This chapter is brought to you by my current emotional rollercoaster, and also losing saved work.

These infamous letters (Quil and Claire's, at least) were some of the first pieces I wrote for this story. Over time you'll get to read them all (a promise I'm only right this second committing to).

Missing you comes in waves, and tonight I'm drowning. – "Drowning" by Chris Young

Quil

I haven't slept in my own bed since before Hannah died.

At first, I was at Claire's. Helping with Hannah during that last painful week. And after—well, after, I stayed. For Jon and the girls, and also for me. I thought it would be good for all of us, to stay strong for each other and let ourselves be weak together. The stretch of five days between her death and the memorial is fuzzy in my memory, blurred through a fog of grief and tears and a fuck ton of casserole.

After Claire left… Well, that's a little blurry for me, too.

Without Claire in Washington, I didn't want to go home to an empty house. One where her scent still lingered in the fabric and her clothes still hung over the sides of my hamper. I stayed at the Young house for another week and a half, until I saw Jon make a move for a shower (and a razor—a move I haven't yet made for myself. I've got a few weeks of growth on my face).

By then I'd pretty much settled into the idea that whatever Claire was thinking, she was still thinking it hard enough to not come home.

For all the times I wished she wasn't so fucking stubborn, this is the only time that really counts.

I know she's safe—she texts every few days, and a few times when I've called, she's answered. She likes the beard. If I'm breaking her rule of not chasing her, she hasn't said. So I'll keep pushing my boundaries for as long and far as she'll let me. Short of running straight for San Diego, that is. And it was touch and go there for a week or so. Embry all but forced me into his spare bedroom to keep an eye on me.

And now, nearly a month out from Hannah's departure, three weeks out from Claire's, I still don't want to go home. I'd hate the sound of my own breathing there.

But, as Bethany storms in after her shift at the hospital, bangs around the kitchen, and hip checks the dishwasher shut with an overzealous grunt, I fear I've overstayed my welcome here, too.

I'm on the couch, where I've been most of the day, and I'm worried Bethany will notice that the cushions are wearing differently where I've been sitting. She loves this couch. It's her favorite child (I think I'm kidding?). If I tell her I accidentally spilled cereal milk on it after she left this morning, she'll have my head.

Pregnant Bethany is… scary, if I'm being honest. Before this week, I'd seen her cry maybe twice. Maybe. Yesterday, she cried because she dropped her fork.

Today, apparently, she's back to choosing kitchen appliance violence.

It's a testament to how well I know her when she turns to me, tucks her foot into the bend of her supporting leg, and gives me a look that runs my blood cold. "You need to go back to work."

I want to fight her on principle, because that's who I am, what our relationship has always been. But I just… can't. I don't have it in me.

She crosses her arms above her bump—or she tries, at least. Her boobs are kind of in the way all the time, she told us last night at the dinner table. Embry looked smugly down at his lasagna, and I had a feeling it was only bothering her.

Her look transforms into a glare. "Did you hear me, Quilliam?"

Maybe that's a testament to how well she knows me.

I straighten my features into something less depressy, my normal state these days. Hopefully it's close enough to a lopsided grin. "Loud and clear, Beth." It's halfhearted, though, and she knows it.

"Hey," she says suddenly, reaching for her work bag, slung across the table. "Wanna see something cool? I was going to surprise Embry, but I think you need it more."

I amble toward the fridge, not as interested in this surprise as I am in some alcohol. It's after three—beer thirty, if you will. It's basically already bedtime.

Bethany holds out a little flap of paper for me. I've seen these before—hell, there are two hanging on the fridge I was just reaching for. But there's something different about this sonogram, some extra markings that aren't on the others.

Maybe it's a glare. I squint, stepping closer. No, it's still there. It's circled. "Is that a—"

"It is," she says confidently, and I don't have to look at her to hear the smile in her voice.

"Does that mean—"

"It does."

I look up at her. "It's a boy?"

"Oh my God, Quil," she says, slapping the papers against my chest. Her cheeks are bright red, like her hair. "Yes, it's a fucking boy. So please, for the love, go shave that shitty ass fur off your face, eat a goddamn vegetable, and go back to work on Monday. Or at least paint the nursery this weekend since you ate all the ice cream, you motherfucker."

Wow. I think that's a new record for her.

A strangled noise comes over my shoulder, and we turn together to see Sadie and Embry frozen in the doorway, Sadie's backpack dangling from her shoulder. They speak at the same time.

"It's a boy?"

"What does 'motherfucker' mean?"

A laugh slips from my mouth unbidden, but then I look back at Bethany. As her green eyes well with tears, I fear for my life.

"Why is Uncle Quil a motherfucker?" Sadie says, persistent as ever. "I know what a mother is, but not that second part."

I laugh harder than I have in a month, which only makes Bethany cry harder. It's a vicious cycle.

Holy shit. Maybe I do need to go home.

