Forty two-Jordin
The morning of the funeral, Ciarán looked like he was ready to just give up. I fumbled with his tie, my fingers brushing against the exposed skin on his neck, hoping that some kind of contact would pull him back to me. Something. For the past few days, he was so unlike himself. He wasn’t sleeping. Some nights, he was up until the sun rose, staring at the ceiling, lost in thoughts he wouldn’t share.
His hands were shaking. I don’t even think he noticed. His face was unreadable.
“There,” I said softly, smoothing the fabric against his chest. “You look good.”
He didn’t respond. Just stared past me, his jaw clenched so tight I could see the muscle twitching.
Oak walked into the room then, dressed in a black suit, his cane tapping lightly against the floor. He looked at Ciarán, then at me, his expression hard to read.
“You ready?” he asked, his voice flat.
Ciarán didn’t answer.
“He’s ready,” I said, glancing at Oak. “Thank you for coming. It means a lot.”
Oak nodded but didn’t say anything. He just turned and walked toward the door. Oak had been helpful. He’d made allthe arrangements that didn’t require Ciarán’s personal input. I hadn’t expected this from him. I think his accident might have changed him. He seemed less selfish and self-centered these days.
The church was empty when we arrived. Not a single car in the parking lot, not a single person in the pews. Just the three of us, the pastor, and the casket at the front of the room.
Ciarán froze in the doorway, the muscles in his shoulders twisting, his breathing accelerating. “Where is everybody?” he muttered, I think to himself.
I didn’t know what to say. I reached for his hand, but he jerked away, striding down the aisle toward the casket.
The air inside was thick with the scent of lilies and old wood. I followed a few feet behind him, the echo of my heels sounding unbearably loud and sad.
Ciarán stopped at the casket, his hands curled into fists at his sides like he was ready to flip it. I prayed he didn’t. For a moment, he just stood there, staring down at the man who had shaped—and ruined—him in equal measure. His father’s face was still. I hated funerals for that reason, the stillness.
I watched the muscle tick in Ciarán’s jaw. His fingers gripped the edge of the casket as he leaned down slightly, his lips barely moving as he muttered something under his breath. Low. Sharp. Maybe it was an insult. Maybe it wasI love you. Maybe it was a finalfuck you. Maybe it was both.
Then he looked up at the pastor, who had just stepped up to the podium. “Don’t even worry about it, bruh,” he said flatly, shaking his head. “There’s nothing to say about this motherfucker I ain’t already said.”
The gravesite was worse. The wind was cold, biting at my skin as I stood beside Ciarán, my hand resting lightly on his arm.
He was quiet at first, his eyes fixed on the casket. Then, “Ain’t nobody here!” he shouted, his voice echoing across theempty cemetery. “You hear me? Not a single soul! You fucked over everybody! Everybody!”
“Ciarán,” I said softly, trying to pull him back, but he shook me off.
“I spent days crying over you!” he yelled, his voice breaking. “Days! And you didn’t fucking deserve it! You didn’t deserve shit!”
His words were raw and mean, like they were tearing out of him. I reached for him again, but he shoved me away, his eyes wild.
“You were a liar! A thief! A fucking coward!” he screamed, stepping closer to the casket. “You think this makes it better? You think dying makes it okay? It doesn’t! It doesn’t fix anything! You could have at least left a fucking note, telling me this wasn’t my fault.”
“Ciarán, stop!” I pleaded, my voice trembling.
But he didn’t. “You were supposed to be my father! You were supposed to—!”
Oak moved then, faster than I thought he could with his cane. He grabbed Ciarán by the back of his suit jacket and yanked him away from the casket, his voice sharp and commanding. “Enough!” he barked, shoving Ciarán hard enough to make him stumble.
Ciarán spun around, his eyes blazing. “Don’t touch me!”
“I’ll do more than touch you if you don’t get your shit together,” Oak snapped, stepping into his space. “This isn’t good for you. He isn’t worth this.”
Ciarán’s fists clenched, and for a moment, I thought he might swing. Oak saw it too, bracing himself. But Oak didn’t back down.
“You want to be mad? Fine. Be mad. But don’t you dare take it out on Jordin,” Oak said, his voice low and dangerous.“She’s been here for you every step of the way, and this is how you repay her? By making a scene? By scaring her?”
