The worst part is how normal everything looks.
The food is laid out in the church basement like it’s a graduation party. Plastic platters of cold cuts, uneven bowls of potato salad, little flags stuck into cubes of cheese. Someone made cupcakes. Cupcakes. Like this is a celebration. Like my father hadn’t just been lowered into the ground just a hundred feet from here.
He should be here — whispering something sarcastic in my ear. Something just for me, so that I'd laugh obnoxiously loud while he pretends not to know why.
But he’s not. He’s gone. And I don’t think I’ll ever laugh again.
People keep telling me how sorry they are, how wonderful my dad was. He was. But their praises slide off me like rain on glass. They say things like, “He had such a bright light,” and, “It’s not fair,” and, ”You are being so strong.” I nod. I smile. I thank them.
I feel like a cardboard cutout of myself.
I drift from one group to the next, doing what I’m supposed to. Being who I'm supposed to be.
A presence.
A daughter.
A polite echo of the person I was yesterday.
The woman beside me, another well-meaning mourner from my dad’s law firm, keeps patting my leg like I’m a therapy dog. She’s talking about how he had been the life of every holiday party. I don’t know what to say, so I murmur, “Yeah, he really loved to dance,” leaving out the fact that he moved like an old wind-up toy losing battery: no rhythm, and no shame.
God, I miss him.
David returns with 2 cups of something resembling punch and hands me one.
“You doing OK?” he asks for the third time today.
I nod and lie, same as before. “Yeah. I’m fine.”
What am I supposed to say? My father is dead. My ex is here. I’m one sentence away from falling apart.
He strokes my back, an attempt to ground me, I think. To soothe me. He means well, always does. David is good. Dependable. Clean-shaven. But it makes me feel like something helpless.
My eyes drift around the room.
Then stop.
Alex.
He leans against the wall near the bulletin board, a glass of water in hand, looking about as comfortable as I feel, which is to say, not at all. He’s scanning the room like he’s trying to memorize it. Or uncover an escape route. Most likely the latter.
Our gazes collide for half a second. I look away.
I hate that he still has that effect on me—that fast, uninvited rise in my chest, like an inhale I didn’t mean to take. Seven years should’ve buried that reaction. But here it is, alive and well, like it’s been hiding under the surface this whole time, just waiting for the worst possible day to resurface.
David doesn’t notice. Or maybe he does and is too afraid to ask.
“Do you want to get out of here?” he asks, voice low. “I could take you home. We don’t have to stay.”
Part of me wants to say yes. To escape. To end the day on a quiet note, curled under a blanket, pretending I don’t feel this hollow.
But I shake my head. “No. Not yet. I should stick around for a while. See what my mom needs.”
I don’t know what I’m waiting for. I just know it hasn’t happened yet.
Across the room, Alex still stands watching, but not intrusively, almost like he is waiting too.
People begin to trickle out. Coats buttoned, hands shook, last hugs given. The buzz of quiet conversation tapers off.
People are already ready to move on.
My gaze drifts back to Alex.
And suddenly, he moves. He walks towards me—not fast, just steady. Hesitant, even.
I’m alone when he reaches me—David only a few feet away, trapped in a conversation with my uncle.
We stand close, close enough that I catch the faint scent of his cologne; something warm and sharp that hits me square in the memory. We don’t speak. We stare forward, letting the tension stretch like an old habit.
“Nice spread,” he says finally, nodding toward the folding table.
I let out a breath. It almost sounds like a laugh.
“He would’ve hated this,” I say, glancing around the fluorescent-lit basement.
“Too much sympathy. Not enough beer.”
Alex’s mouth quirks. “I keep half expecting to hear his voice,” he says. “Some smart ass remark, you know? About the food. Or if I finally learned to button my shirt like an adult.”
“You didn’t,” I say, pointing suddenly at the slightly crooked collar on his dress shirt.
He glances down. Smirks. “Touché.”
A pause.
I feel his eyes on me before they land. My skin tingles under their climb, gliding slowly up my body to reach my face.
I lift mine to meet them.
“You look good, Jen,” he whispers.
My breath hitches. “Thanks. So do you.”
I keep my eyes on his. Because if I look anywhere else—his mouth, his hands, the way his shoulders have filled out—I will fall apart.
I clear my throat. “You… You’ve changed.”
“Yeah. You too.”
His eyes linger on mine, gentler than I expected.
“You feel… I don’t know. Quieter.”
“I’m not,” I blurt out, and he smirks. “I just ran out of things to say today, I guess.”
This is it. This is the moment when someone should say something real, say what they mean.
But neither of us is brave enough to.
He shifts his weight. His gaze drops to the floor, then back to me.
“I should go.”
A wave of nausea hits me. “Yeah,” I say, voice thin. “OK.”
He hesitates. “Tell your mom I said goodbye, OK?”
“I will.”
He takes one small step, then stops.
“Jenna?” He says gently. “You OK?”
I nod too fast. Smile too wide. “Yeah. Of course.”
He waits for a beat.
Then, with that old, crooked half smile, he finally says, “Liar.”
Then he walks away, slipping out through the side door like a secret.
Just like that, Alex is gone again.
And somehow, that hurts far worse than when he was here.