My penance is helping Embry paint the nursery over the weekend. The spare bed that lived in here before has been disassembled, so I guess it's the couch or bust for me tonight. The nerve.

"I still can't believe it," he murmurs, more to himself than to me.

I keep rolling on paint, this really dark green Bethany claims will be the perfect accent wall. I was already in hot water, so I held my tongue. Now, on the second coat, I have to admit, it looks pretty nice in here. "That you're going to have a son?" It's only the fiftieth time he's said as much in the last two days.

Embry chuckles, wiping a smear of cream paint across his forehead as he scratches it. "I'm so scared to fuck it up, Quil."

That's new. I set the paint roller down in the tray and walk to the window, throwing it open further while I wait for him to elaborate.

He goes to lean against the wall before remembering it's wet. With a groan, he straightens, crossing his arms instead. I don't think I'll tell him about the paint smear. "Bethany did all the hard work with Sadie. The sleepless nights and the colic and teething and potty training. What if he cries and I can't tell what's wrong? What if I get it wrong and it causes him pain? What if… What if I screw him up like our dad screwed us up?"

"Well, the good news is, is that we're all screwed up a little. Even having too normal of parents can screw us up, apparently. Embry, you're already a good father. Because you stayed. You are staying, and you will stay. Do you know what Sadie would say if you told her you didn't think you were a good enough dad for her? What Bethany would say?"

He's looking down at the ground, but he chuckles. "Sadie would say she wouldn't pick a bad father, and since she picked me, I must be the best."

"Duh," I say, stealing the Princess's favorite word. "And Bethany would call you a dumbass and ask you to name some super obscure fact about the baby like how much he weighed at her last appointment—"

"Twelve ounces exactly," he says.

"—or what Sadie's fourth favorite book is."

"She's actually reading this series about being trapped in a video game? Her and Asher each have a set and they talk about it together. It's pretty cute. Last week we iced these cookies to look like the main characters, and Asher—"

He stops when he realizes I'm smirking. "Oh," he says. "I see what you did there."

I lean over and punch him in the shoulder. "I think you're forgetting that Bethany has done this before. And, fuck, we're surrounded by other parents. Literally all the time. There are, what? Ten Pack babies at this point? I'm sure someone knows what the hell they're doing, even if you don't."

Embry gives me a look, studies my face a little too closely for comfort. "I hope Sadie likes having a brother as much as I do."

His sincerity makes my nose burn, and I suddenly know why I've been dragging my feet with going home. What's holding me back. Sure, Claire's a piece of it, but not the biggest piece.

"I'm, uh… I'm think I'm gonna read the letter."

Embry swallows. "The one from Hannah?" When I just give a dip of my chin as confirmation, he does too. "Do you want to be alone for that?"

Hot tears burn behind my eyes, and now is my turn to swallow down everything. "No, I don't think I do."

I settle on the couch, Embry sitting down gingerly beside me. We're both still covered in paint (it's dry, Bethany, we swear), but we're alone. Bethany took Sadie to her mom's today to get away from the paint fumes. She claimed they made her sick, but I think she just didn't want to paint. Not that I can blame her. I didn't want to, either.

The envelope is thick in my hand, as is the scrawl of my name across it. Hannah's writing was always thick and bold, and even toward the end, when her hand would cramp after only a few minutes, she still managed to write my most favorite 'Q' of all time. It's very curly.

I slide my index finger in and flip open the envelope. A few lined pages are folded together, and I take my time setting the envelope on the coffee table before I smooth them out. I'm torn, caught in a place of wanting to read whatever this is, and being scared for what comes after.

Embry squeezes my shoulder, then lets his hand fall. No words. Sometimes we don't need them.

With a final breath, I start to read the second letter in one month that wrecks me.

Quil,

Of all the letters I've written, yours is the hardest. Because I didn't give birth to you, but I feel like I did. I didn't raise you, but I feel like I did. I'm not your mother, but I feel like I am. You have always been a son to me. (One I didn't have to potty train either, so thanks for that.)

I know of all the people on this earth, the only other person who could come close to being as proud of Claire as her father and I are, is you. You helped us raise her, shape her into who she was meant to be.

And yeah, I know it's incredibly odd to have changed her diapers and also hope to grow old with her one day. I get that. Incredibly odd is okay. Embrace every part of your story, even the ugly parts.

I'll admit when we first met you, Jonathan was concerned (and more than a little pissed). I had to convince him this was a good thing, your relationship with Claire. I thought it meant Claire wouldn't get her heart broken.

I never imagined I'd be the one to do the breaking.

Claire will need you. She's always needed you, in a different way than she's needed me or Jon or even her sister. And as much as it hurts me knowing I won't be here for her, I'm so glad she has you, Quil. I'm glad one of us will get to see her grow up. If it can't be me, it should be you.

