Anna

My mom stood among the mourners, holding my dad’s arm like she might fall over. As if she could feel my stare, Mom cast a nervous look to me, huddled in the limo.

Ashamed, I dropped my gaze to the wrinkled program clutched in my hand. “Sorry, Gran,” I whispered, smoothing the linen paper against my knee. 

Sweat from my palm mingled with the tears that wouldn’t stop falling, blurring the delicate font. 

Annabelle “Belle” Murdock - January 14, 1945 - March 12, 2017

I thought I could do it—stand with everyone and watch them lower her into the ground. But I couldn’t. If another person told me they were sorry and that Gran went quickly and without suffering, I was going to scream. 

I furiously swiped at the moisture on my cheeks as the heavy door creaked open. Dean’s cologne mixed with the scent of rain clinging to his dark suit as he scooted onto the seat. 

“Are you okay?”

Nodding, I clenched my teeth to keep from snapping.

He blew out a breath and tentatively took my hand. “I think you’re going to regret it if you don’t say goodbye.” 

Turning away, I squeezed my eyes shut. There was no saying goodbye. Gran was already gone, and all that was left was this incredible ache that numbed my fingers and stole my breath. 

“I will.” I sniffed. “Just not right now.”

My parents were taking Willow to my aunt’s in Houston as soon as the celebration of life for Gran was over. At first, I’d balked at the idea, but Mom was right, I was in no shape to care for my baby with all this grief hanging over me. 

Steeling myself, I turned to Dean and gave him a watery smile. “Thank you for being here.”

Dean sighed, shaking his head as he looked down at our joined hands. “Where else would I be, Annabelle?” Offense edged his tone as his eyes met mine. “Just because we’re separated, doesn’t mean I won’t be here if you need me.” 

Dean had always been there when I needed him, and really, it would be easy to lean on him now. But that wouldn’t be fair to him. Or to me. But now wasn’t the right time to mention it, so I just nodded and let my tears fall freely. 

Dean slid his arm around my shoulder. “Shh.” 

I turned my face into his chest and wondered for the millionth time why I couldn’t love him the way he deserved to be loved. 

Jerking away when Peyton popped her head in the door, I swallowed the lump of grief that I feared would never truly dissolve. 

My best friend knew better than to ask if I was okay. Instead, she held out her hand and said softly, “Come on. The service is over. Let’s go say goodbye.”

Shrinking against the seat, I shook my head, panic rising like an ocean swell. “I c-can’t. I don’t want to watch them . . .”

Put her in the ground.

I couldn’t even say it. But Peyton didn’t have to be told. 

“They don’t do that right now, sweetie.” 

Dean confirmed Peyton’s statement with a solemn nod. Apparently, I was the only one who’d never been to a funeral. My parents were young. But then, so was Gran. Too young to have a stroke in her kitchen.

Pain lanced through me as I gazed beyond Peyton to the cluster of white chairs under the green awning. Now that the service was over, everyone was standing, and I could clearly see the casket. 

My eyes darted away, and I found my father among the family members, staring right at me with no reproach. 

Holding his gaze, I took a tremulous breath. “Okay.”

Dean slid out first, and I followed. One step and my heels sank into the wet grass, but Dean slipped his arm around my waist before I face-planted. 

When we reached the chairs, I took a seat in the back row. “Give me a second,” I choked, my gaze fixed on the mahogany coffin. “I can’t . . . yet.” 

Dean stood sentry, bracing a hand on my shoulder and intercepting any well-wishers who wandered over. 

“Button?” 

My dad’s voice cut through the fog, and I turned to him, dazed. “Yes.” 

He crouched in front of me. “We’ve got to get to the house. Are you ready?” 

Sorrow washed over me as I glanced at the casket. I wasn’t ready. I might never be ready.

“No, Daddy . . .” I shook my head. “I can’t go yet. Please . . .” I tipped forward, burying my face in the crook of his neck. “Not yet.” 

He rubbed circles on my back, whispering words I couldn’t hear, but that soothed me nonetheless.

