• • •

The entire weekend, I felt as though time had been suspended. I was floating in midair, minutes slowly dragging by until suddenly Saturday was over and Sunday soon met the same fate. In the moment, I thought the days would never end when all I was doing was passing time, hanging out with Mom and Gray and Tad.

The only time I snapped out of my daze was when I realized I never finished my essay. I freaked out, my heart in my throat, until Gray went red and told me that he did it. He did my essay for me while I was with Kris on Friday and he handed it in on time, and he forgot to tell me until I was losing my mind about failing freshman year.

I don't know what I did to deserve that. I read the essay he wrote, using my notes and the first page I had written, and it was perfect. He said everything I had wanted to say – well, a lot more to be fair – and he strung it together in that magical way he can just make things right. I thought he had left us so he could go read, but he was writing that for me.

Of course, I cried when he said that, and when he showed me the submission receipt, and when I read the amazing essay that he somehow whipped out of his ass at the last minute. I felt terrible. I still do, five days later. It's been a weird five days. I'm in a daze, my head only screwed on tight when I'm driving. It was strange going to college on Monday like everything was normal, and it was strange to realize that everything is normal, really.

I mean, nothing has really changed. I just have the answer to a question I've been asking for two years. It's not like anything is about to change. It's just been odd, knowing that Kris is dealing with everything in New York, that when he comes back it'll be with what's left of Dad.

He's due to land this afternoon. Gray said we should just take the day off but I think I needed to be here. I didn't want to get in the car at the start of the week but the least I could do for him was make sure he didn't miss his date with Navya. While they had coffee, I went to the Theta Chi Theta house and told Liam everything, from the day Dad disappeared until the moment Kris left for New York.

I didn't cry. At least, not until he hugged me so tightly that I couldn't breathe for a second, and he looked so upset that I couldn't help but well up again. It was kind of exhausting, and cathartic. More good than bad. He cared. That was all that mattered.

I haven't seen him since then, two days ago. I was going to have coffee with him at lunch yesterday, when Gray and Navya had a second date, but I just didn't feel up to it. My head's kinda full right now, but I'm not sure how to empty it.

"Hey." Gray waves his hand right in front of my face, peering up at me. "You're, like, a million miles away," he says, stirring his iced coffee. We have one more class today, and I can't wait to get home. Kris will probably be back before us, which means as soon as I step through the door, I'll be closer to Dad than I have been since the day he disappeared.

It's a jarring realization but I'm starting to go numb. My emotions are totally spent. I give Gray a smile, but we both know my heart isn't in it. It's hard to focus on my drink and my classes when all I can think is that in a few hours, this will all be over. All the waiting and wondering and wishing. After wanting a proper goodbye for so long, I'm about to get it but I don't know how to feel about Dad's funeral.

"Wanna head back early?" Gray asks. He slurps his coffee. "I don't think anything bad will happen if we skip lit theory." He chuckles and adds, "I don't think anything good will happen if we don't skip it."

"No." I shake my head. "We've skipped a lot. We should go." I clasp my hands together and fill my lungs.

"How're you feeling?"

"Weird."

"I bet," he says. "This afternoon will be good, though." He laces his fingers and gives me a reassuring smile, one of his classic looks. I've seen it a lot recently. It really does work.

"Yeah."

"Closure, right?"

I nod. I kind of just want to collapse against him and soak in his positive energy, and he must read my thoughts because he comes to sit next to me on the sofa we snagged in Starbucks, and he wraps me up in the softest hug. Gray may be skinny and bony, but his hugs are like my mom's. Warm and comforting, like tugging on a sweater fresh from the dryer in winter.

I, on the other hand, am a total wet blanket. I can't stand myself at the moment.

"You're so close," Gray says, still holding me. Well, more like propping me up while I grip him like he's a life raft and the sofa is a choppy ocean. "Are you ready for this afternoon?"

"Yeah. Long overdue," I say, and I let go when he has given me enough of his strength to make it through the rest of the day. "I owe you one. A million times over."

