Chapter 23

VIVIANNE

The funeral is easy to pull together, thanks to all the pre-planning I’ve done. Liam helps me through it, making everything a little easier to stomach.

My father sticks around, despite receiving the coldest welcome I’ve ever given anyone when he first showed up at the house. I’ve warmed up to the idea of him being around by the time he arrives at the funeral.

Once the service ends, Liam and I decide to stay a few more days until the dust has settled. We can’t stay longer, unfortunately—our lives back in New York won’t wait forever.

We settle on staying four more days. Four days to get everything in order and come up with a plan that works for everyone.

In those four days, Marcus fights us at every turn. My father stays in town but keeps his distance, and Becca isn’t home much, opting to stay busy with her classes.

She’s old enough now that we don’t need to make many plans for her. She’ll be eighteen soon, and Marcus is close enough if she needs anything.

Which means it’s just me and Marcus. And arguing. Constantly.

Liam is always close. Always touching me—his hands on my back, fingers laced with mine, or his body pressed against my side. He never says much. He just makes sure I know he’s there.

By day three of arguing and getting nowhere, we’re staring down the drive home with way too much undone.

I keep busy, putting things into boxes and bags, wrapping keepsakes in paper—until Marcus starts in again. Another rant. Another lecture.

This time, it’s about how he’s the oldest—the only son.

We still haven’t decided if we’re keeping the house, if we’re holding on to any—or all—of her things, or who’s supposed to handle the finer details now that Momma’s gone.

I think my head might pop if I have to listen to one more second of Marcus running his mouth. Liam sits silently nearby, giving me my space as I try to work through my grief while wrangling my brother.

“Marcus,” I say, trying to cut through the bass in his voice as he rambles about his own grief. “Marcus.”

Still no response. I stop what I’m doing and count backward from ten.

“I am the one who’s been here this whole—”

“Oh, bullshit!”

My sanity snaps, dragging all sense with it. I spin to face him, anger fueling the chaos in my gut.

“You haven’t lifted a goddamned finger!” I take a step toward him, my hands clenched at my sides. “You’ve spent the last three days talking about all that you’ve done. Let’s talk about what I’ve done, huh?”

He stares at me, wide-eyed, caught off guard.

“I—uh—but—I…,” he stammers, trying to piece together a defense.

“I drove all the way here from New York. I hunted down Doc to find out what was wrong. I took care of Momma while you were off doing God-knows-what. I set up the funeral arrangements. Hell, I even paid for it.” I barely stop to breathe.

“Now, I’m the one packing up all the stuff she left behind, while you sit on your ass and complain about things that don’t. Even. Matter. So, excuse me, but I don’t give a rat’s ass about what you’ve done, or in what order you did it in.”

His face turns red, cheeks puffing like a balloon about to burst. It’s the same look he had when he was a kid and didn’t get his way.

“Fine,” he says, pushing to his feet.

“Mar—”

“No, Vivianne. Just do whatever you want. That’s how it’ll be anyway.”

He storms out, leaving a trail of tension in his wake.

I dig my fingers into my scalp, willing the headache to disappear.

Liam offers to get us some coffee. He knows that this is the last stretch, and there’s still so much to do.

I nod, grateful, and make a mental note to get him something to thank him. He’s done more than I could ever ask for.

***

The drive back to New York is grueling—after the fights with Marcus and the hours of packing, I’m running on fumes.

Momma’s things are mostly gone now. We donated most of her belongings, tossed what was too far gone, and kept a few pieces each.

I took some photos and her old mixing bowls—the ones she only used on special occasions. The ones we used together.

On our last day, we invited Dad over. I didn’t expect much, but he surprised me—quietly choosing a few of her oldest T-shirts, the kind with obscure artwork and memories stitched into every seam.

He stared down at them for a long time, head bowed, a strange type of sadness playing on his features—features that mirrored mine.

When we pull into the parking garage, Liam practically pulls me from the car. The moment we step into the building, the weight of being home hits me hard. I lean on him, letting him guide me upstairs.

I don’t protest when he helps me into my nightgown, then into bed. My body’s here, but the rest of me hasn’t caught up.

He pulls the covers up gently and smooths them out beside me.

Then he turns and walks to the door.

“Liam.”

My voice sounds steadier than I feel.

He turns his head, his face softly illuminated by the dull light of my bedside lamp. The glow casts faint shadows across his face, making him look even more handsome somehow.

“Stay?”

My heart balloons, hope blossoming low in my stomach as I watch a flicker of emotion play across his face—uncertainty, tenderness, something else.

He nods, then quietly closes the door behind him and climbs into bed beside me.

We lie there in silence, and I cling to him until I finally find sleep.

When I wake up, I’m still draped across Liam’s chest, his heartbeat steady beneath my ear. His chest rises and falls in a slow, calming rhythm. I stay like that, letting the quiet fill me.

Something inside me shifts—subtle but sure.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep as he stretches beneath me.

I don’t move, waiting for him to pull away. He doesn’t.

Instead, his hand skims along my back, featherlight, like he’s not even aware he’s doing it.

I lift my head to meet his gaze.

There’s conflict in his eyes—something quiet but fierce. Like he knows he should keep his distance. Like he’s been trying to.

And failing.

So have I.

I press a hand to his chest. He covers it with his own.

“Viv…,” he says, barely above a whisper. A warning. A question.

But I’m already leaning in, unable to stop myself.

I kiss him first—soft and tentative, unsure but hungry.

He stills, likely caught between restraint and need.

Then he kisses me back. Deeper. Slower. Just like the first time.

His hand slides up, cradling the side of my face, his thumb brushing away the tear I didn’t know had fallen.

I touch his jaw, his throat, his chest, needing to feel something solid. Something real.

He pulls back just enough to look at me, breathing hard. “Are you sure?”

I nod.

Because I don’t want to be alone in this. Not tonight. Not anymore.

We move carefully at first, like we’re both afraid to break. My grief—and his hesitancy—still sits heavy between us, but our pull to one another is its own animal.

Then it shifts—slowly, tenderly—into something we can’t stop.

Clothes come off. Breath tangles. And for the first time in what feels like forever, I let myself fall.

Into him. Into this.

By the time we finally fall asleep, everything between us feels different.

And maybe that’s the part I should’ve been afraid of.