I can’t hear anything…

Is someone talking to me? What are they saying?

Nothing makes sense…

This doesn’t make sense…

“Harley?” The voice…it’s familiar but it sounds like it’s coming from under water, muffled and unclear. That’s my name but it sounds wrong. “Harley, honey, come on, we need to go.”

Go? Go where?

My eyes, unfocused, drift from the dark red carpet to the box on my lap, my fingers white around the edges. I can’t relax my grip, nor do I want to. If I do, you’ll just disappear again.

SCREEEECH! THUD! CRACK! CRASH! CLATTER CLATTER CLATTER! “AHH! OH MY GOD, SOMEONE HELP!”

I flinch, closing my eyes and grip your box tighter. The wood is smooth, glossy. My mom picked it out, I think. Either that or the funeral home director did. 

“Robin?” Pause. My breath is heavy, my heart pounding. “Robin? Are you there? What’s going on? Baby, are you there?” My voice is rising, panic flooding my body.

“Harley, come on.” Smooth white fingers, cool around my own hands, curl around mine, trying to get me to relax, or at the very least get my attention. 

All I hear is screaming, nonsensical commotion and sirens. Someone asks if you’re okay but it sounds too far away. “Robin?” I start to yell, trying to get your attention. If not yours, someone’s. I look around me but I can’t focus. What street am I on? Where was that shop you mentioned? I’ll meet you there…I’m supposed to meet you there…

The cool hand touches my cheek and I start with a small gasp. The hand moves quickly away. Mom’s eyes widen slightly and she bites her lip before sighing softly. 

“Sorry,” I mutter as the sounds around me become clear. I look around briefly before letting my gaze fall back on your box, at the brass name plate screwed into the wood.

Robert “Robin” Scheffield

March 26, 1986-July 6, 2014

“Your dad’s waiting outside,” Mom says softly. Her green eyes are red-rimmed from crying. I think she’s cried more than your own parents. I say that because they never bothered to show up to the memorial service. Go figure, right? Not like you weren’t already dead to them in the first place. But, fuck, they could have at least paid their respects to their own son.

Their only son…

I clench my jaw as the anger wells up in me again. There are at least a hundred people here, even your bitchy sister, but Joann and Charles Scheffield? Not even a phone call. 

Mom stands, her hands on my cheeks. I look up, my gaze once again drifting around the empty hall, one of three in Redbrick’s most popular funeral home. It’s really pretty, spacious with nice lighting. Perfect for taking pictures, I guess. At least, you would think so. I take a deep breath and exhale slowly. I can’t allow anything or anyone to get to me, not today. I just want to be with you, to hold you.

I hug your box closer to my stomach. 

I want to hold you, Robin. Not this goddamn box.

I can feel my chin tremble but no tears are forthcoming. Not one tear has sprang loose since that day no matter how badly I want to cry. Thank god for Mom; she’s cried enough for both of us. Even Dad cried. Chevy, too.

Finally, I let Mom help me up from the pew and she wraps her arm around my waist, my jacket rustling under her grip. She’s small, not even five feet tall, so her leading my six-foot-two frame out into the bright sunlight is almost comical.

Almost. 

There are still some guests mingling around, enjoying the warmth of the mid-July sun after being in the chilly hall for over an hour. Dad’s on the fringe, smoking a cigarette. I know he wants a glass of scotch but he’s being a good sport and not complaining about it. We’ll all drink when we get home.

A few people, people I don’t know, or don’t know all that well, come up to me and give me their final condolences before leaving. I’m sure they’re giving the usual platitudes, “I’m sorry for your loss,” “If there’s anything you need…,” “He’s in the arms of the Lord now,” the last one being laughable since you’re an atheist, but I’m not listening, barely even registering they’re saying anything at all. Only one statement gets my attention.

“I hope they get the bastard that did this.”

I look up and to the left. There’s a man surrounded by others, looking off into the distance, his gray eyes blank. Like mine.

Declan Howell. Your best friend from high school. He’s my friend, too, but…

He catches my eye and swallows hard, his bottom lip going under his top teeth. After a second, he drops his gaze and rubs the back of his neck. I’m about to turn to join Dad, your box tight against me, when another voice catches my ear, one with a distinctive British accent. 

