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As though he’d like to tear the hug off them, throw it on the ground, step on it.
Look away.
Coffin again. I burp, taste vomit, wobble a little on my heels, and stagger, prompting me to reach out to steady myself.
White satin lining, cool against my skin.
I remember reading that funeral homes charge the grieving a fortune for stuff like satin linings and urns to put the ashes in, and you don’t get any choice because it’s not like they’ll let you turn up with a reusable Ziploc tote and say Fill ’er up.
Everything costs money. West’s grandma is living on Social Security and her dead husband’s medical benefits from a union job he had with the railroad. If she didn’t own her house outright, she wouldn’t be able to get by. As it is, Michelle’s been giving her money for groceries.
Michelle “borrows” about five hundred bucks a month from West, sometimes more. She’s not working since Wyatt got killed. This dusty pink carpet, the tasteful hush, the rows of side tables full of flowers—West is paying for it. Paying to embalm the man whose fists crashed into his face.
I look at the corpse again, because that’s all he is now, a corpse. I stare at his face until I can see the makeup—mascara on his lashes, creamy foundation, blush.
Not West. Just some asshole who donated the sperm.
I’m glad he’s dead.
The man who’s been talking to West’s mom touches his wife’s elbow and leans down to say something in her ear. She lets go of West finally, smiling, nodding.
They say their goodbyes and move away.
West glances at me. Cuts to the coffin. Mumbles, “Stay with my mom.”
He walks away.
Damn him.
Damn him for lying to me, damn him for not talking to me, and damn him for pretending there was ever someone else.
There was just West, here, convincing himself he could never come back to me. That there wouldn’t ever be a way for us to be together again.
West deciding I’d be better off if he let me go.
What’s she look like? I’d asked him. Does she make you laugh? Do you love her?
No reply.
I spent a day fuming, analyzing, talking, drinking, and came back at him with Do her knees go weak when you kiss her? Does she smile when you fuck her? Does she say your name?
I was drunk and bold that night. Righteous, shouting.
West hung up on me.
My best friend, Bridget, had to pry the phone from my hand, because I was shaking with anger. I didn’t feel the tears until she wiped them away.
I study his retreating back, his stifled shoulders moving through the room. Moving away from me.
I understand him better than anyone alive. I just don’t know what the fuck to do about him.
West’s grandma liberates me.
She whispers, “Go on,” and takes Michelle’s arm.
I weave between the rows of chairs set up for the service in half an hour, out of the room and down the broad main hallway of the funeral home, with its fussy old-fashioned couches and its wall art no one could ever possibly object to—mostly shepherdesses and cows, with a seascape thrown in for good measure.
West is nowhere in sight. He must have gone outside to smoke.
