It's raining.

When the service started, there was still some sun. I'm beginning to think we've brought this downpour upon us ourselves, content in misery today. Maybe it's just me. Maybe my grief is strong enough to bring on the storm.

Samantha holds the umbrella over my head, one hand firmly in my own, a constant presence of strength. I have no tears to shed, just a weighted sadness hovering over my body.

I mostly don't want to be here. Standing here in mud and tension, I wonder why people ever perform funerals. The flowers on the wreath look wilted. The coffin seems less shiny than when it arrived earlier.

The attendee's heads are bent, studying the ground rather than the coffin waiting to be lowered into the hole. All but one.

In a sea of black, I spot him.

Aidan Hughes. He's standing on the opposite side of me, a black umbrella hovering above his head. I'm unable to look away, shocked to find him here. No doubt Samantha called. It's been months, and the sight of him brings me immense relief.

When the service ends, I'm surrounded by a crowd of apologetic people. Some people I know, some I don't. Matthew hands me flowers, which seems an odd gift to receive, but a kind gesture nonetheless. People from work have made dish after dish, intent on providing me food for the next month, as if they're convinced I'm going to curl in and give up on myself any minute.

I take the time to speak to them all, all the time waiting for him to appear.

But he doesn't. To my everlasting shock, by the time the crowd has cleared around me, the only people left are the ones to lower my mother into the ground, making me wonder if he was only a mirage, a mere hallucination to keep me from going mad. I remain behind with Samantha while her husband hauls the kids to the memorial service on his own, wanting to remain until they've covered the grave.

She wraps her arm around my shoulders, rubbing my skin softly. Her cheek warms my shoulder. "Did you get a look at Matthew's hair? I mean the dye's still fresh."

Somehow she does it. I laugh.

                                                 ***

"We should put some of this food out," I say, hands on my hips, surveying the table covered in tupperware. I'm doing anything to avoid facing the guests, and it shows. Samantha has been following me at my heels all night.

I've refused to face anyone. I did that at the funeral. Why should I be forced to converse now?

This is all backwards.

"I really want a cigarette," I state, randomly, my body yearning for something to take the edge off of today.

"You quit."

"I know."

She looks at me pointedly, peeling off aluminum foil from some of the dishes. "Grieve any other way you want, but I catch you with one of those nasty things and I'll smack it right out of your hand." She grabs one of the dishes carefully. "You sure you want me to put everything out?"

"Yeah."

"And you'll come out...right?"

I nod, trying to remove any memories I have of my mother in this very room from my thoughts. "Yeah, in a minute."

"Okay."

I immediately head for the back entrance of the house, which is easy to get to from the kitchen undetected. There a stairs leading into a small fenced-in yard. It's overgrown, unlike the neatly trimmed front yard. There's an unfinished shed my father was in the process of building before he realized he wasn't staying. An unfinished garden my mother had set to do months ago, before her health severely declined to the need of confinement. Her weak immune system was no match for the world. I bend down with finality, picking up the bin of gardening tools and switch on the back porch light, so I'm able to see as I start down the steps in my heels and best black dress.

I settle into the dirt, hardly giving a shit about the mess.

I'm going to see this done.

I'm going to hide out here until everyone is gone.

I start pulling weeds that have been left unkempt, diving into the task at hand. I'm covered in earth when I hear a voice a few feet away and look up dizzily to find Aidan on the steps. There are two people behind him who I don't know.

He doesn't look surprised at all to be finding me like this. I slink back, and pull myself off the ground as he approaches me with them.

"I'm sorry," I say, glancing to the strangers. "I...I've been hiding out here. Sorry if I don't shake your hands." I hold up mine, just to show them how filthy I am.

The woman shakes her head, smiling. It's a sad, stunned kind of smile, one that unsettles me instantly.

"Josephine," Aidan says, gesturing to the couple. "This is Victoria, and Buddy. They live on the grounds of the manor. Bud is my groundskeeper, Victoria my housekeeper."

"Oh, it's nice to meet you," I say, flushing when it hits me that this isn't the first time we've met most likely. It's probably why this woman is staring at me like I'm an apparition here before her.

"We're very sorry for your loss, Josephine," Buddy says, smiling softly. "We just wanted to come by and share our condolences before heading out."

"Thank you...so much for coming."

"It was a lovely service," she cuts in, her mouth trembling.

"Despite the rain?" I ask, gathering as much amusement as I can, praying this woman will keep from crying. She nods, flashing an uncertain smile.

