Sam.

~~~

The scent of lilies mixed with roses filled the church, drippy and oppressive, mingling with the low hum of whispered condolences and the occasional muffled sob. I stood near the front, my eyes locked on the mahogany coffin draped with white roses.

It didn't feel real. How could it? Just days ago, Grandma Rose had been the steady heartbeat of my world, a constant presence that never wavered. Now, she was gone, and I felt like I was walking barefoot on broken glass, each breath slicing into me, sharp and unforgiving.

Mom stood beside me, her hand clutching Dad's arm like it was the only thing keeping her upright. She wore her grief-like armor—her black suit impeccably pressed, her face pale but composed. Always the anchor, always the one to hold us together. But today, even she looked fragile, her lips pressing into a thin line as she murmured thank-yous to the endless line of mourners.

Alyssa stood on my other side, her tears flowing freely as she leaned into every hug, every whispered word of comfort. Her cheeks were blotchy, her mascara smudged, but she didn't care. She had always worn her emotions on the surface, unafraid to let them spill over. I envied her for that. I hadn't cried. Not yet. Everything inside me felt locked away, sealed tight under a weight so heavy I couldn't breathe.

The line of people offering their condolences blurred into a monotonous stream of black coats and sympathetic faces. "She was such a wonderful woman," they said. "I'm so sorry for your loss." I nodded mechanically, my lips moving to form the right words, but they felt hollow, meaningless. My mind was stuck on one unshakable truth: Grandma wasn't coming back. That finality pressed down on me, crushing and unavoidable.

I caught a glimpse of Molly and Tom standing near the back of the room with their families. The sight of Tom stirred something in me, a mix of warmth and discomfort I didn't have the energy to untangle. We hadn't spoken since LA, but there he was, his presence somehow both unsettling and comforting. Mom had always stayed close to his family, even after everything between us had fallen apart. Normally, that would've bothered me, but today, it didn't. Today, I didn't have the energy to care.

The eulogies began, and I tried to focus, I really did. Friends and neighbors took turns at the podium, their voices trembling as they shared stories of Grandma's kindness, her resilience, and her fierce love for her family. I should have felt pride or comfort in their words, but all I felt was hollow. Grandma wasn't just kind or strong. She was the glue that held us together, the person I turned to when life became too much. And now... now there was only silence.

The minister's voice echoed through the vaulted ceiling, solemn and deliberate, but it barely registered. My eyes wandered to Alyssa, who was dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. At least she could cry. I felt like I was drowning in my grief, but the tears refused to come. Instead, I sat there, frozen, my body rigid, my mind numb.

When I glanced at Tom again, he was looking at me. His expression was soft, tinged with something that might have been understanding. I quickly looked away, my stomach twisting. I couldn't think about him—not now.

The final eulogy came from one of Grandma's closest friends, a woman whose voice cracked with every word. Her memories were vivid, her love for Grandma palpable, but as she spoke, my vision blurred—not with tears, but with the weight of everything I was trying so hard to hold back.

When the ceremony ended, the organ swelled with its mournful melody, and people rose from their seats in slow, deliberate waves. The sound of shuffling feet and soft murmurs filled the space as they began filing out. I stayed rooted in place, staring at a mountain of dirt and flowers above the grave, my chest heavy, my legs unwilling to move.

Dad's hand rested gently on my shoulder, pulling me back to the moment. "We should head to the house, sweetheart," he said softly.

I nodded, my throat too tight to respond. The cold March air outside hit me like a slap as we stepped out of the mausoleum. I followed my family silently, the ache in my chest growing heavier with every step.

The house felt wrong without Grandma. Normally, the scent of chamomile tea would greet me at the door, but now the air felt stale, suffocating, like the house itself was mourning her absence. The low murmur of voices and the faint clinking of silverware drifted from the dining room where the close family had gathered for dinner, but I lingered in the hallway, unable to cross the threshold just yet.

I stared at the walls, at the pictures of Grandma smiling back at me from their frames. There she was, holding me as a baby, baking cookies with Alyssa, laughing at some long-forgotten joke. Each photo was a time capsule, a reminder of all the moments that were now out of reach.

When I finally entered the dining room, the conversation faltered, and every pair of eyes turned to me. The silence hung awkwardly in the air, thick and heavy. My uncle John and his wife Mary sat stiffly across from Mom and Dad, their faces unreadable. Mary offered me a tight, polite smile, but there was something in her eyes—judgment, maybe, or pity. I wasn't sure, and I didn't care enough to figure it out.

The twins—my cousins, Leo and Alvin, sat at the far end of the table, their faces lit by the glow of their phones. They whispered to each other, their voices low and detached, as if they were attending a casual family dinner instead of a wake.

