Page 19 of Play Nice

“To my mom,” I say, smiling sunnily, attempting to recover the crowd. “And the tough lessons delivered imperfectly. And her great hair. Okay, that’s it for me. Who’s next?”

—

Tommy and I stick around until the end of the remembrance circle. It goes on for far too long. All the stories are about someone I don’t know. That I never knew and never will. This version of Mom is theirs, not mine.

Ideally, I’d just quietly up and leave, but Tommy has a conscience, so we say goodbye to Aunt Helen.

“I’m sorry I talked about McDonald’s,” I tell her, going in for a hug.

“Grief is strange animal,” she says, rubbing my back.

“You have my number, yeah?”

“I do. If it’s all right with you, I’ll be in touch,” she says, pulling away. “I’ll be taking her ashes, unless you want them.”

I shake my head. “I wouldn’t know what to do with them.”

“Thank Mariella for us,” Tommy says.

On the walk out to the car, I have Tommy take a few pictures of me on the sidewalk. The outfit is too good to go to waste, and no one outside my family will know where I wore it or for what occasion. Aside from maybe Ethan, and if I cared about his judgment, I wouldn’t have kicked him out of the Uber the other night. He’s already texted me twice since. Men love when you’re callous.

Tommy hands me back my phone and I scroll through the photos. “These are good. I should hire you.”

“It was nice to hear all those stories. About your mom,” he says, sniffling. He wept during the sharing circle.

I shrug. “That’s all they are. Stories.”

He opens the car door for me, and I slide into the passenger’s seat. I notice him admiring his parking job. He comes around to the driver’s side, gets in, buckles his seat belt. I wait for him to start the car, but he doesn’t. He turns to look at me.

“I’m married to your sister, you know.”

“I’m aware,” I say. “I have a hideous bridesmaid dress still hanging in my closet to commemorate your wedding.”

“I have years of practice reading a hard-to-read Barnes woman. It’s okay not to be okay, Clio.”

“That’s very after-school-special of you, Tommy. But I’m fine,” I say, crossing my heart.

He nods and starts the car.

“I’m not Leda,” I say. “I’m not repressed; I’m genuinely unemotional.”

“I think you do have emotions, Cli. You choose not to feel them,” he says. A little sassy, for him. A little bold, for Mr. Kowalski.

“All right. I did almost cry in there,” I say. “Okay, I did cry. Upstairs with Aunt Helen. Are you happy? Does my transient display of vulnerability excuse me from whatever heart-to-heart you’re teeing up?”

He pulls out onto the street. “Tears can be cathartic.”

“I find they mostly just ruin my makeup,” I say, cracking my window. “Did you know about the house? About Edgewood?”

He doesn’t respond. He pretends he’s watching the road.

“Pleading the Fifth?”

“This is a conversation for you and Leda.”

We’ve got two-plus hours back to Jersey; he’ll cave eventually. “Was she planning on telling me?”

“Telling you what?”