Page 65 of Between Now and Forever

“Some things a man needs his father for,” he’d said when he saw the confused look on my face.

“This is fucking sad,” he says in a whisper.

“It really is.” I agree.

A woman ahead of us shushes us and that’s when I realize it’s totally silent in line.

We exchange bewildered expressions but don’t speak to each other again.

The news came with the daily delivery of fresh bread that comes with the cabin. James Wolfe was dead. In a freak car accident the night of the bad storm. A fist of worry squeezed my gut, and I rushed to call her. Her phone went to voice mail all day. News of this open house thing came this morning, and I knew I had to come.

We had that one night. I don’t really know her. I’m sure she has people to comfort her at a moment like this, but something kept telling me that maybe she didn’t. I remember how alone she was that night and the things she told me about her friends and family.

I just want to make sure she’s okay. I also want to say goodbye. I know that with all of this going on, seeing her again before I leave will be next to impossible. So, I hope I can find a way to get her alone for a few minutes.

As we get close to the front of the line, it thins, and Liz comes into view.

She’s not crying, but her grief is palpable. Her eyes are bloodshot, bleak, and unfocused. She’s pale, and the black suit she’s wearing looks too big for her.

To her right is a handsome, middle-aged man. His suit is definitely not off the rack, and his hair looks like he just stepped out of a salon. But he’s wearing the same shell-shocked expression Liz is. He’s stoic, barely acknowledging the people who are shaking his hand. On Liz’s left is a woman whose face is covered by a black veil. She’s sobbing loudly and clutching a handkerchief to her mouth.

When it’s our turn, I shake the sobbing lady’s hand. She clutches my hand and tilts her head upward so her face is turned toward mine. I can’t see her face clearly through the veil, but I smile awkwardly. “Sorry for your loss,” I say, and she nods and starts to cry again.

She lets go of my hand and reaches for my father’s. I shake Mr. Wolfe’s hand. He doesn’t look up at me as he says, “Thank you for coming.”

I step in front of Beth, and she puts her hand out automatically.

“Thank you for coming,” she says numbly without looking up.

I take her hand and squeeze it.

“Beth, I’m so sorry,” I say, and her head snaps up. Her eyes widen with surprise and then fill with tears.

“Carter,” she mouths my name and squeezes my hand. Before I can respond, my father stumbles and hits me with shoulder, knocking me off balance.

“You idiot,” her father snarls and shoots to his feet.

His snowy white shirt collar is smeared with what looks like chocolate.

“I’m so sorry Drew, I didn’t realize I was still holding that Hershey bar,” my dad uses his best awe shucks voice.

Mr. Wolfe glares daggers at him. “Who are you?”

“Lorin Bosh, we went to high school—” My dad sticks his hand out, chocolate covered palm and all.

Mr. Wolfe curls his lip in disgust and turns to head to the exit.

“Fiona, ring up to Luke and tell him to have another shirt ready.”

The people in line behind us shoot daggers at my dad, but don’t say anything.

“Dad, what the hell was that?” I ask.

“Carter, what are you doing here?” Beth’s urgent whisper and tug on my hand pull my eyes back to her.

“I wanted to see you.”

My father nudges me, and when I look at him, he’s looking at our joined hands with a look of warning in his eyes.

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