You missed the funeral, because you didn't know there was one. You found out she was dead at a party four months ago in New York and you never got so drunk in your life. You woke up three days later with a hangover and you still knew you wouldn't go to her funeral.
God, you miss her. Getting off the plane in Rome and knowing she wouldn't be there, it hurt, impossibly, it hurt. You're angry at the asshole that killed her, but he's gone, out of your reach, and you can't think of what you would do if you found him anyway. Hit him? Then what? Kill him? You're not even sure you've got the spine to kill someone who deserves it.
You dig your heels into the sand, the grains thick as gravel. The ocean seems loud in the cool, as most of the families have gone home. You're by yourself, and you plan on staying that way. Just you and the warm lemoncello. Not a great farewell for a woman like that, but it's the best you can do.
The sun sinks over the mountains, and for a few minutes, the coast is gilt in stunning yellow. The ocean turns to molten gold. You rub at your eyes, and they're wet from something besides the glare. You shouldn't have come here. It only hurts.