I let myself in the front door and shrugged out of Lucian’s glorious coat. I hung it in the entryway closet and kicked off my boots while thinking about a shower and pajamas. I didn’t want company. I wanted a quiet night during which I could let out all the messy emotions I’d managed to—mostly—keep locked down all day long.
I opened the glass doors of the study just off the foyer. For years, it had served as Dad’s office. I’d intended to turn it into a library or reading room when I moved in but hadn’t gotten around to it yet. There were a lot of things I hadn’t gotten around to doing.
It was a cozy space with a coffered ceiling and large bow window that protruded out onto the front porch. There was a freestanding desk and rickety set of box store bookshelves behind it. The room still felt like him. There were still a handful of photos and awards on the shelves along with a dusty set of law journals.
I sat down in the chair behind his desk and managed a watery smile at the familiar squeak. I could always tell when a case was bothering him. He’d lock himself in here after dinner to pore over files and think while rocking back and forth, back and forth.
I switched on the desk lamp. It was a hideous yard sale find featuring a faded woven shade that was constantly shedding threads and a heavy brass base etched with fanged merpeople. My mother insisted it was a travesty of interior lighting. Dad insisted it cast adequate light and was therefore perfect.
That was my father. Always finding the good in even the ugliest places.
The rest of the desk was bare except for an outdated calendar blotter and an empty pen holder. There were colorful sticky notes dotting the calendar page.
Pick up dry cleaning.
Order anniversary flowers! Bigger this year!
Tell Sloane about that book.
I skimmed the tips of my fingers over his choppy handwriting. Grief was a thousand tiny knives behind my eyes. Tears welled, and this time, in this safe space, I didn’t fight it when they began to fall.
“I miss you, Dad,” I whispered.
My heart ached with the knowledge that my father would never again sit in this chair. He’d never again make a ridiculous dad joke that would have Mom collapsing with giggles. He wouldn’t be here to watch Chloe tear through her presents next Christmas. He wouldn’t meet any new members of the family.
If I got married and had kids, how would I ever share with them what he meant to me?
Great, I thought as I dragged Lucian’s stupid, still soggy handkerchief out of the pocket of my dress. Now my heart was breaking into tinier, sharper pieces, and my misery was illuminated by this god-awful lamp.
The sob I’d held in all day wrenched its way out of my throat. I took off my glasses and let it well up inside me.
I’d lost the greatest man I’d ever known.
Everyone needed me to be strong, to be okay. My mother and sister, my friends, my town. They didn’t need to be worried about how deep this chasm of grief went. But tonight, right now, I could allow myself to be what I was. Devastated.
Tears spilled hot and fast down my cheeks. I hugged myself around the middle and just let them come. Like a volcano erupting, I cried as if I were splitting in two.
I was supposed to feel some measure of relief. Dad’s suffering was over. He wasn’t in pain anymore. His consciousness wasn’t being stolen from us minute by minute by cancer and drugs. He was free of suffering. But I didn’t see an end to my own. Because I would miss my dad for the rest of my life.
I blew my nose noisily.
I’d felt like this only once before. When I’d lost another man—a boy really.
Lucian.
His name floated to me over my own snotty sniffles. Despite our differences, he’d shown up today. He’d stayed throughout the services and the luncheon, saying all the right things to my mother and sister. He’d also bizarrely forced a burrito on me, then picked a fight. Fights, I corrected.
The doorbell rang.
“Dammit,” I muttered.
I wanted to be alone. Maybe they would go away. I could just sit here in the dark and wait them out.
But a nudge wouldn’t let me. Someone might need something. Or maybe my garage was on fire and someone was trying to save me but I was too busy crying my face off to notice.
I blew my nose again, then sniffed the air.
The bell rang again, and I swore under my breath. Scrubbing a fresh tissue over my makeup smeared face, I made my way to the door and put my glasses back on.
I found a stranger standing on the front porch, hands in the pockets of his jeans. He was midtwenties at best guess with tight curly hair. He wore an earring, a Georgetown Law sweatshirt under a wool coat, and an apologetic half smile.
“I’m so sorry to bother you. Are you Sloane?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I rasped, then cleared the messy emotions out of my throat. “Yes.”
“Your dad told me a lot about you and your sister,” he said, bobbing his head and swallowing hard. “I probably should have called first, but I had an exam I couldn’t miss and drove straight here afterward. I feel terrible for missing the funeral.” He shoved a hand through those short curls.
I stared dumbly at him. “Do I know you?”
“Uh, no. You don’t. I’m Allen. Allen Upshaw.”
“Were you a friend of my father’s?”
“No. I mean, I like to think we would have been. He was actually a mentor. The reason I got into law school…” Allen trailed off, looking about as miserable as I felt.
I took pity on him. “Would you like to come in? I was just going to make some coffee or tea.”
“Sure. Thanks.”
I led the way down the hall, through the atrium, and past the dining room to the cavernous kitchen. The previous owners had combined the main kitchen and catering kitchen into one huge room with more cabinets and countertops than I would ever know what to do with. The walls were papered in an old-fashioned but charming plaid and adorned with solemn gold-framed still lifes of food.
“It looks the same but different,” he observed. “I was here a few years ago before your parents moved to DC.”
“None of us was ready to let go of the house so I moved in,” I explained, turning on the coffee maker. I gestured for him to take a seat at the turquoise breakfast nook table my sister and I had helped my mom paint one summer weekend a thousand years ago.
Allen shook his head. “I can’t believe he’s gone. I mean, I feel bad feeling bad when you must feel a thousand times worse. But he was such an important part of my life these past few years.”
“It makes me feel better knowing that he mattered to so many people,” I assured him. “Cream? Sugar?”
“Both, please. Is Mrs. Walton here?”
“She’s spending the night with friends.” I put a mug that said I Put the Lit in Literature under the spout and opened the fridge.
He blew out a breath. “I’ll catch up with her next week. I just can’t believe he’s gone.” He winced. “Sorry. I feel like I’m appropriating your grief.”
“It’s our grief,” I assured him, putting his coffee in front of him and making one of my own even though I didn’t really want it.
“I don’t know if you know, but he came into my life when I needed him most.”
“How did he do that?” I asked as the coffee maker spit out another cup.