"Yes. Are you going to be all right here? You could always—"

Aidan's eyes flash to Buddy, who grabs his wife's hand. He quickly cuts in.

"We hope to see you again, Josephine." He glances down at Victoria and then to Aidan. "We're going to get a head start. We'll see you back at the manor."

"All right."

"Thank you for coming again," I say, oddly feeling the urge to hug them. I hold back though, not sure how of well we knew one another. The woman, Victoria, walks up to me and clasps my cheek, to my shock.

"Take care of yourself, you hear?"

I nod, immediately, still shell shocked when their backs are to me, heading back inside to the dreary party. The moment they are out of sight, my eyes flicker to Aidan, who is standing, his hands behind his back, calmly.

"I'm guessing Samantha called you."

"Yes, she did."

"I can imagine how mad you are...that I didn't call when she got sick...when she died."

He shakes his head, completely understanding. Effortlessly understanding. "You forget I know what grief feels like."

I swallow, looking down, shifting off each foot uncomfortably. "Is this the worst of it?"

"Tomorrow will be worse."

"Why?"

"Because there's nothing left to plan. No dress to pick out, no flowers to order. She's buried, and you must find a way to move on."

"Did you? Is that how to was for you?"

"For my parents, yes."

"And for Lily? Nora?"

"I didn't go to my daughters funeral, or my wifes. I couldn't bear to. Maybe if I had, things would have healed better, faster. I don't know."

I nod, wiping my hands awkwardly. "I...have been wondering how you've been, what you've been doing."

"I'm here and there. I've gone on a few trips, to decompress, to be on my own for a bit."

I walk to the stairs, taking a seat on the top step. "To where?"

He comes closer, leaning into the pillar. "Colorado, California, Montana. It felt good to be out there with my camera, no distractions."

"Your camera?" I smile, slowly. "You're taking pictures again?"

"For me, mostly."

"I bet they are beautiful."

"Thank you," he says, politely. It's only natural that we should be playing this touch and go game with each other, considering how we left things the last time we were in the same place.

"Are you leaving...now?" I ask him, wondering if my eyes are as wide as I think they are.

"I don't have to," he says, shrugging once nonchalantly. He gestures his chin toward the mess of dirt I made. "What were you doing here?"

"My mom started a garden...I wanted to finish it. It was stupid...mostly to get away, I guess."

"I can help you."

"Help me garden?"

He smiles, softly. "It can't be that hard."

"To be honest, I don't even know what I'm doing in the first place."

"Then we'll fuck it up together."

I laugh, tiredly, allowing him to help me up onto my feet. I gesture to his expensive-looking suit, grimacing.

"I don't know if you wanna get down on the floor in that."

"I won't cry over a dirty suit, Jo." He lowers down onto his knees, and I follow, pointing out the tools I can remember the purpose for. I'm not sure how long we remain out there, working. We pull up the dirt. I find fertilizer and seeds she planned to use, and we do the best job we can, which all in all comes out pretty damn good.

"Forget me not's are honestly the prettiest flowers. They'll look good here, I think," I say when the work is done, and we're both just sitting on the damp grass. He's probably miserable, but like the gentleman he's always been, he remains quiet, allowing me to form conversation when I can.

He catches my staring, without reacting in any particular way. The artificial light from the porch that hasn't been changed in probably five years flickers, attracting the gullible insects with its alluring heat. The night is a humid one. Heavy clouds hang low over our heads, blocking any stars from view. It's been months, months since we've been in the same space.

Last we were this close, we smelled of each other, a fragrant combination of sex, his body wash and my shampoo. We spoke to each other then like lovers, whereas here, only distant friends, lost from touch.

It's clear to me why I repelled myself from the thought of him. His proximity makes me much like those insects overhead, rushing to temptation. In an act of bravery and stupidity alike, I reach out, arm crossing the small space between us. His cool-faced stare falters at the soft graze my fingers make on his skin, gliding along the faded scar below his eye, which extends lightly to his cheek.

The man that's spent the majority of the day at a distance, watching his words, watching his eyes, recognizes unfamiliar territory.

"I saw you earlier...at the funeral," I whisper to him, secluded away from everyone and everything. "When you didn't come up, I thought maybe I just imagined you."

"Do you do that often?"

He smells so different, and yet it's familiar. Almost like burnt wood, although there's no fire nearby. Traces of his cologne seep through as well, and I can't stop inhaling, wanting more. "Do what?"

"Imagine me."

