Page 44 of Wicked & Wildflower

“You did great, wildflower. The hard part’s over with.” I keep her hand in mine, leading her into the grand ballroom as we maneuver our way toward our table.

I lied, though, because for me, the hard part is just beginning. Walking into this room puts me on alert, makes me start to sweat. I know they start the event with a speech about Zach—his life, the things and people he loved. Then, they play a slideshow filled almost entirely with photos of us as kids. That’s the hardest part for me, watching how happy and carefree we used to be. We had no fucking clue what was coming for us. Photos of August and Elena choke me out the hardest, because they’re still so broken, and I don’t know if there is any part of the two of them that’ll ever heal.

Last year, they asked me to give a speech, and I nearly broke down in the middle of it. I feel like shit about it, but I told the Hayeses that I couldn’t do it again this year. It takes everything in me just to show up. So, I don’t know who’s giving it, but I know someone will give a speech. Then, the silent auction will begin. It gets a little easier after that. There is dinner and dancing, and the auction items are set up at the perimeter of the room for people to bid on.

Leo is auctioning a private surf lesson, though if this year is anything like last, those bids will come from a bunch of women with little interest in surfing and a lot of interest in an hour of private time with Leo Graham. Heathen’s auctionedoff a custom-designed board. My parents, on behalf of Ramos Automotive, are auctioning a year of vehicle maintenance. Lastly, I’m offering a classic, 1960, powder blue T-Bird. It was left at the shop, abandoned by someone’s granddaughter after they passed away. It needs a ton of work, but my dad and I are completely rebuilding the engine. It won’t be ready for a few months yet, but when it is, it’ll be damn near priceless.

The lights around the ballroom dim as Dahlia and I make our way to our table, letting us know they’re about to begin. I pull out her chair next to Darby and then slide into the other side. Sure enough, the event begins with Zach and August’s dad taking the stage. He thanks people for coming and starts in on who his son was.

Key word: was.

It’s hard for me to listen, to hear all the qualities that Zach bore and all the potential he’ll never get to live up to. I find myself zoning out through the speech, and before I know it, the lights are off, music is playing, and pictures are flashing across a projector in front of me. They use the same ones every year, so I don’t need to look to know what they are.

Zach as a baby. Zach holding August after he was born. The two of them on the beach as children. All the sports Zach played growing up. Then, pictures of Leo, Elena, and I start popping up after we met them around the age of eleven. My eyes meet my brother’s across the table, and I can see the unshed tears in his gaze. He swallows hard before he looks in the other direction. Darby’s holding his hand so tightly, her knuckles are nearly white, like she’s keeping him anchored.

Somehow, I make it through the slideshow without actually crying, but I’m pretty sure I’m completely disassociating with my surroundings in order to make that happen. I didn’t hear a lyric of the music that played, didn’t look at Dahlia once. I’m only brought back to the moment by the brightening of the lightsand the sound of Sadie’s voice on the mic. She talks of Zach and how he died, the reason the foundation was established, and how their hope is to never see another parent be told their child had drowned again. She speaks of that day with such calm composure, a stark contrast to how it felt to be there.

The wail is deafening. It pierces through the entire hospital—through my mind and soul. I didn’t know a sound like that existed. I also didn’t know the people we love could die. Not like this. Not so suddenly and without warning.

Sadie Hayes hits her knees, hunched over on the floor as her body wracks with violent sobs. She has just been told that her son has died. He’s gone.

Zach isgone.

“What is—” I hear my sister’s voice briefly before it goes silent, the sound of the automatic entry doors shutting behind her.

It’s almost as if I can feel Elena take in the scene in front of her. I’m hearing through her ears as the doctor says again, “He didn’t make it. I’m so sorry.”

I refuse to look at her, keeping my eyes on Sadie, because despite how devastating she looks right now, I can’t bear what I’ll find on my sister’s face. I know Elena is taking count of who’s in this room.

Who’s missing from it.

Leo and I sit next to each other. Across from us, Sadie’s on the floor, August—eyes red and withdrawn—kneeling next to her. Alex, their dad, shoots from his chair, looking down at his youngest son as he spits, “You did this,” before storming out.

I watch him as he rushes past us, my eyes following him through the doors my sister just entered. When they land on her face, she looks to me for only the briefest moment, as if searching for confirmation that everything she feared has come to life.

All I’m capable of through my streaming tears is a shallow nod. She stumbles back like someone punched her. Shaking her head, she retreats backward through the doors, and the sound barely leaves her lips before she’s in a full out sprint.

But before she’s gone, I hear it: the wrangled cry—the broken sob, so hollow and gut-wrenching, it shakes me to my core. It rattles my bones and scorches my soul. The sound of death and heartbreak, of someone being torn apart right in front of you. I feel it filter through me because, on some innate level, I feel what she feels. She’s my other half, and I already know she won’t come back from this.

“Everett?” Dahlia’s voice is soft and warm, coaxing me from my nightmares.

I’m warped back to the current moment, realizing that the speech is over, dinner is being served, and the dancing and auction have begun. My brother gives me an apologetic smile over the table, like he understands exactly where I was just then. His eyes dash to Dahlia for the briefest moment before he’s pulling back in his chair and standing up. “C’mon, honeysuckle. Let’s go take a stroll.”

I turn to Dahlia, her face etched in concern, her hand covering mine on the table. “Where’d you go just then?”

I blink, shaking my head as I take a deep breath. “Nowhere. I’m fine.”

She tilts her head, blue eyes blazing. “You don’t have to pretend, you know.”

I huff a laugh. “Isn’t that what we’re doing here? Pretending.”

“Not with that.” She shakes her head. “Not with whatever darkness just passed across your eyes. You don’t pretend that doesn’t exist. You don’t hold that in. Not with me.”

I feel my throat swelling again, and all I want to do is break down in her arms. All this time, that’s exactly what I’ve been doing: holding it in. I can see Leo beginning to heal. I can seemy parents—Zach’s parents, even—doing the same, but I’m not there yet, and sometimes, I don’t know how to get there or if I ever will. I feel like I’m not just grieving my best friend, I’m grieving two of them, and I’m grieving my sister too. I don’t know how to explain these feelings, and sometimes, it feels like I shouldn't be having them at all.

So, I press them down and hold them back, pretend they don’t exist.

Dahlia’s the only person to see through that, to give me permission to stop, to share them with her. I’m not even sure I know how to do that, but I want to try. “Some days are just harder than others. Today is always a hard day.”

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