10
Giada
I loved wearing black—usually rocked it—but not the black of grief. Sitting in the front of the church alongside Marisa, I stared at the priest’s moving mouth, nothing in my ears but a ringing that hadn’t ceased since learning the love of my life had lost his in a car accident.
Numbness had crept in before Logan and I had even returned home, denial or my emotions dying along with my baby brother’s, I didn’t know. I couldn’t find it in myself to care about that either.
I’d stood on the outside, watching mother sob as Marisa held her on the love seat, Father staring out his study’s window, a glass of cognac clutched in his shaking hand.
Shared grief should have bonded us together, at the very least, buried all other hurt for a time, but Cristian’s death raised the wall between
