So, I think I’ll just keep them closed.
The service is beautiful. Yellow Chrysanthemums and pink tulips line the pews. White stargazer lilies surround her casket. Bouquets and baskets sit on the floor in front of her picture. Altogether, it’s a moving image.
I’m numb.
While Becca’s daddy preaches about the restoration of innocence for the departed and God’s love, I sit in the front row with my head down. My hands wring my handkerchief so tight my knuckles turn white. Jax is on one side, his hand on my knee. Becca is on the other with her palm on my back. Pillars of support holding me up while my family crumbles beneath my feet. I feel their touch.
Still, I’m numb.
The service ends, and I stand between Daddy and Eli, lost in thoughts of who the masochist was that thought up the idea of a receiving line. My sweaty palms grasp a hundred different hands as they whisper their condolences. I keep my head bowed as I mumble my thanks. But then a different hand grasps mine, a flicker of static running through my fingertips. I don’t look up right away. But eventually, I do.
Chase’s face is relieved. Like being in front of me is all he needed to feel whole again. Lucky for him—how that’s still a possibility. His hair is a knotted mess, the strands fighting over which direction to lay. Yet, he’s nearly perfect, of course. He always is. But his beauty doesn’t move me.
“Goldi.”
I blink.
“Goldi, I am so...” His voice cracks with emotion, lower lip trembling as he wipes his hand over his mouth. “Your mom. I can’t even—”
“So, don’t.” The words come across as flat as they feel rolling off my tongue.
He swallows harshly. His eyes bounce to Eli, then Daddy, until they land back on me. He takes a deep breath, his free hand sliding through his dark, silky hair. “Maybe I shouldn’t have come. But, fuck… I just want you to know I’m here. Take all the time you need, but baby, I’ll be here.”
Laughter bubbles up inside of me, and as inappropriate as it is to laugh in the middle of a receiving line, I can’t stop it from spilling out. It’s brash. The sound echoes off the walls, reverberating, mocking me with its tone.
“I don’t really give a fuck where you’ll be, Chase.”
His eyes grow wide at my curse.
I drop his hand. “Are we done here?”
Daddy doesn’t even look at us, too busy taking sips from his flask of whiskey. Not that I blame him.
Chase stands still as I walk away. His hand rubbing his chest and his eyes glassy. I should probably feel somethin’ after leavin’ him there that way. But I don’t.
I feel nothing.
I drive aimlessly around town for what feels like hours. Until the sun disappears and darkness blankets the ground. Eventually, I find my way home. Tonight is the first night I’m sleeping at my own house. Ten days of avoidance, not wanting to surround myself with the memories, choosing to hide in Jax’s shadow instead.
I go straight to my room and lay in bed, staring up at the glow ‘n stick stars on my ceiling. They make me think of Chase. Anger licks at my insides making me gasp. I’ve found comfort in the numbness. The rush of fiery emotion is a jolt to my system.
How dare he come to Mama’s funeral.
I grab on to the rage, marveling at how it grows inside me. Jumping out of bed, I pull my desk chair to the middle of the room. My shin hits the leg as I clumsily climb to stand on the seat. I reach up and rip a star off the ceiling, watching as it falls to the floor.
I repeat the action. Fingernails tearing as I dig deep into the plaster. Again and again.
Rip. Watch. Repeat.
Breathing heavily from exertion, I collapse onto the ground. A graveyard of stars surrounds me.
I smile.
Heartbreak is easier to hide in the dark.
17
Chase
Twenty-Two Years Old
I have this nasty habit I’m trying to break. I dissect every part of my past until the pieces are so skewed, I can’t put them back together. Countless hours are spent trying to fit square pegs into round holes—deciding who I’m going to hold liable for my failings. I’m the fucking poster boy for the blame game.
When I lost my mom, I raged.
When I lost Lily, I grieved.
When I lost Goldi, I did both of those things.
I went to her mom’s funeral with the stupid idea she would need me. Not realizing I had taught her how to not need me long before then. I held her limp hand and stared into her vacant eyes, searching for the love she had always given. The love I didn’t deserve. How fucking selfish of me. Now, I realize the love I offered in return was twisted and warped, bathed in my insecurities and modeled after the dysfunction I was born into.
I didn’t go to her again. I stayed that night at Sam and Anna’s, knowing I wouldn’t return, and drove back to Nashville in the morning. Desolate and defeated, hating myself for how heartbroken I felt. I knew deep down I had no right.
I’m a taker. A controller. These are flaws that exist within me. They always will.
But I’m ready to heal.
So here I am lying on a fucking couch, staring at a popcorn ceiling, wishing like hell I hadn’t made the decision to see a shrink.
“Chase. Why don’t you tell me a little bit about why you’ve decided to come here today.”
He’s an older man, late fifties with dark wavy hair graying at the temples. Round glasses sit on his crooked nose. His ankle is highlighted by orange and blue argyle socks and is crossed over the
