“Go.” Julian patted my hand on his shoulder. “It’s him you came for.”
I approached Chase. Put my hand on his corded back. My heart coiling in my chest. Looping. Twisting. Begging. Let me out. I’d never been so scared to talk to someone. I didn’t know if I could survive his pain.
“Chase.”
He turned around, collapsing into my arms. I stumbled back from the impact but wrapped myself around him like a vise. Every inch of us was connected, pressed together. Like we were plugged in, me the charger, him sucking energy from me. His face was a wreck of emotions I’d never seen before. There was so much vulnerability there it felt like being slashed open by a sharp knife. I gathered his face and pulled him away so I could look him in the eye. Tears ran down my face so freely I was scared for my own sanity. I adored Ronan, but I didn’t know him enough for his death to inspire such a reaction. All I knew was that he’d left a family who truly worshipped him. That meant he was a person worthy of my tears.
“I’m going to take you home now,” I whispered.
He shook his head. “There’s so much to do.”
“No,” Katie and Lori said in unison, standing up.
“There isn’t. It’s all bureaucracy now. We’ll meet in a few hours and regroup,” Lori insisted. “I want to take a shower. I want to get myself together. I need to tell my sisters.”
The cab drive to Chase’s place was quiet. We held hands in the back seat, watching New York crawl past the window. When we got to his apartment, I poured him a generous glass of whiskey and curled his fingers around it. I sat him down on the U-shaped kitchen island, then headed into his bathroom and turned the shower on. Steam covered the glass doors of the five-jet spray heads. I threw a towel on the heater, returned to the kitchen, tipped the glass with the remainder of the whiskey to his lips, and had him finish it in one gulp. Then I dragged him into the shower. “Call me if you need me.”
“I’m not an invalid,” he said, surly, then took a ragged breath. “Fuck. Sorry. Thanks.”
I fixed him something hearty while he took a shower. I wasn’t much of a cook but knew he needed actual comfort food, not some fancy takeout. You could tell his fridge had been stocked by someone else who knew he was a bachelor who didn’t frequent the kitchen. I settled for beef chili with mushrooms, eggplants, and a pumpkin I found in an untouched Organic Living basket someone must’ve gifted him that sat lonely on the counter.
I read the recipe closely on my phone while swirling a wooden spoon inside the steaming pot of chili. The only ingredient missing from the chili was paprika. I opened Chase’s pantry to see if he accidentally kept any spices. Stopped. Put my hand to my heart, letting the phone slip through my fingers and fall onto the floor.
The azaleas were there, tucked in the darkness of the pantry, which now contained nothing but three humidifiers turned on heat. The azaleas were in full bloom, bursting with colors through the darkness. White-rimmed petals, their insides bright pink, staring back at me. I took a step in and carefully tipped the plant up, seeing the secret Sharpie mark I’d made there to make sure it was the same plant.
It was.
Dark, humid, hot spaces. That’s where the azaleas thrive best, I’d told him that day.
He’d remembered.
He hadn’t thrown them away or let them die. He’d nurtured them.
I closed the door, stumbling back, struggling to breathe. My lungs felt ten times too small for the rest of my body. He’d done the impossible. He’d kept the flowers alive for many weeks, clearing out his entire pantry and taking care of the flowers daily.
Chase was ready for commitment. I knew that with every fiber of my heart. But I also knew that he was grieving and confused and not in the right headspace right now.
“Hey.” I heard his voice behind me. I jumped, turning around.
“Oh. Hi.”
“Are you making something?” He looked exhausted, rubbing a towel into his unruly hair.
“Yeah. Chili. You hungry?”
“Sure, if it’s not burnt.”
That was when I realized the chili was, in fact, in advanced stages of burning. By the time I reached the stove, a black crust of charred beans covered the pot.
Chase poked his head behind my shoulder, peering into the singed mess.
“Pizza?” I sighed.
He nodded, his chin touching my shoulder blade. “With pepperoni and artichoke hearts. Just like Dad liked.”
CHASE
Five days later, we buried Dad.
Mom had aimed for three days, but we had relatives coming from Scotland, Virginia, and California, and they all had different schedules and flights to consider. Madison had been there every step of the way, just as she’d promised. She’d gone casket shopping with Mom, had personally taken care of the flower arrangements for the funeral, and had been a great help accepting visitors into Mom’s house and signing condolences deliveries.
Ronan Black’s casket lowered to the gaping mouth of the earth on a gray fall day. The funeral itself had been a grand event of over a thousand people, but we’d asked that for the burial ceremony, it would be close family only. Mad had her small, warm hand tucked in mine the entire time. It was crazy I couldn’t kiss her whenever I wanted to. Bury myself inside her whenever life felt too unbearable. The days after the funeral stuck together like pages in an unread book.
People brought food to our house, as if anyone had an appetite, and when shit got too real, when I couldn’t muster another polite smile, Mad took over and entertained the guests for us. I doubted she had much sleep during those days. She kept working—half from home, half from the office—and was there for us until the late hours of the night.
A week after the funeral, all of us sat together and read the will as a family. Madison had insisted on not taking part in this. Called it “the clinical side of death, the one I’m not comfortable with.” We all respected that, although we thought of her as an undesignated part of the family by then. Which—I was the first to admit—was another level of fucked up. We met at Mom’s. The housekeeper served us cranachan parfait, Dad’s favorite Scottish dessert. We consumed it while sipping the barely bearable Ogilvy potato vodka, the way he liked.
Katie was the one reading the will. She was the only sibling out of us three who didn’t seem hell bent on killing someone if she didn’t get what she wanted out of it, so it seemed fair.
“Mom is getting the estates, twenty-five percent of Black & Co.’s shares, and all the family jewels.” Katie looked up from the paper and squeezed Mom’s hand.
“Shit, I only came here for the Tiffany necklace. Well, that was fast,” Julian said, pretending to stand up from his seat. Mom slapped his thigh and guided him back down. They shared a tired chuckle. I appreciated that Julian reintroduced sarcasm into our daily post-Dad routine, but I wasn’t in the mood for laughs. Katie’s eyes returned to the page. The paper quivered like a leaf in her hand. She cupped her mouth, her eyes glittering with unshed tears.
“I inherited all the vintage gowns Black & Co. owns that were made or used by fashion icons. Fifteen percent of the company shares. And the loft!” But I knew what was making her cry. The dresses. They meant the most to her. We had a Black & Co. museum uptown, containing famous historical dresses she loved. As a kid, she’d visited there almost monthly. I wondered if Mad had ever been. I wondered if I could take her. I wondered if she would let me.