Page 127 of If Love Had A Manual

I feel Wes’s breath at my temple, chanting words like a vow. “I’ve got you.”

It’s a promise I didn’t even realize I needed.

Forty-Seven

I’m the last one left. I guess no one’s surprised by that. I’ve always been the one who lingers. The one who can’t quite leave when there’s even a scrap of goodbye left to say.

The cemetery’s quiet now. The wind rustles the long grass like it’s whispering secrets, and the air smells like fresh earth and summer rain. Clouds roll heavy over the sky, dragging the light down with them. I should be cold, barefoot in a soaked patch of grass, black dress clinging to my knees, but all I feel is numb.

I’m planted in front of Grandpa’s headstone. It’s new and too clean. The sharp edges still catch the light like the world hasn’t had time to wear it down yet. There’s a wreath propped against the granite, and my heels are somewhere behind me, forgotten casualties of the funeral.

None of it feels real.

An hour ago, people milled around here—neighbors, old friends, my family—offeringcondolences, sharing stories about Grandpa’s never-ending bag of jokes and that loud laugh of his.

I trace the letters of his name with my fingertips. “Well, Grandpa, you would have loved all that attention.” My voice snags in my throat. “You got a crowd. Some of the stories were even true.”

A smile ghosts across my face, but it’s a cracked one.

I shift, pulling my legs up so I can rest my chin on my knees. I don’t know if I believe he can hear me, but I need to believe in something.

“You know,” I say softly, picking at a blade of grass, “Mom’s up there with you. Could you…tell her about us? Tell her how Eli and Theo are in college. Theo’s going to Europe next semester. He’s so excited he can’t stop talking about it.

“Eli’s the campus star athlete. I know you kept track, but just in case. And Tess, well, she’s fifteen now. She’s moody and brilliant and opinionated, everything you’d expect.” My throat burns, but I force a smile. “Tell her Dad’s still…Dad. Kind of a mess, but we’re working on it.”

I pause, drawing in a quivering breath. “Tell her about me, too. I watch a little girl named Rosie. She’s sunshine in tiny form. And I’m still singing. I…I like to think I’m making her proud.” I close my eyes, tears pressing at my lids. “Tell her I did my best, okay? And I hope she can see that.”

I might be grown, but a part of me is still that little girl who lost her mom, frozen in time. I guess that never really goes away.

Moments later, there’s movement at the edge of my vision. My father stands at a respectful distance, hands in his pockets and eyes cast down. Something in mychest tightens. Compassion? Annoyance? I’m not sure. Yet, I find myself shifting on the grass so he knows I’m aware of him.

He steps closer. “You always loved him.”

I swallow the knot in my throat. “He was my best friend.”

My father gives a small, sad smile. “Your mother and I used to worry,” he confesses, eyes flicking to the headstone. “We’d watch you following your grandfather around, ignoring kids your age, like you’d found all the company you needed in him.”

I let out a shaky laugh. “He was more entertaining than most kids, and he let me ask a million questions.”

Dad nods, gaze drifting from me to the grave. “We never saw eye to eye, me and him. Especially when your mom died. But I’m grateful. He looked out for you when I forgot how. When I forgot you were a kid yourself.”

I try to speak, but my words tangle. “Dad, I—”

He lifts a hand, cutting me off. “I love you, Lena. You made me a father for the first time.” His lips tremble in an attempted smile, tears shining in his eyes. “When your mother died, I didn’t know where to put all that hurt. I’m sorry I piled it on you. I’m sorry you had to be grown before you were ready.”

A breath shudders out of me. “It’s okay.” That’s half a lie, half a truth. Because it wasn’t okay, but maybe we can move past it. Maybe we can heal. “I’ve learned that holding onto the hurt doesn’t protect me. It just keeps me in the moment when I was broken. And I deserve more than that. I deserve to let it go. Not for you, Dad, but for me.”

He dips his chin in understanding before his eyes meet mine again. “I’ve been going to therapy withTess.”

Tess told me about it a couple of weeks ago. She’d called it a “miracle wrapped in emotional constipation,” which, honestly, felt about right.

“I’m glad,” I say, meaning it. “She needs that from you.”

He nods, like he’s not sure if he deserves the praise. “I don’t want you to sit at my graveside one day and hate me.”

My throat tightens because I don’t want that either.

“I know that’s selfish,” he goes on. “But I want you to miss me the way you’re going to miss your grandfather. I don’t want to go to my grave knowing I hurt my girl and did nothing to help fix it.”

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