“I told you, I cannot make this engagement. I have a deadline to meet.”

“While you have a deadline to meet, your father has already met his deadline, and now it’s time to send off his manuscript.”

“His manuscript being his casket?”

Jane’s brows furrowed. “No. Don’t be silly. His body is the manuscript; his casket is the book cover.”

“A freaking expensive book cover, too. I can’t believe he picked one that is lined with gold.” I paused and bit my lip. “On second thought, I easily believe that. You know my father.”

“So many people will be there today. His readers, his colleagues.”

Hundreds would show up to celebrate the life of Kent Russell. “It’s going to be a circus,” I groaned. “They’ll mourn for him, in complete and utter sadness, and they’ll sit in disbelief. They’ll start pouring in with their stories, with their pain. ‘Not Kent, it can’t be. He’s the reason I even gave this writing thing a chance. Five years sober because of that man. I cannot believe he’s gone. Kent Theodore Russell, a man, a father, a hero. Nobel Prize winner. Dead.’ The world will mourn.”

“And you?” Jane asked. “What will you do?”

“Me?” I leaned back in my chair and crossed my arms. “I’ll finish my manuscript.”

“Are you sad he’s gone?” Jane asked, rubbing her stomach.

Her question swam in my mind for a beat before I answered. “No.”

I wanted to miss him.

I wanted to love him.

I wanted to hate him.

I wanted to forget him.

But instead, I felt nothing. It had taken me years to teach myself to feel nothing toward my father, to erase all the pain he’d inflicted on me, on the ones I loved the most. The only way I knew how to shut off the hurt was to lock it away and forget everything he’d ever done to me, to forget everything I’d ever wished him to be.

Once I locked the hurt away, I almost forgot how to feel completely.

Jane didn’t mind my locked-away soul, because she too didn’t feel much either.

“You answered too quickly,” she told me.

“The fastest answer is always the truest.”

“I miss him,” she said, her voice lowering, communicating her pain over the loss of my father. In many ways, Kent Russell was a best friend to millions through his storybooks, his inspirational speeches, and the persona and brand he sold to the world. I would’ve missed him too if I didn’t know the man he truly was in the privacy of his home.

“You miss him because you never actually knew him. Stop moping over a man who’s not worth your time.”

“No,” she said sharply, her voice heightened with pain. Her eyes started to water over as they’d been doing for the past few days. “You don’t get to do that, Graham. You don’t get to undermine my hurt. Your father was a good man to me. He was good to me when you were cold, and he stood up for you every time I wanted to leave, so you don’t get to tell me to stop moping. You don’t get to define the kind of sadness I feel,” she said, full-blown emotion taking over her body as she shook with a flood of tears falling from her eyes.

I tilted my head toward her, confused by her sudden outburst, but then my eyes fell to her stomach.

Hormonal mess.

“Whoa,” I muttered, a bit stunned.

She sat up straight. “What was that?” she asked, a bit frightened.

“I think you just had an emotional breakdown over the death of my father.”

She took a breath and groaned. “Oh my God, what’s wrong with me? These hormones are making me a mess. I hate everything about being pregnant. I swear I’m getting my tubes tied after this.” She stood up, trying to pull herself together, and wiped away her tears as she took more deep breaths. “Can you at least do me one favor today?”

“What’s that?”

“Can you pretend you’re sad at the funeral? People will talk if they see you smiling.”

I gave her a tight fake frown.

She rolled her eyes. “Good, now repeat after me: my father was truly loved, and he will be missed dearly.”

“My father was truly a dick, and he won’t be missed at all.”

She patted my chest. “Close enough. Now go get dressed.”

Standing up, I grumbled the whole way.

“Oh! Did you order the flowers for the service?” Jane hollered my way as I slid my white T-shirt over my head and tossed it onto the bathroom floor.

“All five thousand dollars’ worth of useless plants for a funeral that will be over in a few hours.”

“People will love them,” she told me.

“People are stupid,” I replied, stepping into the burning water falling from the showerhead. In the water, I tried my best to think of what type of eulogy I’d deliver for the man who was a hero to many but a devil to myself. I tried to dig up memories of love, moments of care, seconds of pride he’d delivered me, but I came up blank. Nothing. No real feelings could be found.

The heart inside my chest—the one he’d helped harden—remained completely numb.

“Here lies Mari Joy Palmer, a giver of love, peace, and happiness. It’s a shame the way she left the world. It was sudden, unspeakable, and more painful than I’d ever thought it would be.” I stared down at Mari’s motionless body and wiped the back of my neck with a small towel. The early morning sun beamed through the windows as I tried my best to catch my breath.

“Death by hot yoga.” Mari sighed, inhaling deeply and exhaling unevenly.

I laughed. “You’re going to have to get up, Mari. They have to set up for the next class.” I held my hand out toward my sister, who was lying in a puddle of sweat. “Let’s go.”

“Go on without me,” she said theatrically, waving her invisible flag. “I surrender.”

“Oh no you don’t. Come on.” I grabbed her arms and pulled her to a standing position, with her resisting the whole way up. “You went through chemotherapy, Mari. You can handle hot yoga.”

“I don’t get it,” she whined. “I thought yoga was supposed to make you feel grounded and bring about peace, not buckets of sweat and disgusting hair.”

I smirked, looking at her shoulder-length hair that was frizzy and knotted on top of her head. She’d been in remission for almost two years now, and we’d been living our lives to the fullest ever since then, including opening the flower shop.