Page 27 of Rise
There was a pause on the other end, a faint breath and the soft crackle of static, like the line wasn’t quite sure it wanted to hold.
Then, on an exhale, rough and unceremonious, came a nickname. One that only one person in her life ever really used.
“Hey, Haze.”
Her stomach dropped. Not sharply, not all at once. It was slower than that, like the ground tilting beneath her feet just enough to make her reach for something solid. Her throat closed, dry and tight, and she found herself blinking hard at nothing in particular, as though her body had gone into autopilot, preparing to brace.
There was no warmth in his voice. NoHi, sweetheart, orI’ve been meaning to call, how are you holding up?Just her name, clipped and clean, like someone checking off a task on a list.
Her hand tightened around the phone.
It had been months. Nearly a year, maybe, since she’d heard that voice. And still, it threaded through her like it always did— sharp in some places, dull in others, never quite where she expected it to land.
She pressed her free hand to the countertop without realizing it, anchoring herself to the edge.
“Dad,” she said, though her voice didn’t sound like hers. “I wasn’t expecting to hear from you.”
And she hadn’t been.
Not after the silence. Not after the years of staggered phone calls and last-minute apologies. Not after the way he’d slipped so easily into a life that didn’t include her.
And certainly notnow—when the grief was still soft and unformed, when her world had already shifted sideways and she was barely getting her feet under her again.
Across the room, the bell above the door swayed gently in a breeze Hazel couldn’t feel. And beyond it, Beck, still seated and turned slightly in her direction, his posture easy but attentive. His eyes, when she risked a glance, were already on hers.
She looked away just as quickly, a slow, invisible wave of heat crawling up the back of her neck. It had nothing to do with embarrassmentand everything to do with the way the call had cracked something open, something she’d much rather keep boarded up.
“I heard about your grandmother.”
The words landed without weight. A formality. A line from a script someone else had written. His voice, as always, felt scrubbed of context. No hesitance, no hurt, just statement.
Hazel’s hand tightened around the phone again. Her other hand drifted toward her hip, but stopped just short, then fell back to the countertop, her fingertips pressing into the cool granite. She traced the familiar edge, all smooth and rounded, a small gesture that grounded her.
“Yes, she passed a few weeks ago,” she said, the words sounding steadier than she felt.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
He didn’tsoundsorry. He sounded distant, detached, like someone squinting at a memory they barely recognized.
“She was a good woman,” he added, as if closing a file. As if he knew— as if he had anyrightto know.
Something flared hot in Hazel’s chest. Not grief, not sadness. It was anger, sharp and sudden and searing. It moved through her like a strike of heat, harsh and undeserved and deeply,deeplyunfair. Her fingers curled slightly at her sides, forming into a tight fist. Her jaw clenched before she could stop it.
“She was,” Hazel echoed, despite herself, her voice quieter now.
But it felt scraped out of her.
“Are you still in Bar Harbor?” her father asked.
“I am.”
“I figured. Probably a lot of paperwork, huh? Wills and estates are no joke.”
“Yeah, it’s a lot, but I’ve got it handled.”
A beat passed, just long enough to register. She could hear the shift in his breath before he spoke again.
“I can help out, if you need me,” he offered, though the words came out slow.Reluctant.“With the house, getting it ready to sell.I’d imagine it needs some work.”
