If Blake could just wrap his arms around me, even if only for a second, I knew I would feel better. It wouldn’t fix anything, wouldn’t heal the ache that seemed to stretch deeper every day, and it certainly wouldn’t bring my father back. But at least it would remind me that I wasn’t entirely alone in this.

“Blake,” I whispered in agony.

He didn’t respond. He didn’t even look at me. He just stood there, staring at the coffin as if he wished it would disappear.

I forced back the tears that threatened to spill, my chest tightening with the effort, and tried again, my voice trembling. “Why won’t you talk to me?” My voice broke. “It hurts so much.”

For years, I’d been convinced that love could fix what was broken. But now, I stood at my father’s grave, begging the boy I loved to look at me, and nothing was fixed. Nothing was healing. Love wasn’t enough.

One moment, love felt like the answer to every question, the cure for every wound, the force that made anything possible.

And the next, you found yourself desperately trying to use it as a remedy for things that cannot be healed, as glue for things too shattered to mend.

Blake shook his head slowly, his eyes never leaving the coffin. “Everyone I love always leaves me.”

My heart clenched in response. “Blake,” I choked out.

“I just need to be alone, Beverly.”

“No, you don’t,” I said quickly. Desperately. “Being alone is the worst thing for you right now. Let me be⁠—”

He turned to me abruptly, and when I saw the raw, unfiltered grief in his eyes, it nearly knocked the breath out of me.

“You don’t understand, do you? This was my fault. If I hadn’t been so selfish, we wouldn’t be standing here now.”

I shook my head before the words could even fully register. “No,” I said instantly. “No, Blake. None of this was your fault.”

His eyes flickered back to the coffin, distant and lost. “He would still be here if I hadn’t taken him to that restaurant,” he whispered, his voice thick with regret. “I could have had a day out with him any other time, but I was too damn impatient, wanting everything now. And now look what I’ve done.”

I took his hand in both of mine and squeezed, silently begging him to hear me. “This wasn’t your fault. You didn’t do this. We can’t change what happened, but we can choose what we do now. We need to stick together. That’s what Dad would have wanted.”

His gaze dropped to our joined hands, and his expression hardened before he pulled his hand away. “No, Beverly,” he said, his voice hollow and drained of the usual warmth I was used to. “That’s not what he would have wanted.”