tears welled up in my eyes, and I blinked rapidly, trying to maintain my composure.
“Abby is the strongest person I know,” Foster said, his arm slipping around my waist. “But even the strongest people need support sometimes.”
Maggie nodded. “Exactly. And you have more support than you might realize.” She glanced over at the hockeyplayers, who had spread throughout the room, helping serve food, move chairs, and generally making themselves useful. “They’re a good bunch.”
I followed her gaze, noticing how Gordy was now sitting with Mason, apparently showing him something on his phone that had caught my brother’s interest. Sam hovered nearby also keeping an eye on the interaction. “They really are.”
After Coach Maxwell and his wife moved on, another well-wisher approached—Mrs. Schmidt from the community center board, who launched into a tearful recollection of how Gram had reorganized their entire volunteer program.
I could feel my carefully constructed facade beginning to crack. The weight of the day, of maintaining strength for Mason, of accepting condolences with grace—it was becoming too much. My chest tightened, and I knew I needed air before I completely fell apart in front of everyone.
“Excuse me, I-I need to go check on something,” I said, but instead I snuck out a side door and leaned against the exterior wall, breathing in the crisp mountain air. It was unseasonably warm for November in Montana, but there was still a chill to the air that made me wish I’d thought to grab my coat.