"Friends don't keep count," he says, but then he pulls out a jotter and flips through blank pages. "Best friends, however, keep a detailed log of everything owed to them." He clicks his tongue, pretending to tally up everything he's done for me. That would be impossible when I owe him the world, but he just smiles and says, "I think we're already even. And even if we weren't, I kinda can't live without you."

"I can't live without you either," I say. "We need, like, a best friend marriage."

"I think that's just a marriage," he says with a shrug. "I wouldn't be opposed. I read a story about two best friends who got platonically married for tax purposes or something."

"Did they live happily ever after?"

"Of course." He grins. "I'd totally be down for a future platonic marriage, if you ever wanna put a ring on it," he says, wiggling his ring finger at me. I can't help but smile.

"I'll keep you in mind."

I feel better just talking to him. In more than four months of friendship, practically living out of each other's pockets – hardly an hour goes by that I don't see Gray, let alone a whole day – we have never fallen out. Nothing serious, anyway. Nothing more than a moment of grumpiness and an inevitable apology within a few minutes.

"Boyfriend alert," he says. I'm momentarily confused until I look up and see Liam. It's weird, calling him my boyfriend. Not bad weird. Just new. When he spots me and smiles, I smile back without having to think about it. My lips just know what to do.

"Hey," he says, his solitary word a hug to my ears.

Gray plants his hand on the arm of the sofa and stands, using my knee as leverage. "You know what, I think I probably need to use the bathroom," he says, nodding at Liam, who lets out a kind of laugh and nods back, like they're sharing a code.

Liam takes Gray's seat, sitting sideways to face me. "I know we weren't going to meet today," he says, "but I also know that today's your dad's funeral, so I just wanted to ... I don't know, check in, I guess."

I love him. I really love him. I should say that. But the words that come out are, "Thank you."

There's this stupid stubborn part of my brain that says I need to wait for him to say it first, as though it doesn't count if he only says it after I say it. If he says it at all. I'm not sure I could get over it if I told him I love him and he didn't say it back.

"How're you doing?" he asks, then he winces. "Sorry. That's probably a really stupid question."

"It's not." I shrug. "I'm ... I'm ok, I guess. A bit weird."

"I bet." He lets out a heavy sigh. "God, I don't know how you're so, well..." He gestures at me with his hand and looks me up and down. "I think I'd be a wreck, and my dad and I don't even get along." Another wince. "Sorry. That was really insensitive."

"It wasn't. It's fine," I say, and I give him a smile. "I've had a couple years to figure out how to be so, well..." I trail off, mimicking him. "This is just the final exam. I'm cramming."

He mirrors my smile and shifts closer. His hand is on my knee, then it's on my hand, then he's cupping my cheek and we're kissing. I may not have anyone to compare him to, but he's a good kisser. I enjoy kissing him, anyway. I love when he touches my cheek like that, when he presses his lips to mine so softly.

The stubborn side of my brain slips. I bite my lip and take the plunge. "Liam?"

"Mmm?"

It comes back. My words freeze. I can't say it. I want to. I can't. So I just shake my head and kiss him again, but he pulls back.

"What were you gonna say?"

Damn it.

"Storie?" He leans back, his eyes fixed on me. I can't resist him.

"I was going to say that I love you, but then I got scared that you wouldn't say it back and it'd be awkward and I'd dwell on it for years, so I decided not to risk it just in ca-"

"You're overthinking," he says, shutting me down with two words. But the way he says them, it doesn't feel like he's shutting me down. Just stopping me in my tracks before I spiral.

"My special talent," I say with a weak smile, trying to distract myself from the fact that I just told him, and he didn't say it back.

"I'm beginning to see that," he says. Which probably means he's regretting ever getting too close to me when I spend my life analyzing and overanalyzing and preparing myself for a thousand hypothetical situations.

"I guess you can see why I didn't say it then," I say. I feel so stupid, sitting here like some big pathetic lump with no control over her emotions.

"No," he says, "because you did say it."

I did. Indirectly, but still. It's too big. Just like me. I suddenly feel twice as big, my cheeks hot and my hands clammy. Liam leans forward like he's going to stand, but he keeps leaning and his cheek brushes mine, his lips almost touching my ear when he whispers it.