We both know she'll be stubborn. She's a fighter. Always remember, there are different ways to fight the same battle. People heal from hurt in different ways. You'll welcome the pain—she will run from it. You'll feel—she'll go numb. You'll grieve me—she won't want to.

I know I don't have to tell you, but she's worth the chase.

Please, in these days and weeks that come after (what a big, ominous word, isn't it?), while you're busy looking out for my family, don't forget to look out for yourself. You're like me in that way. It can be a heavy burden to care so much for other people. But don't let it get too heavy that you don't have any strength left to hold up your own heart.

I hope you learn to say no, even to people who love you. I hope you stand up for yourself in the way you've always stood up for us. I hope you love yourself as much as you love everyone you meet.

I hope you laugh, even if you have to force it. I hope you cry, even if you don't want others to see. Vulnerability makes you stronger, not weaker. And I hope you love big and wild—life, Claire, yourself.

And love her loud for me, please, Quil. I've heard it's kind of noisy where I'm going.

All my love,
Hannah

I reread this page twice, noting the way her handwriting swooped around the Q. I feel like she wrote it extra big, just for me. Her words are blurry, but a few blinks clear them up. There's one more page, tucked in at the back of the stack.

I flip it over.

Quil's Guide to Life through Music

1. Listen when you read this – Drops of Jupiter by Train
2. Listen when you want to scream/sing (Do you remember all the times we did this? You played this song for me once and I loved it.) – Vindicated by Dashboard Confessional
3. Listen when you don't feel like enough of a man, enough of a person, enough of anything for anyone – Sailboat by Ben Rector
4. Listen when you think you've lost her – Tougher Than the Rest by Bruce Springsteen
5. Listen when you have your first child, if this is the path you choose (and hopefully you choose it in a respectable 10+ years, give a grandma a break) – First Day of My Life by Bright Eyes

Number five makes me snort. I can hear her voice like she's sitting right next to me.

The couch moves beside me, and when I look up, Embry is grabbing for something on the side table. His Bluetooth speaker, I think. My world has gone fuzzy again.

"Ready?" he asks, pausing with his thumb over his screen to look at me.

I'm so glad I swallowed my pride enough to let him be here. I don't trust my voice, so I nod, letting my head fall to my chest.

Hannah's one of those people whose favorite song depends on the day, the weather outside. This one that's playing now, the listen with you read this, took the top spot for a full year if I remember correctly, back when Claire was in fourth grade. She was learning about the solar system, planets and stars and constellations.

It's just like Hannah, I realize, to find a song that pleases them both.

By the time the chorus comes, my face is soaked, tears dripping off my chin like a tap.

I hear her. Singing this song, loud and clear. Dancing around the kitchen table while I helped Claire with her homework. Callie would have been sneaking into the pantry for a pre-dinner snack, snagging something for Jon, just coming in from work.

"Where's Jupiter, Claire?" I'd say, and she'd point out the planet on her diagram. "Did Venus blow your mind today, Claire?" Hannah would say, and Claire would point again and say, "Nope, it's still right here." And that's how Hannah and I taught Claire the planets.

Together.

I haven't thought much about what happens next. Where we go after we die. Quileutes and Makahs both believe we live on as Ancestors—maybe we do?

But as I grapple with the pain that sears hot in my heart and lungs, as I think of Hannah's smile and laugh and voice, I hope it's something like this song.

I hope she gets to travel with the sun and the stars, ride waves and butterfly wings and light beams. I hope she reaches the Milky Way, or further, to heaven if that's where she was aiming. It wouldn't surprise me if she got everything she wanted in the next life, because she was so, so much in this one.

Embry's hand is heavy on my shoulder, a hard pressure, and the weight is enough to crumble what's left of my defenses. My elbows fall to my knees, head in my hands, and I cry. I cry for this life gone too soon.

"Did you miss me while you were looking for yourself out there?" the guy sings, and I don't want to have to miss her. I don't want her to be gone.

But she is.

She is gone and I am here, and this is life now.

I wonder if this is what Hannah meant when she said to cry where others can see you. If this is the kind of vulnerability she was after. I want to tell her I'm already doing so well at following her rules. I want her to be proud of me.

The song ends, and the next one on the list begins. Embry must have queued it.

Despite the kind gesture, my heart crumbles a little more. "I'm not quite up for scream-singing right now," I choke, wiping my snotty nose on the shoulder of my shirt.

"I don't care what you do," he says, and his voice is a little throaty too. "I'm scream-singing."

And he does. So loudly. So fucking off-key. He doesn't even know all the words.

It only takes me to the chorus this time to start singing along.

When the girls come home, the song is on repeat. Embry and I are two beers in—each. And we've got our paint-covered shoes all over Bethany's couch.

Embry knows all the words now.

"Get out of my house," Bethany yells, but she's grinning as Sadie runs over, kicks off her shoes, and hops up on the couch with us.

"Tomorrow," I say, and I mean it this time.