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1
Rowan
The last time I attended a funeral, I ended up with a broken arm. The story made headlines after I threw myself into my mother’s open grave. It’s been over two decades since that day, and while I’ve completely changed as a person, my aversion to mourning hasn’t. But due to my responsibilities as my late grandfather’s youngest relative, I’m expected to stand tall and unbothered during his wake. It’s nearly impossible, with my skin itching like I’m wearing a cheap polyester suit.
My patience wanes as the hours go on, with hundreds of Kane employees and business partners offering their condolences. If there’s anything I hate more than funerals, it’s talking to people. There are only a few individuals I tolerate, and my grandfather was one of them.
And now he’s gone.
The burning sensation in my chest intensifies. I don’t know why it bothers me as much as it does. I’ve had time to prepare while he was in a coma yet the strange sensation above my rib cage returns with a vengeance whenever I think of him.
I run a hand through my dark hair to give myself something to do.
“I’m sorry for your loss, son.” A nameless attendee interrupts my thoughts.
“Son?” The one word leaves my mouth with enough venom to make the man wince.
The gentleman centers his tie across his chest with fumbling hands. “I’m—well—uh.”
“Excuse my brother. He’s struggling with his grief.” Cal places a hand on my shoulder and gives it a squeeze. His vodka and mint-coated breath hits my face, making me scowl. My middle brother might look dressed to the nines in a pressed suit and perfectly styled blond hair, but his red-rimmed eyes tell a completely different story.
The man mumbles a few words I don’t bother listening to before heading for the nearest exit.
“Struggling with my grief?” Although I don’t like the idea of my grandfather’s passing, I’m not struggling with anything but uncomfortable heartburn today.
“Relax. That’s the kind of thing people say at funerals.” Two blond brows pull together as Cal stares me down.
“I don’t need an excuse for my behavior.”
“No, but you need a reason for scaring off our biggest Shanghai hotel investor.”
“Fuck.” There’s a reason I prefer solitude. Small talk requires far too much effort and diplomacy for my taste.
“Can you try to be nicer for one more hour? At least until all the important people leave?”
“This is me trying.” My left eye twitches as I press my lips together.
“Well, do better. For him.” Cal tilts his head toward the picture above the fireplace.
I let out a shaky breath. The photograph was taken during a family trip to Dreamland when my brothers and I were kids. Grandpa smiles into the lens despite my tiny arms wrapped around his neck in a chokehold. Declan stands by Grandpa’s side, caught in the middle of an eye roll while Cal raises two fingers behind his head. My father shows a rare sober smile as he wraps an arm around Grandpa’s shoulder. If I try hard enough, I can imagine Mom’s laugh as she snapped the photo. While the memory of her face is fuzzy, I can make out her smile if I think hard enough.
A weird scratchiness in my throat makes it difficult to swallow.
Residual allergies from spring in the city. That’s all.
I clear my irritated throat. “He would have hated this kind of show.” Although Grandpa was in the entertainment business, he disliked being the center of attention. The idea of all these people driving out to the edge of Chicago for him would have made his eyes roll if he was still here.
Cal shrugs. “He of all people knew what was expected of him.”
“A networking event disguised as a funeral?”
The side of Cal’s lips lifts into a small smile before falling back into a flat line. “You’re right. Grandpa would be horrified because he always said Sunday was a day of rest.”
“There’s no rest for the wicked.”
“And even less for the wealthy.” Declan stops by my other side. He stares at the crowd of people with an unrelenting scowl. My oldest brother has intimidating people down to a science, with everyone avoiding his pitch-black stare. His suit matches his dark hair, which only adds to his cloak and dagger look.
I’m somewhat jealous of Declan since people typically talk to me first, mistaking me as the nicest child because I happen to be the youngest. I might have been born last, but I most certainly wasn’t born yesterday. The only reason guests take the time to speak to us is because they want to stay within our good graces. That kind of fake treatment is to be expected. Especially when all the people we associate with have a moral compass pointed permanently toward hell.
An unknown couple walks up to the three of us. A woman pulls out a tissue from her purse to dab her dry eyes while her counterpart offers us his hand to shake. I look down at it like he might transfer a disease.
His cheeks flush as he tucks his hand back into his pocket. “I wanted to offer my condolences. I’m very sorry for your loss. Your grandfather—”
I tune him out with a nod. This is going to be one hell of a long night.
This one’s for you, Grandpa.
I stare down at the white envelope. My name is written across the front in my grandpa’s elegant cursive. I flip it over, finding it untampered with his signature Dreamland’s Princess Cara’s Castle wax seal.
The lawyer finishes passing out the other letters to my two brothers. “You’re required to read his individual letters prior to me reviewing Mr. Kane’s final will and testament.”
My throat tightens as I break the seal and pull out my letter. It’s dated exactly a week before Grandpa’s accident three years ago that led to his coma.
To my sweet little Rowan,
I choke back on a laugh. Sweet and little are the last words I’d use to describe myself since I’m as tall as an NBA player with the emotional range of a rock, but Grandpa was blissfully ignorant. It was the best thing about him and the absolute worst depending on the situation.
Although you’re a man now, you’ll always be the same little lad in my eyes. I still remember the day your mother gave birth to you like it was yesterday. You were the largest of the three, with these fat cheeks and a head full of dark hair that I was sadly jealous of. You sure had a pair of lungs in you and you wouldn’t stop crying until they handed you over to your mom. It was like everything was right in the world when you were in her arms.
I reread the paragraph twice. It’s strange to hear my grandpa talk about my mother so casually. The subject became taboo in my family until I could barely remember her face or her voice anymore.
I know I’ve been busy with work and that I didn’t spend as much time as I should’ve with you all. It was easy to blame the company for the physical and emotional distance in my relationships. When your mother died, I wasn’t sure what to do or how to help. With your father pushing me away, I devoted myself to my job until I became numb to everything else. It worked when my wife died and it worked when your mother met a similar passing, but I realize that it set your father up for failure. And in doing that, I failed you all as well. Instead of teaching Seth how to live a life after great loss, I showed him how to hold on to despair, and it only hurt you and your brothers in the end. Your father parented in the only way he knew how, and I’m the one to blame.