Page 2 of Make You Stay

Aidan

“Look who finally decided to show up,” I mutter under my breath, earning a side-eye glare from my ex-wife Enid.

“Aidan,” she hisses over the heads of our two youngest daughters.

With a scoff, I toss up my hands. “I’m just saying. What could be more important than arriving on time to your mother’s funeral?”

No joke.

Who arrives late to their mother’s funeral?

Chloe Strickland, apparently.

I watch her scurry in through the church doors, nearly ten minutes after the service began, settling into a seat in the back corner.

We’ve never met—officially—but I’d know the woman anywhere. Her photos litter the walls and fireplace mantle of Betsey’s home, even though I’m well aware, per Betsey’s own admission, that Chloe never set foot in the farmhouse.

Until today.

I get it. Some folks aren’t close with their parents. Hell, I barely spoke to my old man for years. But my old man was a drunk and a mean one at that. After he beat my ass for the umpteenth time over something as arbitrary as the color of the sky, I’d had enough. I left and never looked back.

Betsey is nothing like my old man. She was funny and outgoing, with a laugh that danced across your eardrums. She was more than my neighbor. Over the last five years, she’d become one of my closest friends and a grandmother figure to my daughters. The concept of someone not loving Betsey is like a child hating Santa Claus—it’s not normal.

I don’t know Chloe’s reason for abandoning her mother, although I’ve no doubt it’s utterly selfish in nature. Likely, the bright lights of the big city blinded her to what matters in life.

Betsey spoke about Chloe quite often and how she longed for a closer relationship with her only child. She was desperate to play matchmaker, exclaiming how she planned on setting us up when her daughter arrived for a visit. It didn’t matter how many times I told her I wasn’t interested in that plan because Betsey wouldn’t take no for an answer.

Chloe is undoubtedly beautiful, far and away prettier than her pictures. She bears a strong resemblance to Betsey when she was younger—long dark hair, wide dark eyes, and a killer body.

Betsey may have been pushing sixty-five, but she took care of herself. Prided herself on her appearance. She was a dancer in her younger days, a self-proclaimed gypsy and free spirit. Maybe that’s why she seemed timeless.

And Chloe? She’s more stunning than her mother, even though I want nothing to do with the woman.

She didn’t care enough about my dear friend to be in her life. Now, I’ll ensure Chloe is never a part of mine.

The minister signals to me, and I stand, running a hand down the length of my beard. Betsey pre-planned her funeral, complete with the people she wanted to speak.

Imagine my surprise whenIwas one of those people… and Chloe wasn’t.

Like I said, her daughter is not normal. She’s no doubt in town to lay claim to her inheritance. It’s sickening how people emerge from the shadows when someone dies, like cockroaches when you turn out the light.

I’ll bet there are a ton of cockroaches in New York City.

Sighing, I will my anger down. There’s a time and place for that emotion, but it isn’t here.

Walking to the podium, I pull the folded paper from my pocket, my green eyes scanning the crowd. A full house, full of people Betsey called family.

Ironic how the only bloodline link sits in the back corner, her gaze fixed on me, her face belying any emotion. I guess the cold has frozen the woman’s heart solid.

“Afternoon, folks. As I look around the room, I see so many familiar faces. People who loved Betsey and who she loved in return. I was lucky to call her not only my neighbor but my friend. Not that I had much choice in the matter. She charmed my daughters immediately with tales of magical lands. It was only a matter of time before she charmed me, as well.”

My gaze narrows, its laser focus on Chloe. I hope she feels the intensity of my glare. “I pity those people who didn’t take the time to know Betsey Strickland. Their loss, really, but most definitely my gain. Sometimes you don’t know what you have until it’s gone. In my case, I know exactly how precious that woman was to me. In typical Betsey fashion, she arranged a luncheon for all of us, complete with the requisite shot of Irish whiskey. I hope you’re thirsty, folks, because Betsey always threw one hell of a party.” Motioning to the ceiling, I blink back tears, willing myself to make it through the remainder of the speech. “Here’s to you, Bets. Thanks for the memories.”

The strains of Betsey’s favorite song drift over the church speakers, and I bite back a laugh. A true testament to the power of Betsey Strickland’s charm, finagling the local preacher to play Prince instead of a standard hymn.

Chloe nods in my direction, but I turn away, my temper threatening to get the better of me.

Don’t thank me for loving your mother. Ask yourself why you didn’t.

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