“Our dad was a ladies’ man.” She pauses again, and giggles circulate the room with quiet, muffled tears. “I mean that quite literally, being that he lived in a house with six women. He knew more about fashion and dating than probably ten men combined, but he never complained. He endured and battled monsters in our closets, fights over hair brushes and makeup, and watched every chick flick ever made, not because we forced him to … well except for the time we watched a marathon of Pretty Woman—that one we may have forced upon him—but it was because he was the most loving and selfless man. Our dad was an amazing man. He spent his life helping others and protecting everyone in varying degrees.

“He had the innate ability to see the best in everyone and everything. Things that some people saw as flaws, he saw as their unique differences, and he was never shy about telling people how special they were, or how great something was. He took the time to notice the small, minute details that others missed. Our dad made sure to make every day special for each of us, always reminding us how much he loved and cared about us with words and gestures. Sometimes it was in large gestures, and sometimes with small ones, like stomping on the roof on Christmas Eve to keep a sense of magic, and bringing our mom flowers once a week for over thirty years. None of us were ready to see him go, but his memory will forever be a part of each of us, because his footprints are stamped all over our hearts in trails that will never be erased.”

Her last words come out slightly garbled as she uses her palms to try to wipe the tears pouring down her red-stained cheeks.

Ace slowly makes her way to the front from the right wing of the room, not looking at anyone as she slides behind the podium. Her eyes travel to the ceiling for a moment, as though she’s trying to gather herself. When she faces the crowd, it’s apparent she isn’t actually looking at anyone.

“When I began writing this, I really struggled. How do I find the right words to describe my dad? The most beautiful and eloquent words can’t possibly begin to express how amazing, wonderful, and loving he was—and he was all of those things, but he was so much more. To some he was a doctor, to others a friend, a coach, a teammate, a mechanic, a son, a grandpa, and a dad.” I watch as she takes a deep breath, biting her bottom lip as her chin quivers. She quickly looks back at the ceiling for a prolonged moment. The pain visible on her tortured face makes several people tear up again, sniffling as they wipe their faces without discretion. “To me, my dad was all of those things, and so much more. He was my dance partner, holding me on his feet as we paraded around, ‘because that’s how princesses are treated,’ he’d say. He was my mentor and teacher, educating me on life, and love, and books. He was my milkshake after a particularly rough day, my strength when I couldn’t keep it together, my legs when I couldn’t carry myself to the end. But he was so much more.

“My dad taught me to conquer my fears, no matter how large or small they are. And to reach for my dreams, regardless of how unattainable they seem. My dad was a superhero, a warrior.” The word leaves her and I can tell how much strength it required to get it out watching her jaw slowly stretch as she works to compose herself.

“I loved him for so many reasons, but what I loved the absolute most …” She sniffs and two tears fall simultaneously down her cheeks “… was being his daughter.

“My dad taught us all lessons about life and love, kindness, sharing, and humility. He was wise beyond all measures. He taught us to speak French, something we pulled out and dusted off each year when we saw our family. And the pride radiating from my grandfather, to my father, to us girls … I loved that feeling. I loved when he was proud of me. Thankfully, my dad always seemed to be our biggest fan, so it never took much.” Her lips press together in a firm line, the corners wavering between falling and lifting as she shifts her weight from one foot to the other. It reminds me of the first time I met Ace in my living room, something that feels like it was a hundred years ago, and yet looking at her now feels like it’s happening again.

“It took me three years of playing soccer before I got brave enough to score a goal. My dad never cared, though. Each game he’d lift me up on his shoulders and dance around with me, win or loss, assuring me that the score isn’t the most important part of the game, it’s your determination, your heart, and your will, and that just by going out and working, I won each and every time.” I wait for the joke. She’s told me this story before, ending it with, “I always tried to have him explain this win-win philosophy to my coaches, because they certainly followed the scoreboard.” But it doesn’t come.

“My dad preferred to eat his toast and popcorn both burnt.

“Not once did I ever hear my dad say a bad word, in any language that he fluently spoke.

“My dad and I secretly joined a soap box league when I was nine.” I hear Savannah whisper to Jenny, asking if she had known this, and listen to her quietly hiss a no.

“He called our mother ma moitié, his other half.

“I have a jar of pennies from my dad for each time something bothered me, and he’d silently slide one to me.

“He could consume two milkshakes in less than thirty minutes, and has his face on the wall of Maggie Lou’s to prove it.” She takes an audible breath and lifts a hand and I see a small remote in her palm.

“My dad was one of the most selfless people I’ve ever met, but he made one request for this day …” I watch her grimace. “His last words of wisdom to us all.”

She drops her arm to her side, and I know it’s because she can’t physically keep it up anymore as the quiet sounds of Let it Be, stream through the speakers. All around people laugh through their tears at the song we all seem to associate with David.

It’s not surprising that Ace disappears again after the burial. I can’t blame her. Watching the last of the soil pile on the casket has an adverse effect upon us all. I want to scream, and cry, and punch someone, all at the same time. Nothing about this is fair. My mom drives me home, and I feel like I’m twelve rather than twenty-three.

My fear is like a living thing, trapped inside of me, feeding off of what I had once felt so secure about—my relationship with her.

I’d managed to bring Jameson to that party at Karli Lincoln’s by assuring him Kendall would be there. Working to convince myself that the only reason I mentioned it was to help out a friend and be a good wingman. I think he knew I was lying, but it had been hard to tell; he was pretty infatuated with your older sister.

The party was not my scene. At least three-quarters of that crowd annoyed the hell out of me, but there I was. Do you remember Megan Vetter? If you don’t, I’m sure you would if you heard her hyena laugh. It made me realize I was underestimating the percentage of people I could stand. I feared you liked those people and the mind numbing conversations they shared.

Jameson followed me into the kitchen where a large bar was set up. I immediately looked over the different shaped and colored bottles to see what they had to offer. You know me, if I had to endure people like that before you, I needed the alcohol to help my nerves. It never managed to help me in the same way you do. You are my calm. Just seeing your smile relaxes every nerve in my body and allows my lungs to expand. A chick had obviously set the bar up. Only girls worry about making sure everyone is going to be able to find something that appeals to them.

I poured two shots and handed one to Jameson before throwing mine back, enjoying the quick burn of the whiskey that made Jameson glare at me. He still hated that shit, like you do.