Reputation's Bloom

Chapter 132. The weight of guilt

Chapter 131

One week later

Lily

Lily sat in the front row of the church, her back straight but her body entirely still, as if the moment's weight had turned her into stone. The air around her felt suffocating, heavy with the sorrow of the day, thick with the quiet murmurings of those who had come to pay their respects. But she couldn't hear them—not really. All she could hear was the beating of her own heart, pounding in her ears, slow and aching.

Her eyes were fixed on the closed casket in front of her. It sat there in the center of the room, gleaming in the muted light, surrounded by flowers, but there was nothing about it that felt real. Nothing about this felt real.

This isn't how it's supposed to be, she thought, but the thought barely registered. It barely made sense. Gabriel—her Gabriel—wasn't in that casket. That empty box, as polished and pristine as it looked, held nothing of him. She knew it, and the knowledge sank into her bones with a hollow ache.

It was strange, she thought, that Carmen had insisted on having a casket at the funeral. What was there to see?

Gabriel's body had been consumed by fire, reduced to ash and charred fragments. She had flown back from New Mexico with his ashes, the weight of them still heavy as she clutched the small urn in her hands for the entirety of the flight. The only things they had been able to recover—the only things—were the dog tags he'd worn around his neck and his helmet.

The helmet, she thought, her chest tightening at the memory. The matte black helmet she had gotten him as a gift for their first Christmas together. The thought of it made her want to scream, to cry, to throw something, anything.

The helmet had been scratched, scuffed, the visor cracked from the impact of the accident, but it was all that remained of him. It had been the only part of him left in one piece after the wreck. The dog tag necklace had been worn and weathered, its surface smooth from years of contact with Gabriel's skin, but those things—they were all she had left.

Lily hadn't been able to look at them for days. She hadn't wanted to. The necklace, the helmet—they felt like a cruel reminder of the man she'd lost. Of the man she would never see again, the man who would never slip that helmet on again and laugh at the way it made him look, the way it protected him from the dangers of the world outside. The man who had promised to be with her, always, even if they were apart.

Across the church, Carmen's face was locked in a mask of grief that Lily knew all too well. There had been no funeral procession. No body to bury. Just the remnants of a life, a body that no longer existed, placed in a box for appearances.

The tears burned behind Lily's eyes, but she didn't allow them to fall. Not yet. Not in front of everyone. She didn't know if she had the strength for that. She kept staring at the closed casket, her mind numbing, her heart breaking a little more with every breath. Gabriel wasn't in that casket. He was gone. He was gone.

Lily's heart twisted painfully in her chest. It felt unbearable, like a constant pressure that wouldn't relent, and her fingers were clenched tightly in her lap, as if holding onto something solid might keep her from falling apart entirely. She barely noticed the presence beside her until she felt a soft, familiar touch. A hand, gentle and steady, slipping into hers.

Wendy's fingers wrapped around her own, warm and comforting in a way that made Lily's breath catch. It was a simple gesture, but it felt like a lifeline in the sea of suffocating sadness.

Lily blinked, finally breaking her gaze from the casket to look at Wendy. Her best friend's eyes were filled with sorrow, the kind of sorrow that spoke of shared pain and deep, quiet understanding. Wendy's face was composed, but there was a subtle tremor in her lips, a vulnerability in her eyes that Lily hadn't seen before. Wendy squeezed Lily's hand gently, her fingers pressing tightly as if to say, I'm here. I see you. I'm not letting you go through this alone.