Chapter 16 - The Final Friday: Mom's Funeral

(Trish’s POV)

The morning of the first Friday arrived not with a bang, but with a suffocating, gray silence. It was the day I had traded my pride for, begged Miss Britney for, and spent every waking second dreading. The day the last physical evidence of my mother’s existence would be lowered into the unforgiving earth of Mthland City.

I sat on the edge of my bed in the Roland mansion, staring at the black dress Miss Britney had got for me. It hanged there on the closet door. It looked like a shadow waiting to swallow me whole. 

My hands were shaking so violently I had to sit on them to make them stop. In Canada, we were poor, but we had the sun. Here, in this sprawling house of marble and secrets, the air felt like it was made of lead.

A soft knock sounded at the door. I expected Miss Britney, with her gentle eyes and the scent of expensive vanilla, coming to tell me it was time. Instead, the door creaked open to reveal Joseph.

He wasn't the "King of Mthland" today. He wasn't wearing his varsity jacket or that insufferable, cocky smirk that usually made me want to scream. He was dressed in a charcoal suit that made him look older, harder, and somehow more fragile. His tie was slightly crooked, and for the first time, his hair wasn't perfectly styled. Although, he looked like he hadn't slept in days.

He didn't say a word. He walked into my room, his presence filling the space until the walls felt like they were closing in. He stopped a few feet away, his dark eyes searching mine. I wanted to look away, to hide the raw, jagged pieces of my heart, but I couldn't.

"You're not ready," he said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp.

"I’ll never be ready, Joseph," I whispered, the words catching in my throat. "How do you prepare to say goodbye to the only person who ever truly saw you?"

Joseph took a step closer. Something between us changed, the usual electric hostility replaced by something heavy and solemn. 

"You don't. You just show up. You breathe in, and you breathe out, and you let the ground take what it needs so you can keep what's left." He spoke softly, avoiding my eyes, shy about voicing something he almost never said aloud.

I looked down at my bare feet, a single tear splashing onto my knee. 

"I'm scared. I'm scared that once she's under the ground, I'll forget the sound of her laugh. I'm scared I'll wake up and realize I'm completely alone in this house." I broke down, burying my face in my palms.

Suddenly, he knelt on the floor in front of me, forcing me to look at him. His large, calloused hands, the hands that threw winning touchdowns and pushed people out of his way in the hallways, reached out and gently took mine. They were warm. So incredibly warm.

"You aren't alone, Trish," he said, his gaze intense, almost desperate. "I know I’m an arrogant prick. I know I’ve made your life a living hell since you got here. But today? Today, I’m just the guy who’s not going to let you fall. Do you hear me?"

I nodded, a sob escaping my lips. He didn't pull away. He held my hands until the shaking subsided, a silent anchor in the middle of my storm.

The drive to the cemetery was a blur of rain-streaked windows and Miss Britney’s quiet sniffing from the front seat. Joseph sat next to me in the back, his shoulder brushing mine. He didn't try to talk, and for that, I was grateful. He just existed beside me, a solid, breathing wall of protection.

When we arrived, the reality hit me like a physical blow. The black umbrellas, the fresh mound of dirt, the mahogany casket that held the woman who used to sing to me while she worked two jobs. I couldn't get out of the car. My legs felt like they had turned to water.

The door opened, and Joseph stood there, holding an umbrella. He reached in and offered me his hand.

"One step," he whispered. "Just one."

I took his hand, and he practically lifted me out. As we walked toward the grave, the wind whipped around us, cold and biting. I felt the eyes of the few attendees on us, mostly Miss Britney’s friends and a few coworkers, but I didn't care. All I could feel was Joseph’s arm winding around my waist, pulling me flush against his side. 

It wasn't sexual. It wasn’t about his so-called “badboy” persona, which had already shown itself the very first time he held my waist, unwanted. It was survival.

The priest’s voice was a drone, words about 'ashes to ashes' and 'eternal rest' floating away in the wind. I stared at the casket, my heart screaming. *Don't leave me. Please don't leave me.*

As they began to lower her down, the world started to tilt. The gray sky spun, and the sound of the dirt hitting the wood sounded like a gunshot. My knees buckled. I was going down, ready to sink into the mud right alongside her.

But I didn't hit the ground.

Joseph’s arms caught me, sweeping me up before I could collapse. He held me against his chest, his heart beating a frantic, steady rhythm against my ear. I buried my face in his neck, my tears soaking into his expensive suit, and finally, I let it out. I wailed, a raw, guttural sound of pure agony that seemed to echo across the silent graveyard.

"Shh," he murmured into my hair, his own voice thick with emotion. "I’ve got you. I’m right here. I’m not letting go."

He stood there for what felt like hours, holding me while I fell apart. He didn't care that he was getting wet, or that his suit was ruined, or that his mother and others who attended were all staring at us with a mixture of heartbreak and realization. In that moment, the war was over. There was no more hate, no more snarky comments, no more 'obnoxious' Joseph Roland. There was just two broken people clinging to each other in a world that had taken too much.

(Joseph’s POV)

Holding her felt like holding a bird with broken wings. Every sob that racked Trish’s small frame felt like a punch to my own gut. I had spent weeks teasing her, making light of her grief because I didn't know how to handle the sheer weight of it. 

My father had taught me that emotions were a weakness, that being a 'man' meant being made of stone.

But as I stood over that open grave, feeling Trish’s hot tears on my skin, I realized my father was a liar. This wasn't weakness. This was the most real thing I had ever felt.

I looked down at the top of her head, the rain matting her dark hair. I wanted to kill the world for doing this to her. I wanted to go back in time and punch myself for every cruel thing I’d said to her since she arrived. She was so small, so fragile, yet she had more strength in her pinky finger than I had in my entire body.

"It's over, Trish," I whispered, my voice breaking. "She's at peace now."

She pulled back just enough to look at me. Her eyes were swollen, her face blotchy, and she looked absolutely beautiful in her devastation. "Why are you doing this, Joseph? Why are you being nice to me?"

I looked away for a second, unable to bear the honesty in her gaze. "Because I can't stand to see you break. And because... because I think I’m the only one who knows exactly how much it hurts to lose someone who's still alive."

I was thinking of my father, the man who was a ghost in my own house, but I didn't say it. I didn't have to. Trish reached up, her small hand trembling as she touched my cheek. Her thumb brushed away a stray drop of rain, or maybe it was a tear of my own. I didn't know anymore.

"Thank you," she breathed.

We got into the car, and as we drove away, I looked back at the cemetery one last time. My mother’s best friend was gone. Trish’s world was over. And as the gates of the graveyard closed behind us,

But as I looked at Trish, who had finally fallen into a fitful, exhausted sleep against my shoulder, I realized I didn't care about the school. I felt happier. For the first time in eighteen years, I had something worth protecting. And God help anyone who tried to get in my way.