And then Peyton said, “It’s okay, Brian. I’ll drive her over when she’s ready.” 

Dad kissed me on the forehead, and though I wanted to grab him and make him stay, I sat stiff as a statue with my eyes on the grass until I heard the car doors slam and the engines purr to life. 

When I ventured a glance a few minutes later, the limos were gone. 

Dean squeezed my shoulder. “I have to get back to the office.” I met his gaze, nodding. “I could come over tonight if . . .” My eyes darted back to my lap, and he took a step back. “Just call if you need anything, okay?” 

I wobbled to my feet as he turned to leave. “Dean?” It came out a strangled plea, so of course, he stopped. I threw my arms around him. “Thank you.”

The air left his body in a rush, and he folded me into a tight embrace. “Don’t mention it.” He rocked me for a long moment and then broke away to wipe my tears with the pads of his thumbs. “Call me if you need anything.” 

 If I had any doubt we were over, the kiss he pressed to my forehead sealed the deal. It felt just like my dad’s, comforting. And if I only wanted comfort, Dean was the guy. 

Peyton linked our fingers as I watched Dean’s retreating back, a fresh torrent of tears blurring my vision. 

“What now?” she asked after his car sped off. 

I let out a shuddering breath. “Now, I say goodbye.”

It took another hour, but I finally made it to the casket. While I said my last goodbyes, Peyton ran to her car to grab a blanket to wrap the large, framed portrait of Gran that I refused to leave at the gravesite. 

Clutching the rosary Gran gave me, I knelt on the green faux grass in front of her final resting place, fumbling with the glass beads. “Sorry, Gran, I don’t . . .” My throat closed as I tried to breathe through the strongest wave of emotion I’d ever felt. “I don’t remember all the prayers you taught me.” I placed a palm on the coffin. “I love you.” 

After pressing my thumb to the crucifix and stumbling through a single choppy prayer, I pushed to my feet. As I wiped my knees, I noticed a huge spray of roses. Not just any roses. Peach roses.

I know you like the red ones, but the peach remind me of you. 

My gaze shifted to three smaller arrangements with those same roses interspersed with baby’s breath, lilies, and white daisies—Gran’s favorite. 

Swallowing hard, I crouched to search for a card. Finding none, I plucked the sticker with the florist’s name and number off the ribbon that simply read, “Gran.” 

Peyton appeared at my side. “All set?” 

“Um . . . can you help me grab some of the ribbons? I want to keep them.” 

She fished her keys from the pocket of her black blazer. “You don’t look good, sweetie.” She pressed the fob into my hand. “Wait in the car, okay? I’ll get these.” 

I nodded and turned to leave, but then my heart seized, and I spun around. “Goodbye, Gran.” 

I snapped a peach rose from the arrangement, kissed the petals, and then laid it atop the spray of daisies on the casket. Smiling through the tears, I took off my shoes and then turned and ran for the car. 

I poured another shot of Jack into my can of Dr. Pepper as I settled against the couch cushions in my living room. 

“Do you want leftover pasta,” Peyton called from the kitchen, “or peanut butter and jelly?” 

I took a long drink. And then another. “Peanut butter and jelly.”

Glancing over my shoulder, I made sure Peyton was occupied before retrieving the sticker from my pocket. Biting my lip, I stared at the florist’s name, embossed on the gold foil. 

The Flower Studio—Sixth Street

It couldn’t be. Could it?

I had to find out, so I picked up my phone and then punched in the number. 

“Flower Studio, can I help you?” 

“Yes, um . . . my grandmother’s funeral service was today and . . .” My heart raced, and I thought about hanging up, but the woman quickly offered her condolences, so I forged ahead.

“Thank you. Someone had several large sprays of roses delivered to the cemetery. Peach roses. But there was no card, and I’d like to send a thank you note.” 

After telling me she’d check her records, I heard her speaking with someone in the background. 

“Yes, I have the order right here. It was a custom job. Tyler roses.” A little gasp tumbled from my lips, but she didn’t notice. “I don’t have a full name, but the first initial is S and the last name is Hudson. Does that help?”