I slid into the seat between Molly and Alyssa, who reached over and gave my arm a reassuring squeeze. The table was set with all of Grandma's favorite dishes—roast chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans. It should have felt comforting, but instead, it was just another reminder that she was gone.

I stared at my plate, picking at the food, barely tasting it. The hum of conversation faded into the background as I sat there, surrounded by family but feeling utterly alone.

Leo and Alvin were already deep in conversation, their voices carrying above the subdued murmurs around the table.

"I'm telling you," Alvin said, his phone glowing in his hand. "If we lock in that collab with the travel brand, it's going to be huge."

My stomach tightened, irritation curling through me like smoke. How could they talk about brand deals and influencer nonsense at a time like this? Grandma Rose wasn't even a day in the ground, and here they were, oblivious to everything but their own ambition.

"I didn't know you two were still doing that influencer thing," I said, my tone sharper than I meant.

Leo raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a grin. "Still doing it? Sam, we've blown up. You should follow us, it's pretty big now." He tilted his phone toward me, a video playing on the screen—bright colors, fast edits, perfectly staged smiles. "You'd know if you were on socials more."

I bit back the urge to snap at him, swallowing my frustration like a bitter pill. "Maybe some of us have more important things to worry about," I muttered under my breath, glancing away.

Uncle John's disapproving gaze landed on me, his face tight with restrained judgment. I didn't need to ask to know what he was thinking. The tension between us had simmered for years, ever since Grandpa had left his estate to me instead of him. He never said it outright, but his coldness spoke volumes.

"Sam has plenty on her mind," Mom interjected smoothly, her voice a calming balm over the moment. Her eyes flicked toward Leo and Alvin, a subtle warning in her gaze.

The twins shrugged in unison, unbothered, and turned their attention back to their phones. Mom placed her hand on mine, her touch steady and grounding. She had always been my shield against the unspoken rivalries and petty dramas that plagued family gatherings. But tonight, even her quiet strength felt distant, dulled by her own grief.

The conversation at the table stumbled along awkwardly, small talk blending with half-hearted attempts to share memories of Rose. Uncle John droned on about her legendary stubbornness, but his words felt empty, rehearsed—like he was saying what he thought people wanted to hear, not what he actually felt.

I barely heard him. My thoughts kept slipping away, circling back to the unbearable emptiness of the house and the ache of sitting at this table without her. Every mention of her name was another blow, another reminder of what we'd lost.

My eyes drifted to Tom, sitting quietly at the far end of the table beside his parents. He'd barely spoken all evening, his gaze fixed on his plate, but I could feel his presence like a magnet pulling at me. I hadn't expected him to come, but his family's bond with Mom had brought him here.

He hadn't approached me yet, though his occasional glances in my direction told me it was only a matter of time.

"You okay, Sam?" Molly's soft voice pulled me back to the room.

I nodded, forcing a tight smile. "Yeah. Just tired."

It wasn't a lie, but it wasn't the whole truth, either. Tired didn't cover the heaviness in my chest or the way every word felt like a struggle. Tired didn't explain why I felt like I was unraveling, thread by thread, in front of everyone.

After dinner, I slipped out of the dining room into the hallway, the cool air outside the crowded space a small relief. Leaning against the wall, I closed my eyes, letting the silence settle over me. My chest felt tight, and though the ache in my throat begged for release, the tears wouldn't come.

I needed air—space to think, to feel, to just exist without the weight of expectations pressing down on me.

Footsteps approached, soft but deliberate. I opened my eyes to see Tom standing there, his hands shoved into his pockets. His dark suit fit him a little too well, and the dim light caught the faint stubble on his jawline. He looked like a memory I hadn't fully let go of.

"Hey," he said, his voice low.

I straightened, my fingers brushing against the wall for support. "Hey."

Tom hesitated, his gaze searching mine. "I saw you at that restaurant a few weeks ago," he said, a tentative smile touching his lips. "You looked... different. Happier, maybe. Is it because of Ray?"

The mention of Ray hit me like a cold slap. Of all the things he could have said, that wasn't what I was expecting. I blinked, caught off guard.

"My grandma just died, Tom. And Ray makes me happy," I said finally, the words feeling both true and incomplete.

Tom nodded slowly, but his expression didn't change. "Then where is he, Sam?" His voice softened, the question hanging between us like a challenge. "You're going through all of this, and he's not here."

The words cut deeper than I wanted to admit. I hadn't let myself dwell on Ray's absence—he couldn't leave the tour, I told myself. But now, hearing it from Tom, the weight of it felt sharper, more real.

"I didn't expect him to be here," I said, my voice thin.

Tom stepped closer, his gaze steady. "But you needed him."

I didn't know what to say. The tightness in my chest threatened to break me apart, but still, the tears wouldn't come. Instead, I met Tom's eyes, my own filling with all the things I couldn't bring myself to say.

