Lost at the Start

Epilogue.

The longer I sat, unbeknownst, next to Riley in that backseat—dad's truck having not changed a bit since my untimely (to everyone else but me) demise—the more I wished I'd stayed back at the house and wait about half an hour until they were most likely already there and settled.

I was unreasonably anxious about seeing my own funeral, even knowing that I'd left my sort-of will, detailing how I wanted the few details I could think of within what I hoped was reason. For a funeral, anyway.

It didn't help that my three surviving family members were a whole new kind of quiet, which normally isn't a word in the Todd house, unless we're not home, or we're all sleeping. And even then, don't count on it.

Even with the car radio turned to one of the political talk shows my dad had perpetually going (even on a radio or five at the house), the stunning lack of conversation was painfully obvious.

Riley sat with her head against the window, which I couldn't remember ever actually seeing her do before. She'd always had a hand held between her fingers, smashing away at the controls, or a book for school. Maybe the occasional magazine. But now her hands were as empty as the driving look on dad's face.

After what felt like an eternity of the dreaded silence, mom twisted from the front to look at Riley. "Did you remember—"

"I've got it right here," Riley stopped her short and pulled a folded up piece of paper from a pocket I hadn't known her dress had.

Mom nodded distantly. "Are you sure you still want to—"

"Yes." Riley didn't so much as blink. "I have to mom."

The pain in her eyes was more than enough for both me and our mother, and mom nodded again before settling back into her seat.

A second or two later, and I finally understood what it was Riley had, my brain having been marginally separated from what I'd heard. The Eulogy.

Of course. That made sense.

I'd watched Riley struggle with the edits and rewrites and drafts of it for the past couple of days, resisting the urge to lean all the way over her shoulder and do it for her or fix it when she made a mistake. She'd worked harder than I ever would've expected, vying to get every last word as perfect as possible. To her, this wasn't just a eulogy, this was her way of finally saving me, her little, baby sister, when she'd had no other way until now.

In watching her, I'd come to understand that. That's why she had asked—even though I couldn't answer—if I wanted the world to understand why I'd made the choice I had. In Riley's mind, if that's what I wanted, then helping to make that possible was the last thing she could do for me. Maybe the one thing she felt like she had to do to redeem herself for not being able to save me from my decision.

Honestly, I was touched by her dedication to something so sweet that I probably didn't deserve.

Finally, finally, finally—We pulled up to a humble little church-esque building that I assumed was where the funeral and everything was happening.

Dad cut the engine, but nobody moved for a good two minutes.

"Are you ready?" Mom, tears already standing in her eyes but somehow not infiltrating her voice, turned to Riley again after undoing her seatbelt.

Closing her eyes, Riley nodded bitterly.

The three of them started opening their doors, and I jumped up and stepped out of the car—careful not to try and open it like them, because there would be no hiding or covering that kind of mistake up—almost giddily.