I didn’t expect to see her right away.
Honestly, I thought I’d hover near the back, pay my respects, and disappear before anyone noticed. Wakes and funerals are supposed to be anonymous that way—quick grief. Polite condolences. Optional eye contact.
But the second I step inside the church, my eyes go straight to her.
Jenna.
You’d think seven years would be enough time to grow some scar tissue. That the distance would have provided me with enough space to build the necessary armor, or at the very least, develop some good old-fashioned numbness. But nope. One look at her, and something ancient cracks open inside me like it’s been waiting.
She’s surrounded by people—family, mourners, and some guy I don’t know and instantly dislike on principle. Still, it’s like she’s the only thing in the room that isn’t moving. Everyone else shifts, whispers, reaches for tissues. She stands there quietly. Composed. A little too composed if you ask me. That kind of calm usually means something’s about to snap.
Her hair’s darker now. Longer. Pulled back into something sleek and professional. But it’s still her. Same eyes. Same stance, like she’s holding up the ceiling with her spine.
She’s more beautiful than I remember. And more unreachable.
I move down the receiving line. The casket comes into view.
And there he is. Frank. He’s really gone.
I feel a sting behind my eyes, but I bite it back. Hard. Sinking to my knees, I tilt my head low and let the silence hold all the words I want to say: Thank you. You were the best man I knew. I miss you. I miss her.
I stay longer than I should. But what’s the etiquette for saying goodbye to the man who taught you how to be one?
His absence drapes across the room like a heavy, invisible curtain. I pull myself together and stand.
Rising to my feet feels like preparing for a storm.
I turn to find Jenna’s mom waiting, a fragile smile worn on her face. She is looking at me like I’ve just returned from war.
For a second, I forget to breathe.
“Lisa,” I manage, my voice hoarse and a little too breathy.
“Alex,” she whispers back. Her tone is warm and painfully familiar. I hug her gently, murmur something standard and insufficient, then pull back.
She lifts a trembling hand to my cheek. “Thank you, sweetheart. You don’t know how happy I am to see you.”
I take her hand in mine, squeeze once, then continue down the line.
Tommy stands next to his mother. He’s older, now, broader, and slightly more tired. He and I never talked much when I was with Jenna. He was younger, quieter — more interested in guitar riffs, X-box, and avoiding eye contact. But we respected each other, in that unspoken way that guys sometimes do.
We shake hands and hold it for a second.
Something passes between us; empathy, maybe. Understanding. Like we’re just two men acknowledging that we both lost something we weren’t done needing, yet. We linger in the haze of that awareness for a moment, letting it fully sink in.
Then, slowly, I turn.
Jenna.
She shifts to face me, and my mind goes completely blank. So much for the elegant, composed greeting I practiced in the car.
“Jenna,” I manage.
Her name tastes like memory.
“Hi,” she says, soft and strained.
Her voice is different. Controlled. But there’s a crack underneath it, like glass under stress—still whole, but not for long.
God, I want to hold her. Pull her into me. Tell her everything I've been holding in for seven years, as if that could fix everything.
No. Bad idea. Probably frowned upon at funerals. Especially in front of her… whoever he is.
We look at each other, and for just a moment, no one else exists.
Then he clears his throat.
The man beside her — tall, tidy, haircut with ambition — extends his hand. “Hey, man. I’m David. Jenna’s…”
“Alex,” I cut in before he can slap a title on it. I shake his hand once. Firm, brief. Politely territorial.
Jenna’s eyes flick between us. Is she… nervous?
David, or whatever, gives me a small, friendly smile — the kind of smile men give each other when one of them definitely has the upper hand.
I don’t want to hate him. Really. But I’m not a saint, and the only thing worse than a new boyfriend is a nice new boyfriend.
I try not to picture him knowing her in all the ways I used to. The way her voice sounds at 2 a.m., half-asleep and raspy. How her eyes look when she begs: hooded, haunting, compelling. That exact spot on her neck that's like a button, making her shiver whenever it's pressed. I can't help but wonder if she still wears the same hoodie to bed and reads when she can’t sleep, or if she’s traded cotton for silk and books for podcasts.
The thought of him knowing her in ways that I don’t is enough to make my hands shake. I shove them in my pockets.
“Jenna, I…” The words jam in my throat. They were simple when I rehearsed them. Now they weigh a little too much.
She nods. Her throat moves like she’s trying to swallow something sharp.
“I know,” she says softly. “He—”
Her voice begins to break, the glass beneath it finally cracking. David places his hand on her back, and I can’t help but want to break it.
Jenna takes a deep breath, her eyes still glued to mine.
“He loved you, Alex.”
I nod. Once. Tight. Like it’s all I can manage. Suddenly, it’s too much - her face, her smell, her voice. Her pain.
Her dad.
I offer her one last smile, small and knowing. Then I turn, stepping eagerly away before I do something really stupid.
Like stay.