By the Book

Chapter Forty-Three: The Strength of Family

The dining room felt heavy, as though the walls themselves were absorbing our grief. It was silent except for the soft click of keys and the hum of our laptops. Tyler sat with one hand braced against his temple, his fingers tapping an uneven rhythm against his cheek. His laptop screen glowed with the sterile light of spreadsheets and search results, but his eyes were clouded, distant as if he were seeing something far beyond the screen. His forehead creased as he scrolled through an endless list of funeral homes, florists, and catering services. My own screen mirrored his, the cursor blinking over an incomplete guest list.

The air in the house was stale and heavy, the faint smell of coffee lingering from the pot Tyler had made hours ago. The dining room's soft overhead light cast long shadows across the table, mingling with the bluish glow of our laptops. It felt like we were suspended in a bubble, the rest of the world moving forward while we were stuck in the stillness of loss. The windows were closed, the curtains drawn, as though the house itself was in mourning. Every now and then, I'd catch a glimpse of Tyler glancing at me, his lips pressed into a tight line, but neither of us broke the silence.

"Did you hear back from Harrington's?" I asked finally, my voice low, cutting through the oppressive quiet.

Tyler shook his head without looking up. "Not yet. I'll call them in the morning if they don't email tonight." He typed something else into his search bar, his jaw tightening.

I nodded, letting the silence settle again. My chest ached from the weight of it all—Dad's passing, the arrangements, the strain of holding myself together when it felt like everything inside me had fractured.

"I've got the guest list down to about thirty-five," I said, breaking the quiet again. "Just immediate family and close friends. I figure Mom doesn't need the added stress of a big crowd."

Tyler nodded, his fingers pausing over his keyboard. "That's good. Mom's barely eating, let alone talking about this stuff. We'll need to take care of the RSVPs, too."

"Yeah." I stared at the list, my eyes blurring slightly. The names felt heavy, each one a reminder of what we'd lost. I blinked hard, forcing myself to focus.

A memory from a few days ago flickered to the forefront of my mind, uninvited. Miles's voice, soft and hesitant, played in a loop: If you need anything, anything at all, I'm here.

I'd saved the voicemail but never responded. The thought of calling him back felt like standing at the edge of a cliff—one step and I'd fall, no way to stop myself.

"Hey," I said, glancing up at Tyler. "Did you... call Miles?"

He froze for a fraction of a second, his eyes snapping up to meet mine. "What?"

"Miles," I repeated, shifting uncomfortably in my seat. "Did you call him after Dad passed? Or tell him to call me?"

Tyler's brow furrowed, genuine confusion crossing his face. "No. Why would I do that?"

I shrugged, looking back down at my laptop. "Never mind. Forget I said anything."

He didn't press me, his attention shifting back to his screen. But the knot in my chest tightened. 

"Hey, guys," Ben's voice interrupted, his footsteps soft as he walked into the room. He was still in his pajamas, a wrinkled hoodie pulled over his head, his hair sticking up in every direction. He rubbed at his eyes, looking younger than his years. But when he shifted his weight and glanced at me, I saw something else: the quiet determination of someone trying to hold things together in a way no sixteen-year-old should have to.

He didn't press me, his attention shifting back to his screen. But the knot in my chest tightened. If Tyler hadn't reached out to Miles... then who—

"Hey, guys," Ben's voice interrupted, his footsteps soft as he walked into the room. He was still in his pajamas, a wrinkled hoodie pulled over his head, his hair sticking up in every direction. He rubbed at his eyes, looking younger than his years.