The door to the porch slamming makes the both of us flinch, the abruptness tearing us out of any intimacy. Samantha is on the edge of the steps and sighs with relief at the sight of me before taking in the full picture.

Aidan and I, sitting on the ground, filthy and only inches apart.

"We were gardening..." I say quickly, surging to my feet, smoothing out my dress. She nods, clearly suspicious. She nods to Aidan.

"Good to see you, Aidan."

"You too, Sam." He chuckles, just as uncomfortable as I am. When she informs me that people are insisting to check on me before they leave, that I need to get inside, I'm only too glad to oblige. She holds the door open for me, but at the last step, I turn to him at the stilt.

"You'll...wait?"

Standing beside our creation, he nods, failing to hide his shock at my insistence. Before performing my duties as the grieving daughter, I wash off as much of the evidence of my tasks outside before greeting them. My dress is still filthy, but I get away with it.

Samantha's family shuffle out of the house, restless after a day surrounded by mourners. She's hovering in the doorway neurotically, unable to walk out.

"Sam, I'm fine," I say behind her. "I'll be okay."

"Are you sure? I could stay the night. You shouldn't have to clean any of this up."

"It will give me something to do. Go home. It's been a long day."

She wraps her arms around me, exhaling roughly. "You'll call me tomorrow? I can come by in the morning, help you clean."

"I'll call."

Leaning into the doorway, I watch the last of the cars pull out of the driveway, their headlights flashing as they start down the main street. My eyes hover on the swing set with a life of its own before turning, closing the door. I pass through the hall of memories, adorned with photographs, articles, awards, on a search for the last guest remaining.

I find him in the kitchen. His jacket is rested on one of the kitchen chairs, his back facing me while he stands over the sink. A soft sigh escapes me watching him scrub the dishes, toweling them off afterwards. Rather than make my presence known, I slot a few seconds to appreciate him like this, in my mother's kitchen, cleaning her fine china plates, doing this in order to relieve some of the load from me.

"You don't have to do that," I say, when my staring borders on invasive. He peeks over his shoulder and smiles.

"Just gather them and I can wash."

Unable to tell him to stop, despite how odd it is to see him doing something like this, I push through my disbelief and scour the house for garbage and leftover plates, Tupperware. I resort back to the sink, dropping them off like loads until there's nothing left in the adjoining rooms.

I walk up beside him, pulling the dish towel from his shoulder with a telling smile.

"I thought I'd be a complete mess tonight," I admit, drying off the dish he hands to me. "So, thank you."

"Anything I can do to help."

"I...feel like I deprived you a chance to say goodbye to her."

He faces forward, but purses his lips, shaking his head. "No. Virginia knew me more than most do. I was very candid with her, like I was with you."

"Well, she must have loved you then," I joke, carefully putting away the clean dishes into cabinets.

"It comforts me to think she did." He smirks, looking down with a weak chuckle. "When Samantha told me she'd passed, I remember just sitting back, remembering the same moment over and over again."

"What was it?" I ask, almost desperately.

"It was your birthday. Infuriating as you always are," he regards me plainly, "you hadn't told me. Samantha didn't really like me at this time, but she was throwing a party and felt she had making up to do." When I give him a quizzical look, he clarifies. "You were fighting around this time."

"Because?"

"Because she was cautious of me, and you weren't." Sounds like me. I blush, letting him continue.  "I flew in from California, after seeing Mel, Nora's father."

Hearing that man's name, I can't help but relive when he was in this very room only a week ago, pleading for me to give Aidan Hughes a chance.

"I picked up your mother. She was ecstatic because at this point, going out in public was tough, but I didn't want her to miss the occasion...or you."

A gut-punch to my stomach, I hold my breath. At least we got that...of course he was the one to do that for me.

"She was so on top of everything that night, though. More present than I'd ever seen her. She spent the entire car ride talking about you, praising you. It was as if she was compelled to get it out as fast as she could...she wanted someone else to remember it."

I wipe the plates harder, hoping I can continue to cling to the detached person I've fashioned to make it through today. The woman who hasn't shed a tear. The person who can speak of her mother with fondness and not regret.

But his words, his stories make it increasingly hard. He's telling them to me to make an impact, that much is certain. Talk about her. I know that's what he's saying in his head. He tells short, clipped versions of stories I can picture, memories that only surface when spoken aloud, things I'd forgotten.

I see a pleasant childhood I've placed a cloak over, deeming it dark.

I see my own stubbornness, wasted time. I see her alone here, while I left for college.

