Easton doesn’t say anything. He pulls me into his arms and buries his face into my neck. His body trembles slightly. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers, his voice thick.

I stroke down his back over and over, and when he finally pulls away, the tears I heard in his voice are streaming down his cheeks.

“Easton,” Mom says, grabbing his forearm. “Thank you so much for coming.”

Easton’s gaze stays glued to me for a long beat before he finally turns to her. “Your husband was an incredible man. I’m so grateful he was part of my life.”

“Come on,” Jake says, taking my hand. “Let’s go back to the house and get something to eat.”

I swallow and give one last look to Easton, like I’m drowning and he’s my life raft. Mom’s taken him over to the casket and is telling him the story about when she bought Dad the suit he’s wearing. He thought it was too expensive and a waste of money, but Mom insisted that with his build, he needed something custom-fitted to him. Dad declared that at the price they paid, the damn thing better fit him till the day he died and make him look as handsome as George Clooney when he was laid to rest.

Jake tugs my hand. “Mom will be okay,” he says. “Unless you needed to talk to Easton again?”

What is there to talk about, really? Do I want to use my father’s funeral as the opportunity to confess that part of me has always waited for him? That I’d probably wait for him forever? “No. Let’s go.”

Easton came to the house, and it was like old times. There was so much laughter and food and reminiscing that it felt more like another holiday than a wake. That’s just how Dad would want it, but I kept catching myself waiting for my father to walk into the kitchen.

It’s strange how our brains work, because the dad I had for the past few years was sick more often than not. Thin and weak. Bald. But when I imagine him walking into the kitchen, I imagine the tall and strong father from my childhood. The pre-cancer dad. Even at the end, the reality of his condition only hit me in blips. Most of the time my brain didn’t process the changes. Couldn’t.