blood drain from Allie’s face, watches her begin to shiver.
The sermon is mercifully brief, and he thinks maybe it’s over, maybe they can go somewhere, anywhere, away from here, but then four solemn young people file up to the graveside, all carrying instruments. Two violins. A viola.
And a cello.
“Oh no,” Steph breathes. “I told them not to.”
Two men place folding chairs, and the kids sit and begin to play.
Braden braces himself, but it’s no good. The music insinuates its way past all of his defenses, goes straight to his heart. He’s not the only one. He sees Allie’s face go even whiter, sees her knees begin to buckle. He’s at her side before he knows what he’s doing. His arm goes around her waist, supporting her.
He bends and whispers in her ear, “Just breathe, little bird. I’ve got you.”
She softens into him, letting him take her weight, and the moment of trust is a thread of light in all of the grief and darkness and guilt. Even when the music mercifully ends, Allie doesn’t pull away. He holds her while friends and acquaintances come by to offer condolences, letting Alexandra revel in the pressing hands, the hugs, the lugubrious sighs and sobs.
“Yes, I agree, she is irreplaceable . . . So sad, so tragic . . . Yes, his life was cut off so short, but God knows best . . .”
“Whoa,” Steph says. “What is he doing here?”
Braden follows her gaze and sees a tall boy walking toward them. Glossy black hair, black jeans, black motorcycle jacket, black helmet dangling from one hand. His eyes are the luminous amber of a panther, and that’s what he reminds Braden of. A hunter on the prowl. His arm tightens, reflexively, around his daughter.
Allie pulls away.
“Ethan. Hi.”
“Hey,” he says, standing so close that Braden can smell leather and cologne. All of the hackles rise on the back of his neck.
“Not much to say, I know. Hang in there.” The boy nods, as if he’s said something deep, and then he makes his way through the thinning group of people toward the parking lot.
Both girls watch his retreating back.
“Whoa,” Steph says again, a little breathlessly.
Allie says nothing.
“You want me to come over?” Steph asks. “Or you can come back to my house. Whatever you want.”
“Not tonight. I’ll text you.”
“Come, Allie,” Alexandra says. “You’re as pale as a ghost. Let’s get you home.”
When Allie doesn’t answer, her aunt clamps a capable hand around her wrist and tows her toward the car. Allie doesn’t resist, doesn’t look back.
Braden, uninvited, unsure of his place in any of this, stays where he is. His arm still feels warm from sheltering his daughter. As she moves away from him, loss fills him, is going to choke him. He can’t let her go again. Whether she wants him or not, whether he deserves it or not, he needs her.
At the same moment as he takes a step to follow, Allie stops short and wrenches her arm from Alexandra’s grasp.
“Wait. Dad’s coming, too.”
“Let’s discuss that later,” Alexandra says, impatient. “You can call him.”
“No. He’s coming now.”
“Allie.” He breathes her name, takes another step toward her.
“You are coming with us.”
“I guess we could give you a ride to . . . wherever you’re crashing these days,” Alexandra concedes. “Is it far?”
“No,” Allie says. “He’s coming to the house. With me. To stay.”
“Allie, I don’t think—”
“You owe me,” she insists. “I won’t go with Aunt Alexandra. I won’t go into foster care. Clearly, I need a parent, and guess what? I have one.”
“Allie, honey, listen to reason,” Alexandra says. She glances around, judging how many people are listening, how much of a scene is being made.
“No, you listen,” Allie says. “Both of you. This is how it’s going to be. In six months, I’ll be eighteen, and then I can do whatever I want. So I need a father for six fucking months, and then we’re all free of each other. Surely you can give me six months of your life?”
Her eyes, so very like Braden’s own, lock on to his.
“You can’t be serious!” Alexandra looks from one to the other, finally forgetting about bystanders in her clear outrage. “The social services people—”
“The social services people will be happy to have an easy solution. They don’t like the Canada thing. It’s a legal hassle for them. There’s not really room at Steph’s. And they don’t have enough foster homes. And even if they did, I am not going to be in one.”
“We’ll