“You’re tan,” Mirai says.

I turn my eyes on her, seeing her sunglasses dangle from her fingers, her hair pulled back in a tight, low ponytail.

I love how she looks. She wears a black pencil skirt and a black jacket, a shiny black belt secured around her waist with high heels. Our personal shopper, on the other hand, seems to think I’m still twelve in the dress they prepared for me. I’m covering it up with a long black coat, and since I have gloves on, Mirai must be talking about my face, the only visible skin.

I nod.

“Did you like it up there?”

“Yeah,” I murmur.

I liked them.

The empty seat next to me weighs heavy, and I wish Jake was here. He offered, didn’t he? I had to open my big mouth and refuse.

I haven’t eaten much since I arrived, either. The food here tastes different.

“I spoke to him on the phone while you were there,” Mirai tells me. “Your uncle, I mean. I was afraid he’d be a jerk.” She laughs a little. “He had a real attitude.”

I smile to myself, looking back out the window. “Yeah, he does,” I whisper.

But I’m full of pride. I like him that way.

“I invited them,” she says. “I offered to bring them out.”

“They’ll never leave Colorado.”

Noah, maybe. Jake, unwillingly. And Kaleb…I can’t see him anywhere else.

My breathing turns ragged as I think about what time it is there and what they’re probably doing right now. Noah would be off doing his test runs, wasting way more time than he was allowed, and Jake will yell at him when he gets back before ordering him inside to help me with lunch…

But no. I drop my eyes.

I’m not in the kitchen. Noah will make lunch himself.

Or run to town for cheeseburgers.

I wonder if he got that stain off the seat. Knowing Noah, he just left it. He’s so lazy about some things.

“The reverend will speak first,” Mirai speaks up, “followed by me, George Palmer, Cassidy Lee, and then Delmont Williams.”

I sit back in my seat and look out the front windshield, past the driver, to see the hearse carrying my parents. First to the funeral. Then to the crematorium.

My throat swells.

“The reverend will then ask if anyone else would like to say something,” she continues in a slow, soft voice. “If you decide you want to speak, feel free to go ahead then, okay?”

Her voice is like she’s explaining this to a child. Like she’s afraid I’ll wake up screaming if she’s too loud.

“You don’t have to do that,” I tell her. “You don’t have to talk like that. I’m not asleep.”

She stares at me, drawing in a deep breath as her eyes start to glisten. And then she turns away, so I won’t see.

“Do you remember your night terrors?” she asks, staring out the window. “We talked about them when you were little.”

They came back in Colorado. I haven’t told her that, and I won’t.

“It happened every night,” she explains. “We would wake you up, stop your screaming, and then put you back to sleep.”

I vaguely remember it. I was so young.

She swallows. “One night, I just waited for you to fall asleep,” she says, “and I crawled in next to you.”

She looks back at me.

“Nothing. No terrors,” she tells me. “And the next night, the same thing. No terrors when I slept with you.”

My chin trembles, and I clench my jaw to stop it.

A tear falls down her cheek as she can only manage a whisper. “You just needed what everyone needs,” she tells me. “A home.”

I tighten my fists, trying to keep my breathing steady.

“It’s not a place, Tiernan. It’s a feeling.” Her voice shakes. “Even when you grew out of the terrors, you still only managed four or five hours of sleep a night in that house. With them. That’s why I wasn’t upset when they sent you away to school when you were only eleven.” She sniffles, a sob escaping as she looks away. “Maybe, finally, you’d sleep.”

The car stops and the door opens, Mirai quickly putting on her sunglasses and wiping tears away as she climbs out.

It takes a moment to get my limbs moving.

It’s a feeling.

A feeling. Not a place.

I close my eyes a moment, feeling the sun on the peak on my face. And my arms around my uncle as I sit behind him on the horse.

I step out of the car, barely registering the cameras and the chatter from the reporters as I blindly follow Mirai up the steps of the church. People are talking to me, taking my hand and giving it a little hug with both of theirs, but I can’t think.

I don’t feel good.

Why did I come back? I thought I needed to do this. Be here. It’s only right, right?

I swallow the sickness rising up my throat.

People crowd us, all hungry for something, and even though I couldn’t stomach opening up my social media when I got into town, it’s clear my parents’ suicide is still top news.

Hell, some director is probably already pitching the story to a production company, so my parents’ death can be lamented in some TV movie where they’ll be portrayed as perfect and in love from the moment they met. And me, their loving daughter—the product of their Shakespearean tragedy—will only be a significant character at the end… as I stand at their headstone and smile that they’re finally safely together for all eternity.

I take a seat in the front pew with Mirai, the only good part of all this is no one expects much from the grieving daughter, so I can sit quietly without looking weird for once.

I close my eyes behind my glasses again. Two days ago, I was making toys for the horses—milk jugs stuck with carrots and apples they could play with to get their treats. Were the jugs empty by now? Kaleb doesn’t care, and Noah probably wouldn’t notice.

I don’t know when the funeral begins, but when Mirai nudges me and whispers in my ear, “Glasses,” to remind me to remove my eyewear, I open my eyes and see the caskets in front of me.

I take off my glasses, folding them gently and slipping them into my pocket.

The speakers go up, one by one over the next hour, telling stories I’d never heard and painting a picture of people I didn’t know. I sit there, listening to Mirai talk about what a pleasure it was to be a part of their lives and support their work, while Cassidy (no double e) and Mr. Palmer tell stories of their youth and early careers, their charitable work a large part of the narrative the publicist probably asked them to push to remind people that how they left this world wasn’t the most important thing.

As Delmont, my father’s closest friend, stands up there and talks about their college football days and summers backpacking in Turkey or Chile or wherever, Mirai puts her hand on mine to alert me it’s almost time.

My stomach churns. I could talk about their work, I guess. How they were an inspiration to me, and I could lie about all the cards and presents they surprised me with at school, even though it was Mirai, and I always knew it was her, even though she gave them the credit.

I could talk about what I’ve learned from my uncle and cousins. And then say I learned it from my parents instead.

I don’t want to be quiet anymore. I want to prove to them that they didn’t break me. That I won’t let them affect my voice and my ability to be brave.