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“What makes you think that I’m going to be the one arranging your funeral?” I jabbed him in the stomach.
The atmosphere had been light. Jovial. We were two teenagers, talking about death like we didn’t really believe it would ever find us.
But my brother’s expression was serious then. Somber.
“We both know I’m gonna get off of this ride early, sis. You’re gonna be the one living the long, wonderful life. Growing old with some husband who adores you. Surrounded by grandchildren.”
A cold stone settled somewhere deep inside me, not just because of the words, but because of the certainty he spoke with. He believed this. Truly.
I swallowed a lump and tried to smile. “I know you’re into astrology and crystals and all that shit, but you can’t see the future, little brother.”
“But I can feel it,” he replied, still not smiling, eyes far away. “My life is going to be chaotic, messy and short.”
My throat burned. With anger. “Stop,” I hissed at him. “You are not allowed to leave me here, in this world alone.” Tears streamed down my cheeks. “You are not allowed to die.”
“Okay, okay, calm down.” He held his hands up in surrender. “I promise I won’t ever die, and after you do, the government will lock me up and dissect me, looking for the secrets to my long life.” He grinned crookedly.
Despite my brother’s promises, I’d known somewhere deep inside me, with a terrible kind of dread, that he believed what he’d initially said.
He didn’t choose to leave. That I knew. But he also couldn’t live his life straight, not with what followed him.
Which was why I fought my mother at the funeral home.
“The burial plot is beautiful,” she cooed. I didn’t know to who.
She and I weren’t talking. She had been on a different flight back to Chicago. I hadn’t seen her since the altercation at the bakery. Rowan and I were staying at a hotel. She’d left a voicemail, giving me the details of this meeting. I was only there at the funeral home because I wanted to make sure my brother’s wishes were adhered to.
Rowan was by my side, stoic and stone faced. His hand was on my thigh, staring daggers at my mother.
Though the woman wasn’t unnerved by much—she was one tough bitch, I’d give her that— I knew that Rowan was making her uncomfortable.
However petty it made me, I liked that. Liked that my mother wasn’t on even footing, didn’t sling her venom quite so easily as she might’ve had my strong, tall, unyielding protector not been constantly by my side.
So, she wasn’t talking to Rowan when she talked about the burial.
My stepfather wasn’t there. He was working. As he always did. Probably trying to stay as far away from my mother as possible. He wasn’t the worst man. Maybe, if I’d had the time to get to know him, I might’ve even liked him. But we were ships passing. I left the mansion he situated my mother and us in as soon as I could, and never spoke to him again.
There were no Christmas dinners or visits.
But from the scant amount of time I’d known him, he’d seemed decent, and trapped by the viper who was my mother.
“My brother is not being buried,” I notified my mother, the first time I’d spoken to her directly since she told me my brother was dead.
“Of course, he is,” she replied, not looking at me, brushing imaginary lint from her Chanel suit.
“He isn’t,” I reiterated through gritted teeth. “He did not want to be buried. He does not believe in burials.”
Mom rolled her eyes. “Oh, I know that he had all sorts of things that he believed in, what with crystals and full moons. But that is not important right now.”
“What my brother believed and how he wanted to be laid to rest is the only thing that’s important right now,” I shouted at her, standing from my chair.
Mom looked anxiously to the funeral director who had not batted an eyelash at my outburst. I suspected that people didn’t always behave their best at these kinds of things. Death tended to make people ugly.
“Keep your voice down,” Mom hushed. “This isn’t seemly.”
“Oh, give me a fucking break, Mom. You grew up in a trailer; you have no fucking clue what’s seemly.”
I reveled at the apples of rage that bloomed on my mother’s cheeks.
She pushed out of her seat then too. “I didn’t raise you to—”
“You didn’t raise me at all,” I interrupted. “Nor did you raise Ansel. I did that. For the both of us. You forced that on us. Forced a lot of things on us.” I stepped toward her. “Like a man who would change the course of my brother’s life forever. I’d bet everything I have that we wouldn’t be standing here right now if you hadn’t married him.”
