Page 124 of Shades of Grey & Gold

His eyes fill with sadness—no. Sympathy?

Pity, I decide.

“I thought maybe you’d eat it? They usually leave them on pillows here, but we haven’t had turndown service.”

I swallow and down goes the small, stupid hope that filled me at the sight of the mint.

Like maybe he was here. Or somewhere.

I turn around and throw the mint on the table, crawl into bed, and wait for the ringing in my ears to start.

Chapter Forty-Four

Max

Thefuneralisallblack fabric and old men who speak to Nico and not to me unless they want to feel better about themselves.

The church is full of people—but not soft like it’s filled with love.

It’s the hard, architectural black and white of men in expensive suits who showed up because they had some obligation, because in a room like this one everything means something.

And yet, nothing means anythinganymore.

I sit in the front row.

Nico put me there.

I didn’t argue, even though it felt wrong.

The priest is saying something I don’t hear. Something about comfort, eternal peace, beloved something. The standard melancholy of grief assembled for a man none of these people in this room know the way I do.

Did. The way Idid.

There are no stories about his life.

No anecdotes, no eulogies. Just scripture and the smell of incense and flowers, white and everywhere, and a closed casket at the front of the room I have been staring at the whole time. Not believing it’s real.

But it is. Just as real as the grip on my hand.

Their mother is to my left. She holds my hand with both of hers and has not let go since we sat down. Her grip is the only real thing in the room, I think, because everything else feels fake, surreal, unbelievable.

I focus on the pressure of her fingers as the words pass over my head and the people stand around us.

Sophia is crying quietly next to her mother, and Maggie, next to Sophia, has her face turned slightly away from the casket, like if she doesn’t look at it she can pretend it isn’t real.

This can’t be real.

I look at Nico. He is standing up beside me, in the front row where he should be as the brother, which is where he has been since we arrived. Gio and Rudi are somewhere in here, but Nico has stayed by my side since we left the hotel this morning. He’s present, composed and appropriately solemn in a way that only a man who grew up around people like this could be. His suit is pressed perfectly, his hair is coiffed and his face is clean shaven.

His face is arranged correctly, but almost blankly.

And I see him glance at his watch for the third time in twenty minutes.

I noticed it the first time and filed it away.

The second time, I wondered if he had somewhere to be, some other obligation that couldn’t possibly be rescheduled even for the funeral of his older brother—his only brother.

But this third time sends anger coursing through my veins.