Breakable

I was the more fearful one, because I knew she’d say no. I would prove to her that I could be trusted by leaving. I trailed one finger from her lips to her throat, down the centre of her chest, and waited for her no.

But she didn’t say it.

Her voice was little more than a sigh. ‘Okay.’

14

Landon

The first time I drove solo wasn’t what I’d ever dreamed it would be. I’d imagined cruising with Boyce on a Saturday night. Picking up some faceless girl to see a movie or get a burger. Grandpa sending me to the store to get milk.

Instead, I drove to the dock and caught the ferry that ran twenty-four/seven, as Grandpa and I had done many times – but I’d never been the one to steer the truck on to the ramp. I drove to the cemetery, blanking on bringing flowers and realizing when I arrived that I only had a vague notion where, exactly, he was buried. Seventy-two hours ago. That day had been a blur. It didn’t feel real.

I found my grandmother’s headstone and the mound of new dirt next to it.

A week ago, I was driving on a back road not far from here, with Grandpa in the passenger seat. He was telling me how he’d learned to drive at fourteen, when he quit school to work with his father and older brother. ‘I damn near stripped the gears offa that old Dodge afore I learned to manage it,’ he’d said, chuckling at the memory.

I tried to remember the last thing we said to each other, but I couldn’t. Probably something to do with dinner, or chores, or the weather.

Now that I was standing at the foot of that mound of dirt, I didn’t know what to do. Was I supposed to talk to him? Cry? He wasn’t there. He wouldn’t hear me. So these things seemed beyond pointless, unless I wanted to hear myself talk – and I didn’t.

The cemetery was dotted with a few lone visitors, like me, and one large funeral service gathering. Under a big tent housing a load of massive floral arrangements, people huddled, paying their respects while seated on padded folding chairs. Whoever died had been money. I glanced at the cars lining the road near the gathering, recognizing the insignias – Cadillac, Mercedes, Audi, even a Jag … and Clark Richards’s shiny white Jeep.

What the hell.

Scanning the mourners, I found him easily – on the front row. His dark blond hair was slicked back and he wore a black suit, white shirt and a dark red tie. Melody sat on his left, wearing black and leaning into him. His arm was hooked round her shoulder, his face impassive. Even with the distance, Melody’s miserable, crumpled posture was obvious. Her shoulders vibrated, and though I couldn’t see her face or her tears, I felt her grief like a punch to the gut.

Her older brother Evan was on her right. I recognized their mother, next to Evan. The man next to Mrs Dover was probably her husband. Immediate family accounted for, but they were all on the front row. They’d lost someone closely related.

I considered the dirt at my feet. Dust to dust. My throat tightened. ‘Goodbye, Grandpa. Thanks for the truck.’

Later that night, lying in bed, I texted Melody: Are you okay? I was at the cemetery and saw you today.

She texted right back: My grandmother died Friday. Her funeral was today. I hate my family. All they care about is her money.

That sucks, I said.

Thirty minutes passed before she texted back: I’m in the fort. I needed to come outside and stare at the stars. You can come over if you want.

K. I pushed send and grabbed my hoodie from the hook on the back of my door.

Dad squinted up from the table where he’d spread the business ledgers and stacks of files, noting the boots on my feet and the hoodie I pulled over my head. He said nothing, but I recognized the disappointment in his tensed jaw before I turned and walked out the front door. If he’d assumed my grandfather’s death was going to turn me into a model citizen, he didn’t know me at all.

There was almost no wind – weird for March. Warmer than it was earlier, too. When I ducked into the fort, I pulled the hoodie off, climbing the ladder and losing my breath at the sight of Melody, sitting against a wall, her lower half wrapped in a blanket, her upper half in a thin-strapped tank.

‘Hey,’ I said.

‘Hey.’ Her voice was scratchy, like an old recording. She’d cried a lot, and recently.

I sat next to her, close enough to touch, but not touching. I knew from experience what not to say – I’m sorry. Not because there was anything wrong or even insincere about the phrase, but because there was no good answer for it.

‘What was your grandma like?’ I asked instead.

Her mouth turned up at the corners, just barely. She rested the side of her face on her knees and looked at me. ‘She was feisty. Opinionated. My parents hated that. They didn’t think she was circumspect – that’s what they used to say to each other. She wasn’t dainty and discreet and easily hushed. They just wanted her to shut up, but no one could dictate to her because she held the purse strings.’

That didn’t sound like a woman who would have urged Melody to let a big brother or boyfriend boss her.

‘She had a ton of grandkids, but I was her favourite,’ she said. ‘She told me so.’

I mirrored her slight smile. ‘I was my grandfather’s only grandkid, so I guess I was his favourite by default.’

‘I’m sure you would have been his favourite even if he’d had a dozen grandkids,’ she said.

My heart squeezed. ‘Why do you think that?’

We were sitting in the dark, a foot apart. Every part of me wanted to be physically closer to her, and now she was tugging on my heart. ‘Well … you’re smart, and determined, and you care about people.’