DOM: Alliance Series Book Three
S.J. Tilly
Prologue
VAL （AGE 9）
It seems strange that so many people, even when they aren’t talking, can make so much noise.
Heels clicking on the polished wood floors. Whispered excuse mes. The swooshing of skirts.
My fingers tangle in my black skirt.
Mom said she bought it new for me, but I know she didn’t. It had that smell, the one clothes have when they come from that big store filled with other people’s old stuff. But I shook it out a bunch. And I think I got the smell out. Mostly, at least.
I squeeze the fabric tighter.
Most of the people here are adults, and I know they dress differently than kids, but I still feel… out of place. Like I don’t belong here. But that’s stupid because— “Valentine,” Mom hisses, keeping her voice quiet.
I glance down and realize I’ve accidentally pulled my skirt up over my knees. I can sense her movement before I see it and manage to jerk my arm away just in time to avoid one of her pinches.
I don’t dare look up at her. I know she’ll be narrowing her eyes at me in that way she does. So I quickly push my skirt back into place and sit up straighter, folding my hands in my lap.
The pew is hard underneath my butt, and I have to fight the urge to wiggle.
This is my first funeral.
The church is huge. Like so much bigger than any place I’ve ever been in. And it looks just like it does in movies. The super high ceiling and colorful windows. The people dressed all in black with their murmured voices. The fancy floral arrangements on either side of the shiny casket. And the giant portrait of Dad framed in swirly gold.
I’m old enough to understand what’s going on, what death is. And it looks just like I imagined it would. Except I don’t know why my mom and I are sitting way back here. Shouldn’t we be up front? In the first row? Isn’t that where family is supposed to sit? And even though Dad didn’t live with us—because he was a busy businessman—we’re still family. He always told me we were family.
My throat tightens, and I drop my eyes away from Dad’s smiling face and stare at my hands. My knuckles turn a whitish color as I squeeze my fingers together.
I want to ask Mom if we can move up a few rows, but the spots are already full. And she’s been extra mean lately, so asking her questions now seems like a bad idea.
I remember one of my teachers telling us that everyone deals with emotions in different ways. But I don’t know that she’s sad about Dad, because she hasn’t cried at all.
Not like me.
I miss Dad. It’s been months since I’ve seen him. And last time…
Something in my chest twists as I think of it.
Last time, when Mom was still asleep, he made me a peanut butter sandwich for breakfast. It was good. And he made one for himself and sat with me at the little table. And when we were halfway done, I asked Dad if I could live with him.
Mom would be mad if she heard me say it, so I whispered it.
It took all my courage. But Dad loved me. He always said so.
Except, when I asked him, the smile on his mouth slipped away.
The look on his face made my heart hurt. So I scooted my chair closer to his, and even more quietly, I said, “Please.”
A small whimper catches in my chest as I remember the way he shook his head.
I wanted him to say yes so badly.
I was sure if I found the time to ask him, he’d say yes.
Because he said he loved me.
But he didn’t say yes.
He just shook his head.
Tears start to fill my eyes all over again, and I’m too busy blinking them away to notice the next pinch aimed at the soft spot on the back of my arm.
I jump and press my lips together hard, trapping in the cry that wants to escape.
I will the stinging ache to go away and stare straight ahead, looking at Dad’s photo.
We have the same hair color. His had gray in it, but he always told me mine was just like his when he was younger. The different shades of brown. The way it’s thick and straight. He even brought me a picture of himself from when he was in high school. I’m not that old yet, but he was right. Our hair is the same.
I wonder if I can keep that big photo. I know it’s printed that size just for the funeral, but the frame looks really nice, and I’d like to have it.
There’s a loud thud as someone shuts the heavy church doors behind us, and a man dressed in long robes walks up to the front of the room.
I swallow.
Mom explained to me that Dad’s heart stopped working. That it was over in an instant, and he was just alive one moment and dead the next. But I can’t decide if that’s good or bad. Is it really better to just be gone? I’m happy he wasn’t hurt. I wouldn’t want that. But wouldn’t it have been better to know? Maybe if he’d known, he could have come home one last time. Maybe he’d have let me stay with him, for just a little while.