He's cautious, and completely aware of the way his words are affecting me. I can see it in his eyes, the way they linger on me. Feel, they say to me. Feel.

To feel like this is to grieve. To hurt.

And when it becomes too hard to pretend like I haven't lost a chunk of myself, a large chunk of a body I'm already a foreigner to, the chores become too hard to complete, my hands stilling on the ceramic plate. When my tears finally come, and surface against my eyelids, he's already been quiet for some time.

It's his hand, soft and caring that smoothes over the back of my head, over my hair, and his whisper that really tears me apart. "It's okay."

I drop the dish onto the counter and cover my face, sucking back the sobs, unwilling to unleash them. The tears are just falling, on a rampage of release. "Oh god."

"It's okay, Jo."

I spin into him, concealing my face with my hands as his arms surround me, a trapping comfort.

"I-I let her down."

"No, you didn't. Not even in the slightest." He rests his cheek against my hair. "She was so proud of you. She said it every chance she got, I promise you that."

He offers complete understanding, sympathy, knowing what it's like to be alone, to grieve in the highest form. He speaks when it's necessary, assuring me when I can hardly breathe through the guttural gasps and remains absolutely silent when I curse the world for taking her away from me like this.

And he can sense when I need to back off, when I can't stand to break down any further, unwinding his arms so I can step back up to the sink. Wiping my cheeks with the back of my hand, I exhale shakily and pick up the dish I'd dropped, forcing myself to finish drying it.

He turns the faucet on and just like that, we're back in position, as if I'd never lost it. I want to thank him for keeping up the pretenses, but can't seem to find sufficient words. I'm sure I look like a punching bag, a bloated, swollen mess of spotty red, so I hide my gaze, unable to meet his eyes.

"I'm embarrassed," I admit, shamefully with a woeful smile. "After the way we left things, what I did, I'm thankful you came at all, let alone, the fact that you've spent most of the night performing crazy tasks for me. And now I've gotten mascara on your shirt."

He smiles, softly. He opens his mouth, hesitating because nothing comes out. He shuts it again, and then decides to say it. "As hard as it was for me to leave, I do think we needed it...I think I needed it."

"Really?"

He nods. "I've gone over that damn night in my head, over and over again. And it took being away from you to realize my mistakes."

"You didn't make any mistakes, Aidan. None—"

"I did," he interjects, firmly, turning off the sink abruptly. His hand crosses over his face in a tick of nervousness, and I gear myself for whatever he's about to say, giving him my full attention. "I did."

I can hardly ask. "W-What mistake?"

He exhales, looking down to be able to say it. "I didn't tell you I'd love you anyway...with or without the memories."

Fuck.

Speechless, I gaze at him, wide-eyed.

"And I know...I know you are discovering yourself, and I know you have your own timeline for this—and I respect it—but I should have told you that was enough for me. Even if you never get the memories back, I will want you, and love you as much as I did when we met. They are fleeting and insignificant compared to being here, right here, with you."

I move the short distance of space between us, reaching up to clasp his face. He rests his forehead against mine and exhales. My fingers linger on his stubble, comforted to be like this with him. He's pouring his heart out to a mess of a girl, and its gallant as hell.

"We should finish cleaning this up," he whispers, softly to me. I nod, not ready to pull back yet. "It's getting late."

"Do you have to drive back?"

"Yes."

"You could stay. You could take one of the spare rooms," I say, pulling back to look at him.

"You're not going back to your apartment?"

"I can't leave here...not today. You said tomorrow will be harder...I want today to last as long as possible then."

"I have people coming to the house tomorrow about stock exchange. I have to be there." He caresses me softly, tracing the corners of my face. Before I can argue it, he speaks again. "I'll stay until you fall asleep."

                                                ***

My head has grown heavy on his shoulder, losing its strength to remain aware of my surroundings. We're sitting on the couch, having spoken over a bottle of old whiskey, a bottle I found covered in dust in one of the cabinets.

I have no idea what time it is.

I'm in pajamas, my legs draped over his knees.

"Tell me more about Montana," I urge deliriously, my weary eyelids unable to open anymore. His soft chuckle vibrates throughout his torso, and through me.

"I think we should save it for later. You're exhausted."

"Will there be a later?" I mumble aloud.

"If you want there to be."

My nerves numbing for slumber begin to tingle after some time in silence, and I realize it's because he's caressing my face. I'm stiff, clearly coming in and out of consciousness, but my chin moves with him instinctively, adoring the silent praise, relishing his gaze.

"Go to sleep, Jo," he whispers, close to me. "I'm here."