Page 167 of Fault Lines
When the service ended, the director invited us to pay respects at the casket. We waited our turn, filing up the aisle with the rest of the mourners. The line moved slowly, each person lingering a moment too long, as if reluctant to let go.
When it was our turn, I knelt by the flowers, let my fingers brush the edge of the white cloth. I wanted to say something profound, something worthy of the man, but all that came out was, “Thank you.” The tears were silent, but they came anyway.
Cam rested a hand on my back, steady and certain. Behind us, Rachel and Jackson stood close, shoulders touching, faces turned toward the light filtering in through the arched windows.
Afterward, we gathered in the chapel’s basement, where someone had set up a spread of bagels and cheap coffee. The conversation was soft, full of stories and laughter and the kind of remembrance that’s half truth, half myth. People talked about the old days, about Richard’s terrible puns and his uncanny ability to recommend the exact book you didn’t know you needed.
I wandered the room, collecting fragments of his life from the people who loved him. Every story was a puzzle piece, and together they built a man even larger than the one I’d known.
At the end, when the room was emptying and the lights were going off one row at a time, I stood outside with Cam, Rachel, and Jackson, the four of us lined up like survivors after a shipwreck. The air was sharp and cold, the rain having finally cleared, leaving behind a sky scrubbed clean.
Rachel was the first to break the silence. “I wish he could see us now,” she said.
Jackson nodded. “He probably does. He’s probably critiquing our outfits from beyond the grave.”
We all laughed, and it felt good, even if it only lasted a second.
We walked back to the cars together, arms linked, heads bent against the cold. And for the first time in a long time, I felt like maybe the world could still hold a little bit of kindness, even for people like us.
At the curb, Jackson turned to me. “You gonna be okay?”
I thought about it, weighed the question the way Richard would have, searching for an honest answer.
“Yeah,” I said. “I think I really might be.”
He smiled, and I saw the relief settle in his shoulders.
Rachel hugged me, tight and fierce. “Text me, okay? Even if it’s just to complain about the bagels.”
I promised I would.
As Cam and I got into the car, I glanced back at the chapel, its windows glowing gold in the dusk. I imagined Richard standing there, arms folded, watching us go. The idea made me smile.
We drove home in silence, but it wasn’t empty. It was full of everything we’d lost, and everything we still had.
Chapter Forty-Three
I didn’t plan to stay at Cam’s place for more than a night, two at most. It was supposed to be a layover between disasters, a safe spot to regroup while I figured out how to keep breathing. But the longer I lingered, the harder it became to leave. I told myself I was giving my head injury time to heal, or that I didn’t want to inflict myself on Rachel’s already-overcrowded guest room, but the real reason was simpler and much dumber: I liked it here. I liked the way Cam made breakfast, the way he folded my laundry even when it was just socks, the way he kept the radio on in every room so the house never got too quiet.
I liked being wanted, even in this unfinished, liminal way.
Rachel texted every morning with status updates on the outside world (Nate’s out of rehab, Jackson got promoted, you’re a trending hashtag for three hours last night, congrats!), but she never pushed me to move back in. Maybe she sensed that I wasn’t ready to face her brand of tough love, or maybe she just knew me better than I knew myself. I was grateful for her patience, even if I ignored most of her suggestions (let’s get blackout drunk and break into your ex’s office!).
Cam worked from home more often now, some hybrid schedule that let him video-conference in from the den while he wore gym shorts and a shirt with the logo just out of frame. He was good at it—charming, focused, able to flatten any conflictwith a joke or a well-timed silence. I watched him sometimes from the kitchen, and he always looked like he was exactly where he was supposed to be, even when the call ended and the house returned to just us.
We didn’t talk about what happened at Nate’s place, or the funeral, or what we were to each other now. There was a mutual agreement—never stated, just practiced—that we’d keep everything light, domestic, and time-limited. It was like living in an Air B&B with your almost ex-husband, and for the most part, it was fine.
After the first week, Cam started inviting me to join him on his evening runs. Since he was home more, he was going twice a day instead of one. He didn’t pressure me, just left out a spare set of sneakers and said, “If you get bored, you know where to find me.” The first time, I followed him after ten minutes, certain I’d make it three blocks before my lungs gave out. But the air was clear and just cold enough to burn, and the city was different at dusk—slower, gentler, all the edges dulled by early darkness.
We ran side by side for a mile before either of us spoke. “You’re faster than I remember,” I said, surprised.
He grinned. “You’re tougher than I remember.”
I punched his shoulder, and he almost tripped off the curb. “Liar.”
He steadied, then slowed so we were perfectly in sync. “No, seriously. Most people would have run away by now. Or… just kept running.”
He didn’t say the words, but I heard them anyway: from me.
