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bruising, but it still isn’t close enough. I need to be closer, I need to thread my spirit through his bones so tight no one will ever be able to tear us apart again.
    “You’re here,” I whisper against his lips. “You’re really here.”
    “I tried to find you, but I couldn’t,” he says, his fingers digging into my skull, that hint of discomfort enough to confirm that this isn’t a dream.
    Gabe is alive. Alive.
    “She told me you were dead,” I sob, clutching at his shoulders when he tries to pull away, refusing to let his body move more than a few inches from mine.
    “What?”
    “Your mother. She told me you were dead,” I repeat, the words coming faster. “I didn’t want to believe her. You hadn’t been admitted to any hospital, and none of the funeral homes had your body. So I broke into Darby Hill, looking for clues, but I found an email, and ashes, and then your father sent me a letter telling me I shouldn’t come to the funeral.” I pull in a shuddery breath, but I refuse to start crying again.
    “I don’t understand.” Gabe’s brows pull together. “Whose funeral?”
    “Yours. They had a funeral. For you,” I say, knowing I’m rambling, but too keyed up to stop. “Or they faked a funeral to make sure I stopped looking for you. I don’t know. I have no idea how they could do this, how they could—”
    “Hold on a second.” Gabe blinks and uncertainty flickers in his ice blue eyes, those eyes I’ve dreamed about so many times, but have been positive I would never look into again. “You think my parents faked my death?”
    “They did,” Sherry pipes up, reminding me that we have an audience. “I know it sounds crazy, but I was there. I saw the letter your dad sent.”
    I glance up to see Sherry standing behind Gabe with the kids gathered around her. Sean and Ray looked stunned, Emmie still seems sleepy from the nap we took in the van on the way here from the airport, but it is Danny’s expression that catches my attention. Danny is staring down at me with an “oh shit” look on his face I haven’t seen since the time I caught him drinking one of Dad’s beers when he was eleven years old, and lit into him with enough fire and brimstone to make sure he hasn’t looked sideways at an alcoholic beverage since.
    I can’t imagine what has him so spooked, but then his eyes shift to his left and my gaze follows, and there she is—my big sister, Aoife. She’s wearing a gauzy floral sundress, and practically glowing with health. She looks more like a kindergarten teacher than the strung out mess I remember, a transformation that, with Gabe back from the grave, is too much for my brain to make sense of.
    Our eyes meet, and a nervous smile flickers at the edges of her lips.
    “Hey,” she says. “Should I come back later? This seems like…a weird time.”
    My first instinct is to tell her to go and never come back—we’ve managed for four years without her, and I have bigger things to deal with—but then I realize she must be here for the wake. No matter what a shit mother and big sister she’s been, I can’t very well tell her she’s not allowed to mourn her father.
    “Can you give me a couple of hours?” I ask in a tight voice as Gabe helps me to my feet and stands beside me. For a moment, I feel the loss of his touch like a physical blow, weakening my knees, but then he takes my hand and my knees firm up again. I look up at him, holding his gaze as I tell Aoife, “There’s a lot going on right now.”
    “I understand,” she says, then adds in an upbeat tone. “Would it help if I took the kids with me? We could catch up, give you two some privacy. Maybe I could take everyone for ice cream, if we can find a place that’s open this early?”
    I open my mouth to say “hell no,” but Sean is already shouting that he wants two scoops of mint chocolate chip, and Emmie is smiling up at Aoife, clearly willing to accept this stranger as a friend if she’s offering ice