He doesn't say I love you too. He just says I love you. And he's holding my hands, even though my palms are too warm. When he kisses me, we fit together. When his hand rests on my waist, a roll of fat spilling over my jeans, I don't flinch and he doesn't pull away. He isn't repulsed by my body. He loves it, in a way I've never been able to. As though it's just a non-issue.

I could cry. Story of my life at the moment. I'm only ever a second away from tears at any given time, I swear, but I hold myself together and I don't let a single tear fall. Not even when Liam looks at me as though I'm an oasis in the desert.

• • •

Kris's car is in the driveway. I pull up next to it, my fingers white around the wheel I'm holding too tightly, as though that can control the way my hands are trembling. When I get out, Gray holds my hand and I know he won't let go until I want him to, but I don't want him to. His palm is warm and soft, calmness radiating from his touch.

Kris and Tad are in the kitchen, the two of them leaning against the counter with a mug of coffee each as though they're old friends, as though today is totally normal, but my eyes go straight to the table. Usually there's a vase of flowers in the middle. Today there's a plain wooden box.

Dad.

I squeeze Gray's hand. He squeezes tighter. Kris puts down his coffee and wraps his arms around me, and I feel at home in his hug. He smells like Mom's shampoo. It's comforting.

"Hey," he says. Tad and Gray head outside to catch up on the day and give us some space.

"Hey."

"How was college?" he asks. "Weird day, I bet."

"Weird day." I nod. "Where's Mom?"

"She's just resting upstairs," he says. I know what that means.

"Did she faint?"

Kris nods. "She's ok, though. I was here. She's not hurt. She just wanted to have a rest before you got back."

"How long's she been napping?" I ask when I let go of Kris. I need to focus on Mom upstairs. It's easier than focusing on Dad in the box. The tiny box. I didn't think the box would be so small. It makes me feel queasy. It's not right.

"About an hour," Kris says, pulling my attention away from the box. An hour is as long as Mom likes to sleep after an episode so I head upstairs and quietly push open her bedroom door.

She's asleep on her side, her hair splayed out over her pillow, and she looks so peaceful that I don't want to disturb her. It's not often that Mom looks so peaceful. I gingerly perch on the edge of her bed but she doesn't stir. Her eyelids don't even flutter. She's out cold.

"Hey, Mom."

She doesn't wake up. I put my hand on her arm. Her skin is cool. Air conditioning is her favourite – and pretty much only – luxury, the house never warmer than sixty-five even if it's a hundred outside. I squeeze her arm. When it does nothing to rouse her, I squeeze a little tighter.

Dread curls itself around my throat, my mouth dry and my head simultaneously a lead weight and a helium balloon. "Mom?"

Nothing.

My hand flies to her neck when she doesn't respond, my fingers finding the spot where I know her pulse is strongest. But I can't find it. I go cold, a clammy sweat coming over me, and a couple of painful seconds of paralysis pass before I can scream for Kris.

My voice comes out as a strangled cry, a pathetic wail, but it's enough to wake Mom. She shifts over, frowning up at me, and my sinking heart soars. I drop down, almost suffocating her when I grip her in as tight a hug as I can manage. She hugs me back, but she looks confused when I let go. She leans back on her elbows, squinting up at me.

"Storie? Are you ok?" She rubs her eyes and sits up, tucking her hair behind her ears. I don't want to say it out loud. It sounds so stupid now. I just panicked. But her eyes are imploring me for an answer.

I feel so pathetic when I mumble, "I thought you were dead."

Mom's eyes widen. Her cheeks lose a little of their color. Then her expression softens and she smiles. "I'm ok, honey," she says. "I'm fine. I was just sleeping. Heavily, I suppose."

"Mmm."

"Sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."

"You were cold," I say, and she nods at the air conditioning unit in her window. "I couldn't find your pulse."

She tucks her fingers into the soft skin between her jaw and her neck. "It's there," she says. "I'm here."

Kris tumbles into the room, almost tripping over the curl in the carpet that Mom and I are used to. "What's going on?"

"I thought Mom died," I say, and now I hear how stupid it sounds. She's sitting right here, sleepy but smiling. "False alarm."

