Harder (Caroline & West #2)(16)

West is allowed to stand, and he gives his statement in the parking lot out of my earshot.

An officer comes over to talk to me. I tell him what I know. It takes longer than I thought it would, and by the time I’m finished West is nowhere in sight.

The lot is nearly empty.

The funeral director appears at my elbow. “If you’ll come inside, miss.”

I can’t think of any reason not to follow him. My feet operate on their own set of instructions. My face feels stiff. I think I might be a little shocky.

He shows me into the viewing room, where a small group stands in front of the coffin—West, Joan, Frankie, the Tomlinsons. All that’s left of the mourners, I guess, because as soon as he deposits me next to West, he takes a place at a lectern beside the coffin.

“What’s going on?” I ask West.

“Funeral.”

“Now?”

He finds my hand, squeezes it once hard, and lets go.

It soon becomes clear that whatever program was planned has been tossed out the window. We’re treated to a short, generic speech, and then we’re all asked to step out into the other side of the room behind a fabric-covered panel while they close the coffin.

The Tomlinsons hold an angry-whisper conference in the corner. If I had to guess, I’d say Dr. T wants to leave and his wife is refusing.

I can’t imagine why she would want to stay.

Frankie is folded in a chair, her arms wrapped around her knees. West sits beside her. He’s missing from his face, all the anger wiped away and replaced with the impassive blank nothingness I remember from when he was at Putnam and we were both denying how we felt about each other.

I don’t want anything from anyone that expression says.

It makes me want to give him the world on a plate. Give him absolutely everything he could ever desire.

It makes me want to apologize for his lot in life and for the differences between his world and mine, because West is amazing, and his life sucks.

His life is always going to suck if he stays here, in his mother’s orbit, and assigns himself the job of keeping order.

There isn’t anything I can do about it.

After a while, the panels roll open. The coffin is wheeled outside on a sort of pallet. We watch them load it into the hearse to drive it uphill to the cemetery, which is just behind the funeral home.

At the graveside, West remains impassive until we’re invited to throw flowers or earth on the coffin. Then he steps out of the circle of mourners to where a shovel leans against a nearby utility truck, grabs it, and digs into the pile of dirt at the head of the grave. Tossing in one shovelful after another until the earth stops sliding off the domed lid and starts to accumulate.

This is not, obviously, what the funeral director had in mind, but no one seems inclined to put a stop to it. Joan leads Frankie back inside. Mrs. Tomlinson follows. Dr. Tomlinson didn’t show up at the grave at all.

West and I remain, along with the funeral director, who’s giving me a pleading look.

I shrug.

West shovels. His eyes are fevered, his cheeks pink.

The funeral director returns to the building.

I start to wonder how long it takes to fill a grave. I can’t imagine leaving him here alone.

Spotting a second shovel in the back of the truck, I retrieve it and carry it to the dirt pile. West’s gaze locks with mine.

We stare at each other.

There’s no tenderness in it. It’s a clash of wills.

It’s him saying, Stay the f*ck out of this, and me saying, Make me.

It’s him snapping, I don’t want you here. You don’t belong in Silt. I don’t need you.

It’s me shouting, You don’t f*cking know what you need. Stop being so stubborn. Take what I’m trying to give you. Take it.

What I want to do is drop the shovel and walk over to where he is. To slip my arms around him, press myself against him, flatten my breasts into his chest, kiss him until he has no choice but to kiss me back—to kiss me the way he used to, sparks striking into a burn so fast and hot that sometimes we couldn’t get our clothes off quick enough, couldn’t manage to do more than unzip jeans and shove underwear out of the way just far enough to join our bodies together.

It’s unbelievable how badly I want that back. How urgently I wish we could get lost in each other, find joy again.

I understand, though, that it’s not what he wants from me.

I take off my heels, sink the blade into the soil, move it through the air until it hovers over the gleaming black surface of the box West’s father will rot in.

The thump of earth landing on steel gives me a cheap satisfaction.

I’m awkward with the shovel, losing more dirt than I get in, dropping some of it on my feet, where it gets between my toes, moist and muddy. Within a few minutes, my back starts to hurt. Then my hands.

West moves fluidly, his body graceful in action. The blade of his shovel sings.

Still, it takes a long time. I get blisters.

I don’t stop.

The sun drops toward the horizon.

When we finish, he takes my shovel and returns them both to the truck. He stands beside the grave, hands loose and empty.

He looks like a boy—so much like a boy that I understand viscerally that he was as young as Frankie once. He was a kid who wanted a father and got nothing but disappointment. A boy who got punched, kicked, abandoned, and then told to stop holding on to the past. To let it go.