Page 68 of Flag On The Play
The morning sun filters through the window in soft streaks, casting a glow over the white sheets tangled around us. Nova’s tucked against my chest, one of her legs hooked over mine, her fingers tracing lazy patterns along my ribs. The silence isn’t heavy. It’s peaceful. Comfortable.
She shifts slightly, tilting her head up to look at me, her voice low and sleepy. “You’re staring.”
“I’m memorizing.” I brush a kiss over her forehead. “Is that a crime?”
She grins. “Feels like flattery disguised as a line.”
“You make me happy, Nova.”
Her teasing fades, replaced with something softer in her eyes. “You make me happy, too.”
We lie there for a bit, wrapped in the quiet truth of that. Then I press another kiss to her hair and ask, “Would you come somewhere with me today?”
Her brow lifts. “Depends. Are we talking somewhere romantic, or are you going to make me suffer through something like axe-throwing again?”
I laugh, tugging her closer. “You were good at that.”
“I almost lost a toe.”
I grin, but then my expression settles into something more serious. “I want to visit my dad’s grave. Then go to lunch at my mom’s.”
Nova’s smile falls into something softer. She nods, her voice gentle. “Yeah. Of course.”
The ride is quiet, but not awkward. My hand rests on her thigh, grounding me. She doesn’t say much, but her hand covers mine, thumb brushing little circles, steady and sure.
I haven’t been back since the funeral.
Didn’t think I could handle it.
Didn’t think I was ready.
Maybe I’m still not.
But having Nova beside me makes it feel like I don’t have to be anything other than honest.
When we get there, I park and take a deep breath before getting out. The air is crisp. Cool enough that Nova pulls her sweater tighter around her.
I reach for her hand, and she takes it without hesitation.
We walk in silence until we reach the headstone.
Graham Reed, Beloved Husband and Father.
The tightness in my chest builds. My fingers flex around Nova’s. She squeezes once, encouraging, and then lets go so I can step forward.
I crouch down slowly, fingers brushing along the edge of the stone.
“Hey, Dad.”
My throat tightens, but I push through.
“I’ve been avoiding this. Coming here. Facing it. I guess I thought if I stayed away, it wouldn’t feel so real.”
The wind rustles nearby trees. A bird chirps in the distance. But the silence still feels so loud.
“I’ve thought about you a lot lately. About how I wish things were different. How I wish I could go back and fix everything. Not just the fights, but the space between us. The pride. The anger.”
I blink fast, staring at the name etched in stone. “I wasted time being bitter, and it took you being gone to realize how much I hated that version of myself. I wish I could tell you that in person. I wish we could talk. Maybe even argue one more time.”