"He wanted to be here," I said, my voice sharper than I intended as I straightened my back, a defensive edge creeping in. "But you know how his schedule is. The tour—"

Tom's lips curved into a sad smile, his green eyes softening with something that looked dangerously like pity. "I get it. Ray's career is important. But, Sam, you deserve someone who's actually here—someone who's not always off in another city."

Frustration flared in my chest, rising fast and hot, but I forced myself to keep my tone steady. "Don't do this, Tom." My words came out firm, though my pulse raced. "This isn't about you and me. It's not the same."

"Isn't it?" His voice dropped, quieter now, the kind of quiet that always made me feel like he could see right through me. He took a step closer, and his hand lifted slightly, as though he wanted to touch me but thought better of it. "I loved you, Sam. I still care about you. But watching you put everything aside for someone who doesn't make you their priority... it broke me."

His words hit like a gut punch, sharper than I expected. I stepped back, putting distance between us. The air between us felt heavy, charged with too many memories—long nights spent talking, laughing until my stomach ached, and the slow unraveling of what we once had. Those memories swirled around me now, colliding with the present, but there was no space left for Tom's feelings. Not anymore.

"I'm happy, Tom," I said, more forcefully this time. My voice didn't waver, though my chest tightened with the effort. "Ray and I... it's different. I don't need you to understand that, but I need you to respect it."

Tom opened his mouth, ready to counter, but before he could, another voice cut through the tension.

"What's going on here?"

The sound of Ray's voice sent a jolt through me, equal parts relief and apprehension. I turned, and there he was—tall, broad, and unmistakably mine. The dim hallway light caught the sharp angles of his face, the glint of his dark eyes as they locked onto Tom. His leather jacket hung perfectly on his frame, and the faint wear on the edges made him seem even more grounded, and real.

Tom straightened, retreating a step. "Ray," he said with a forced smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Didn't know you'd made it."

Ray's gaze flicked to me, his expression softening for a heartbeat before his attention snapped back to Tom, sharp and unyielding. "I came as soon as I could," he said, his tone even but lined with tension. "Why are you here with Sam in our home?"

Silence hung heavy in the hallway, pressing down on me like a weight. I looked between them, unsure of what to say. Tom's face faltered for a second, a crack in his usual composure, before he shrugged.

"We were just talking," Tom said, the edge in his voice betraying him. "Old friends catching up."

Ray didn't blink, his jaw tightening as he took a step forward. "That's not what it looked like."

The tension in the air became electric, and I could feel the heat radiating from Raymond as he closed the space between us. When his hand found my arm, his touch was gentle, grounding me in the moment. For the first time all day, I felt like I could breathe again.

"Is everything okay?" he asked, his voice softer now but laced with concern as he searched my face.

I nodded quickly, though my throat felt tight. "Yeah... I just—"

The words caught in my throat, and suddenly, it all hit me. The funeral, the endless condolences, the forced smiles—everything I had bottled up for the entire day came crashing down. A sob broke free, raw and unrelenting, and the tears followed like a flood.

Ray didn't hesitate. He pulled me into his arms, wrapping me in his warmth and strength. His hand smoothed over my back in slow, steady circles, and his voice was a low murmur against my ear. "I've got you, love. I'm here. It's okay."

I buried my face in his chest, inhaling the familiar mix of leather, his cologne, and the faint scent of sweat from the stage. Something about it steadied me, reminded me that this was real, that he was real, and that I didn't have to hold it all together anymore.

Behind me, Tom cleared his throat awkwardly. "I'll... let you two be," he said, his voice trailing off as his footsteps retreated down the hallway.

I didn't look up. I couldn't. All I could do was cling to Ray as the tears kept falling. His arms tightened around me, and his hand moved to cradle my head, shielding me as if he could protect me from everything I'd been trying so hard to carry alone.

"I wish you could've been here," I whispered, my voice cracking as I fisted his shirt. "I didn't know how much I needed you until now."

He pressed a kiss to the top of my head, his lips warm against my hair. "I'm here now," he said, his voice rough but steady. "I'm not going anywhere."

My sobs slowly quieted, the tension in my body easing as I melted into him. The exhaustion of the day pressed down on me, but for the first time, it felt bearable. With Ray holding me, the grief didn't feel quite so insurmountable.

When I finally pulled back to look at him, his dark eyes were filled with something I couldn't quite name—a mix of understanding and love so deep it made my chest ache. He brushed a strand of hair from my face, his thumb lingering gently on my cheek.

"Come on," he said softly, his voice coaxing. "Let's get out of here."

I nodded, leaning into him as we walked down the hallway together. The weight of losing Rose was still there, heavy and unrelenting, but with Ray beside me, it felt like I wasn't carrying it alone.