"Jesus, Storie." Kris's shoulders sink. "You scared me."

"You have a really slow response time," I say.

"I was talking to Tad," he says. He looks at Mom when he asks, "Are you ready?"

She nods and stands, but her words don't match when she says, "I just need to change."

She's not ready. I'm not sure I am either. Because being ready means saying goodbye to Dad for the last time. It means standing outside in the last of the September sun, holding myself together for long enough to give Dad a fraction of the funeral he deserves.

I change too, into the yellow dress I know Mom loves. Dad would have loved it too: he loved anything bright. His eyes always lit up whenever Mom bought a colorful skirt and modelled it for him. Maybe he just loved Mom modelling for him. He just loved Mom.

Fifteen minutes later, the five of us are standing at the end of the garden. If it wasn't for the trees in the back yard, there wouldn't really be a distinct end to our property. There are no fences, no gates, nothing to separate our land from Tad's or the field that stretches past our trees.

There's a gap in the tree line. I don't know if it was intentional or if there used to be a tree there, but there isn't one now. There will be soon. Kris has a spade in one hand, the other hand on Mom's shoulder. She's holding Dad's box and Tad's hand. Gray and I are opposite them, the five of us forming something of a circle around the hole in the ground.

This was Gray's idea. On Saturday, Mom broke down when she realized she didn't know what to do with Dad. She got herself into a spiral, panicking that she would never find somewhere to spread his ashes or she would spill him on the carpet. I didn't know what to say but Gray, incredible Gray, saved the day.

We're not going to randomly throw Dad's ashes in a state that meant nothing to him. We're not going to trek back to Queens to leave him where we left him for too long. We're not going to leave him on the mantelpiece.

No. We're going to plant a tree.

An oak tree.

Gray found a biodegradable urn online that grows into an oak tree. All we have to do is add Dad's ashes and plant the urn, and in time, he'll be Five Oaks's fifth oak. I know he'd love that. It would have cracked him up that there were only four. If he was here, he would have planted a tree himself. I just know he would.

Now he can be the tree. He'll always be here. Even if – when – Mom and I move on, he'll be our legacy. He may never have been to Five Oaks, but that doesn't mean he can't make his mark.

Kris is careful when he moves Dad's ashes from the box to the urn. Thank God there's no wind. I'm not sure I could take it if a sudden gust covered me in the dust. It turns my stomach, watching Kris transfer the ashes, but I can't look away. I grip Mom's hand, my nails almost breaking her skin. Gray's arm is looped through mine.

When the urn is in the ground, the soil perfect for the tree to spread its roots, Mom says a few words. She stands with her hands clasped in front of herself, a nostalgic smile on her lips when she recollects meeting Dad and falling love with him. There's beauty in the simplicity of her speech. I feel like I'm intruding on a private moment, as though I'm listening to her sharing secrets with Dad.

But there are no secrets. Just love. And loss.

Kris talks next. He doesn't keep it together as well as Mom did, his voice hitching a minute into his speech. His hand is warm when he slips into mine, his other dusted with dirt when he sprinkles a handful of soil over the urn.

I didn't plan anything to say. I didn't want to overthink it. I figured I'd know what to say in the moment, but everything feels too small, too insignificant. Kris stands behind me, his arms wrapped around my shoulders, and I curl my hands around his, holding him in place.

"I miss you," I say. That's not insignificant. It's a painfully huge part of the past two years. "I love you, Dad. I'll always love you."

There's nothing else I can say. There's nothing else I want to say, so I slink out of Kris's grip and duck down to tip my share of earth over the white urn.

Kris does the honors, filling in the shallow grave and patting down the turned earth with the back of the spade. That's it. Over. Done.

An intense wave of ... something, I don't know what, washes over me. My knees feel weak. My brain feels weak. I sink against Mom, the two of us propping each other up, until an unexpected peace seeps into my mind, spreading to my limbs.

This is it. This is the moment that I'll think about when I remember moving on. Moving forward, at least. Never again will I wonder where Dad is. I know he's right there, in the back yard. And when that tree grows, slowly reaching for the sky, I'll know he's watching over us.

• • •