Page 5 of Give Me Strength

To this day, it still feels so surreal, like I’m walking through a nightmare I can’t wake up from.

It was even worse back then — bad enough that I took several back-to-back assignments that had me stationed all over Europe. I only returned stateside a month ago, and here I am.

The rain picks up, relentless as it soaks through my suit. I glance at his daughter, Ashlynn Crane. Her face is set in a mask of stoic sadness, her shoulders hunched against the rain. She looks so small, so broken. It hits me hard, seeing her like this.

I don’t know her — I was hardly ever around anyway — but Rachel did. After all, she was her ballet teacher for over a decade. No one should have to go through that much pain at such a young age.

We were here five years ago, burying Rachel and her mother, Hannah.

Fate sure is cruel, making sure that we find ourselves in the same place five years later, burying her father. A man who, for all intents and purposes, hated my guts. The last time I saw him, he took a swing at me for, in his words, ‘insinuating his wife had planned on leaving him.’ The joke’s on him, though. She was leaving him. Too bad she died before making that a reality.

The wet grass soaks through my shoes, the cold seeping into my bones. The minister’s words are a distant hum, drowned out by the roar of my own thoughts.

The casket begins to lower into the ground, and I see Ashlynn sway. Next to her, Bonnie reaches out a hand to steady her. I see her swallow hard, trying to keep her composure as she clings to her aunt, her grip tight — like she’s trying to hold on to something solid in this world that’s falling apart.

My chest tightens at the sight, the rain blurring my vision. I am intimately familiar with that feeling — the crushing weight of grief, the sense of being utterly lost and alone.

There’s movement, lots of it. People take turns ceremoniously dumping soil into the open grave. Well-wishers surround her. Some pat her on the shoulder and murmur words of comfort. She nods and smiles weakly, but I can see it in her eyes — the same hollow emptiness eating away at me. The same unbearable weight of loss.

It is possible to be surrounded by people yet feel so utterly alone.

Bonnie wraps an arm around Ashlynn’s shoulders, pulling her close. The other mourners start to drift away, a sea of black coats and umbrellas. Both women stay rooted to the spot.

I find that I can’t get my feet to move either.

So we stand there, just the three of us in the pouring rain, together yet far apart. Surrounded by the echoes of the past and the crushing weight of the present, we watch as Everett Crane’s grave is filled.

Or rather, they watch as Everett’s grave is filled, and I watch her. It would seem I can’t get my eyes to look at anything but her.

There’s no denying Ashlynn Crane is stunning, or that the sight of her stirs something deep inside me, something I didn’t think I was capable of.

She’s here to mourn her father. I should be above these feelings. It would be crossing a line, a line I can’t afford to cross. Yet, I can’t seem to stop.

One of the diggers hands her a shovel and she joins in, her movements fluid, as if every gesture is part of a dance only she can hear. The black dress clings to her, emphasizing the elegant lines of her body, the curve of her waist, and the gentle slope of her shoulders. Her bun comes loose, a few strands of rich brown hair billowing around her face.

Her piercing green eyes appear to be haunted. They glisten with unshed tears, their color more vibrant against her pale, almost alabaster skin. It’s like she’s carved from marble, a statue of grace and fragility. My gaze travels over her delicate frame. She’s impossibly slender, every inch the ballerina Rachel dreamed she’d become.

Rachel.

She’s the reminder I sorely need to back off.

I shouldn’t even be here. I should’ve stayed away. Should’ve kept my distance like I’ve done for years. But I had to come. I might not have liked the man, but I owed that much to his daughter.

So, I keep my distance as they wrap things up. They don’t see me, and I’m both relieved and disappointed. Still, I stay in the shadows as both women head back to the reception hall attached to the chapel, wrestling with emotions that have no place here.

I really should have left when I had the chance. Not much has changed, and I can’t help but draw parallels to Rachel’s and Hannah’s funeral. It feels like I stepped into a time capsule, where everything is frozen in time.

The same stifling rooms. The same forced smiles and empty condolences. The same feeling of drowning in a sea of people who couldn’t possibly understand the depth of my pain. I thought time and distance would dull the ache, but being here is like tearing open a wound that never really healed.

I feel the all-too-familiar and suffocating weight of grief settling over me. Voices rise and fall behind me, snippets of stories about Everett Crane. Laughter mingles with tears, but it all feels distant and surreal. I’m trapped in my own head, reliving every mistake and every moment that led up to this point — the things left unsaid, the apologies never made.

The rain finally stops. The room slowly empties. Ashlynn is nowhere to be found. Bonnie is still surrounded by well-wishers, but she looks like I feel — like she’d rather be anywhere else but here.

So why am I still here?

Simple.

Guilt made me stay. She made me stay.

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