She turns to face me, smile soft but firm. “I’ll be fine. I have to start doing some things on my own.”
I hesitate, and she raises a brow, teasing now. “Besides, if you walk into that salon, you won’t get a moment’s peace. Every woman and their grandma will be here in twenty minutes flat, lining up for selfies and autographs. And you’ll be stuck smelling like hairspray and gossip.”
I chuckle, the sound warm in my chest. She’s not wrong. Small-town charm and local celebrity don’t exactly blend into anonymity.
“Alright,” I nod. “I’ve actually got something I’ve been meaning to do anyway. But I’ve got my cell on me. Call when you’re done, yeah?”
She nods, her smile faltering just slightly before she steels herself again.
“You’ve got this, Mac.”
“I know,” she whispers, more to herself than to me.
I watch her push the salon door open, the bell above it jingling softly. She disappears inside with one last glance over her shoulder.
I slide back into the car, the driver’s seat still warm, and blow out a breath.
Let’s go take care of some old ghosts.
The roads blur by in a hush of grey and gold—city streets lined with changing trees, their leaves turning fire-orange and ochre, clinging to the last stretch of warmth before the rain settles in for good. Vancouver in September feels like a breath held in the chest, waiting.
I swing into the gas station just off Commercial Drive, the old neon sign flickering above the pumps. It’s not much, but it has what I need.
Inside, I grab a bottle of good tequila—the one Braden and I always swore we'd share when we “made it.” We never did. Not properly. Not like we meant to.
The clerk eyes me briefly, recognition flickering behind his tired gaze, but he says nothing, just rings it through and slides it into a brown paper bag.
I walk over to the small floral display near the doors. Most of the bouquets are a little wilted, a little rough around the edges—cheap cellophane and bold dyes. But two bunches catch my eye. One is a wild mix of yellow lilies and burnt-orange roses, vibrant and chaotic. Braden would’ve mocked the hell out of them, but he would've liked them too. The other is softer—pale blush peonies, delicate and quiet. I don’t even think. I just know they’re for Mac’s mom.
I pay, tuck the flowers carefully in the passenger seat, and start driving again.
The cemetery isn’t far. A small one tucked between the edges of the city and the woods, where the world feels a little slower. Where time doesn’t press so hard.
I drive in silence, the bottle shifting gently in the footwell as the trees close in around the path.
It’s been too long.
But I’m here now.
For Braden.
For Mr. & Mrs. Smith.
For Mac.
Mountain View is quiet. Too quiet.
Orange leaves scatter across the cracked paths like confetti at a funeral, crunching under my boots with every step. The grass is damp, soft beneath the soles. A couple of acorn tops snap underfoot, their brittle shells breaking like tiny bones.
Only two other cars sit in the lot, both parked crooked like the people inside didn’t plan to stay long. I catch sight of the groundskeeper in the distance, bumping slowly along in a rust-bitten excavator, its faded yellow paint dulled with years of use. He doesn’t look my way.
The breeze carries the earthy scent of disturbed soil, sharp with the rot of vegetation. Cold air slides up the back of my neck, sending a shiver down my spine. Goosebumps rise on my arms.
I fucking hate cemeteries.
They feel too still.
But I push forward, bouquet stems crinkling in my grip, the paper rustling like whispers. One for Braden. One for Mr. and Mrs. Smith… Their names carved into stone just a few feet apart, like the universe decided it hadn’t screwed Mac over quite enough the first time.
