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Cole huffs out a sigh, finally looking up from his phone. “We’ll just all caravan out there like a traveling circus?”
Nolan nods emphatically. “Brady would want us to send him off in style.”
“I’m always up for a party,” Cole replies, raising his beer in salute. “But I hope you draw the line at having strippers during the viewing.”
Vaughn’s expression is droll. “Doubtful. I’ve heard my grandfather is going to be there.”
If Richard Ashbridge will be attending this service, then we can’t afford to show any weaknesses.
But I hate this idea. Just because I’m not grieving doesn’t mean I’m in the mood for a party. I’m more than a little relieved that Brady is gone. If I had walked in a few minutes earlier when he forced himself on Gigi over winter break, I probably would have killed him myself.
Maybe that’s the reason I’m so convinced his fall wasn’t an accident. I understand, all too well, the impulse to hurt him.
Grief isn’t my problem. Dread surrounding the Initiation overwhelms any other considerations. We can’t even guess what the alumni are going to ask us to do. I don’t want to deal with the distraction of Brady’s funeral on top of it.
“If we make a big deal about this, then half the school is going to show up,” I warn, even though I know I’m about to lose this fight.
“Even better. We’ll make the weekend something that no one ever forgets,” Vaughn declares.
I don’t understand his insistence, but I know a losing battle when I see one.
Cole casts me a significant glance. “What do you say, prez? Are we going all in?”
Like I have a choice at this point.
“To Brady.” I raise my own glass even though the liquor tastes like fire and ash in my throat. The gesture makes my teeth hurt, but I force a wide smile as I say the toast. His body isn’t even in the ground, but Brady has got to be rolling over on a slab in the morgue.
Rest in pieces, motherfucker.
Chapter Nineteen
Monday morning finds me in the dining hall for breakfast and more than a little annoyed that Drake is giving me the space I asked of him.
“Are you guys going to the funeral?” Anya asks in a stage whisper as she sets her tray down on the table.
I have to assume she is talking about Brady. “I don’t even know when it is, so probably not.”
Felicia has her head buried in a textbook as she shovels food into her mouth. When she sat down, she announced that her European History professor does pop quizzes on the assigned reading before each class and hasn’t said another word since.
She shakes her head in a negative before turning the page.
Anya shoots me an incredulous look. “How did I hear about it and you didn’t? Brady is getting some huge Havoc House send off to the glorious beyond. People are planning to caravan into the city and throw some kind of hotel party after the reception. Then they’re having the Bacchanal at Club Havoc, of all places, the next night. The entire weekend is going to be wild. Please tell me you’re in.”
The same weekend as they’re planning to have the Initiation. Something tells me that Brady’s death won’t be enough to cancel it. Another coincidence that probably isn’t one.
Drake and I haven’t spoken since the night of Brady’s death. The Havoc party set for Saturday was cancelled. From what I heard, the guys just sat around drinking Brady’s favorite whiskey and toasting his memory. I hadn’t been invited to join them, which is probably for the best. It would have been hard enough to pretend that I was in mourning, much less resist the urge to confront my boyfriend.
If he even is my boyfriend anymore.
It’s my own fault for expecting him to grovel. Drake is not the kind of guy who responds well to the silent treatment. He provided his explanation and made his apology. Now, it’s up to me if I want to accept it or not. The guy was raised by a raving narcissist. He spent most of his childhood being wronged with no expectation of getting an apology. That he admitted to the lie before I caught him and apologized without prompting is a watershed moment for him.
I hate how clearly I can see him because it makes it hard to stay angry.
But I’m really trying.
“People want to turn a funeral into a party?” I ask incredulously, Anya’s words finally sinking in.
She shrugs like that’s a totally reasonable thing to do. “Sounds like it.”