“He was on the phone with Harley when it happened,” she says, as if it was your fault you got hit. “If he’d been paying attention—”

“The hell did you just say?”

My head whips back around. Declan is glaring at the inconsiderate woman, your bitchy sister, his fists clenched at his sides. Rebecca just stares blankly at him.

“I said—”

“FUCK YOU!”

The whole area goes deathly quiet, all eyes on them. I watch along with them, unable to say a word. I want to. I want to rail into her just like Declan is doing but I can’t. I just…can’t.

“You weren’t there!” he shouts. “You have no clue what happened. Harley heard everything, everything! How the fuck do you think he feels right now, huh? How do you think we all feel! How dare you blame Robin for what happened, you hateful bitch!”

Rebecca takes a step back, her hands shaking. She’s trying to keep her composure, trying to remain stoic like every other Brit I’ve met, but her eyes are wavering under the fire Declan is shooting at her. It’s not just him, of course. We’re all killing her with our eyes.

“Why did you even come here, Rebecca?” he demands. “You hated Robin! All of you judgmental asshats did!”

“It’s the polite thing to do,” she says softly, keeping her voice firm and level. 

Declan’s eyes go wide. “Polite? Is it the polite thing to do to blame the victim of a hit-and-run at his own funeral? In front of all his friends and his fiance?”

Eyes turn my way and I freeze, tensing in my mother’s arms. She puts her hand on mine, the hand on my back moving in slow, comforting circles. Dad steps over to me on my other side, flanking me as if to protect me from the unwanted attention. 

Declan’s gaze on me turns gentle, sad, understanding. We both lost you. We both loved you. His brows knit together again in rage as he points his finger in Rebecca’s impassive face.

“You people didn’t deserve him,” he snarls, a single tear tracking down his tanned skin. “Get out of here.” His voice cracks and I look away. I can’t take seeing him cry when I can’t. I can’t take seeing him cry, period. “Get the fuck gone, Rebecca. Stay gone.”

Once he’s said all he can, he gives me one final parting look, one I can’t read. His blonde hair gently waves over his forehead, obscuring his eyes for a moment. Those strange, stormcloud gray eyes. He shoves his hands in his pockets and walks quickly away, a few of his friends joining him. Rebecca stands there, watching him go, her back ramrod straight as she tries to hold on to some semblance of dignity under the intense, withering glares of the remaining guests.

She inhales deeply and looks my way. I can’t stand how cold those icy blue eyes are and it chills my blood. The wake hall was warmer. She takes a few steps toward me, her hands clasped before her. I stare back at her and say nothing. I turn a little toward Dad, protecting your box. She doesn’t even look at it.

In the most forced and insincere tone I’ve ever heard her utter, she says, “I am so sorry for your loss, Harley Cox. All the best.” She turns on her heel, blonde hair flying from her shoulder, and walks away, head held high.

I want to shout back at her, cuss her out the way Declan Howell did, tell her to take her “best wishes” and shove them straight up her ass along with the stick she already has residing there. 

I can’t. 

I can’t say a single goddamn thing. I just stand there, flanked by my parents, frozen and numb. Chevy takes that moment to join us, his hands in his trouser pockets, suit jacket undone at the collar, brown hair in a messy bun on the top of his head.

Prick.

“Well, that was entertaining,” he says without a smile. “Why’d she bother showing her face at all?” 

Dad shakes his head. “Formality,” he says. “It wouldn’t do not to make an appearance at a family member’s funeral.”

“Memorial,” I finally managed quietly, my throat thick. “It’s a memorial service. He’s already been cremated.”

I can feel Dad’s gaze on my face but my eyes are back on your box. Chevy sighs, squeezing my bicep.

“C’mon, bro, let’s get home. Nan’s probably got dinner all ready for us.” He quirks a tiny grin. “Along with half the church choir.”

I give a tiny, imperceptible nod. “‘Kay,” I mutter. I let my family lead me to Dad’s SUV and crawl silently into the back seat. Before she shuts my door, Mom leans in and kisses my cheek. I don’t look at her.

“Give it time, baby,” she says softly, and gently shuts my door. Of everything else I ignored, that was just one more to add to the list.

*