Page 17 of Reaper’s Wrath

Two.

I don’t want to sleep, but I don’t want to sit here, either, so I get up and do something I haven’t done in a very long time. I find myself in my brother’s old room.

Ario was two years older than me. My protector, especially after Mom died. Dad was devastated, so Ario and I turned to each other to cope. I don’t know how I would have survived without him.

Then he was gone, too, and my world shattered.

His room remains untouched since the day of the car crash that took his life, aside from regular cleanings by the housekeeping crew. The queen bed still has the same tan comforter with navy sham pillows, and the walls are a slightly darker shade of camel. Yankees paraphernalia litters the room. I trail my fingers over one of the felt pennant flags fixed to the wall. He watched every game he could and would update me with trade news and stats all the time. I would roll my eyes and laugh at him for being so obsessed.

What I wouldn’t give for him to bore me with those tidbits now.

I veer over to the dresser where a frame holds a photo taken the summer before he died. Ario stands with his two best friends, DiAngelo and Elio, on either side of him, the three arm in arm with infectious grins on their faces. They were eighteen months apart in age, but that never seemed to bother them. It’s heartbreaking to think two of the three lost their lives at such young ages. Ario died at nineteen, and Elio was seventeen.

I’m reminded that as hard as it was to lose my brother, DiAngelo lost his twin and their best friend, all in a matter of months. I was too devastated at the time to help him with his grief. It had to have been crippling.

I’m so happy he’s found Terina. It’s the first time I’ve seen him happy in twenty years. Not that I’ve spent much time around him. I went years without seeing him after Ario died. It was too hard to see him and not think of what I lost. It was easier to just … not.

Why has my happiness for him somehow twisted into a strange sort of longing in recent weeks? It’s made being around him hard again, and I hate that. I’ve come so far from the staggering desolation of my grief. The last thing I want is to regress to a place of isolation, especially when I need my family and friends more than ever.

I still miss Ario, but I’m finally able to think about him fondly without the searing pain of loss marring my memories. This photo of him with his friends is a perfect example. Seeing him so blissfully happy warms my heart and is exactly what I need with me on my last night in the only home I’ve ever known.

I take the framed photo back to my room, place it on the dresser, then crawl into bed. I spent most of the day packing. Between that and the emotional gymnastics I’ve been up to, exhaustion has finally set in.

I close my eyes and feel the pull of sleep. I shoo away any lingering worries with the reminder that nothing has to change after the wedding, which had better be true because after the ceremony, there’ll be no going back.

CHAPTER 9

ISA

“Isa, love. It’s time. We need to get going,” Dad yells from downstairs.

My heart pounds like the hooves of a herd of wild horses—chaotic and thunderous.

I take one more look around my old bedroom. Three large suitcases and two boxes sit by the door, waiting to be transported to my new home later today. If I’ve forgotten anything, I can always come back and get it.

I can always come back.

Breathe, Isa.

My dress is already in the car. I’ll put it on and finish my makeup at the church. I make sure to toss my heels into one of the two tote bags I’ve been filling with supplies for today and haul the bags onto my shoulder.

I’m about to head out when I notice the framed photo of Ario and the twins. I don’t know why, but I don’t want to leave it behind. It’s not a photo that I tend to look at when I’m feeling reminiscent. Usually, when I miss him, I glance through one of my old albums with pictures of my brother and me, because it takes me back to our time together. I have no connection to this picture, yet it’s calling to me.

“Isa!” Dad yells, calling me as well in a much more tangible way.

“Coming!” I toss the framed photo into one of my bags, then hurry for the stairs.

Two hours later, I’m dressed, coifed, preened, and polished. My younger cousins who are serving as my bridesmaids have flitted in and out of the room. Apparently, my wedding colors are a deep emerald green and dusky rose. Not what I would have picked, but that’s fine.

“I’m going to go check with your dad and let him know we’re all ready back here.” Rina gives my arms a gentle squeeze, then disappears from the office where we’ve taken up residence. The church administration building is connected to the main sanctuary by an exterior walkway, which is nice because I can’t hear any of the guests or preparations.

It’s quiet over here, and I feel surprisingly calm, though it’s likely more numbness than anything else. I seem to be moving through time in a soupy haze. Like none of this is real. Maybe it isn’t.

Reality is relative, right?

Maybe I’m about to marry the man of my dreams and find true love. If I believe it’s true, maybe it will be.

That’s it. I’ve officially cracked under the pressure.