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You’re at a freaking funeral.
Up front, I watch in horror as Palmer confuses the two handkerchiefs; watch as the dumbass uses the white cotton disposable tissue to pat at his misty eyes, which only makes him cry more.
I cringe, gut clenching with sympathy pain when he begins rubbing his eyes with balled up fists, doing his best to wipe the tears from his eyes.
Shit, that’s gotta hurt.
But honestly, the silver lining here: Palmer looks way more bereft than he actually is, which is what he’s paying me for.
“Fuck, Miri, this stings,” he whimpers through the micro-microphone hidden in the collar of his dress shirt, speaker disguised as his tie clip.
“Dude, are you trying to look like you’ve lost your mind in front of the church?” The guy needs to chill out.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
I grimace. “Word of advice? Maybe lay off the F Bombs until you’re off the pulpit.
“I’m trying, but fuck!” he whimpers again, acting like a total pussy, as if someone squirted him in the eye with bear spray or mace and blinded him.
He’s loud enough to wake the dead.
“No offence, Grandpa,” I silently pray, making the sign of the cross. “Amen, thanks be to God, yada, yada.”
“Meet me in the vestry,” I order, already headed in that direction.
“The what?” he whispers.
At the front of the church he squints, hands fumbling in the air, feeling for things that are not there.
“The vestry. The antechamber.” I sigh heavily, frustrated. “The room behind you,” Jackass, I want to add, but don’t because he’s paying me to help, not to verbally assault him. “Do you see the door? Go through it.”
“I can’t see shit,” he grumbles.
My ballet flats tap against the stone floor as I hasten toward the front of the church—not as loudly as a stiletto or a pump would click, but it’s audible enough that I begin a fast-paced tip-toe toward the anti-chamber behind the pulpit, giving the fancy blonde a quick once-over on my way past.
She sticks out like a sore thumb, pretty in pink and swimming in a sea of black and navy blue; I wonder if she’d gotten the memo that it’s considered appropriate to wear dark colors to a funeral and not hot pink?
Then again, this is Palmer Darling we’re talking about. Palmer, who is more than likely taking this young woman for cute lunch once he’s done pretending to mourn, or at least fucking her in the backseat of his vintage Rolls Royce.
Next, I creep past Palmer’s parents, a stuffy looking couple in the front row, neither of them crying the same way Palmer had, stoic in every way.
Bit of how I’d imagine the royals to be at a funeral, only not as posh.
I shove the ornately carved wooden door; it weighs a ton and takes a bit of effort. When it creeks on its hinges I cringe again, falling against it after it closes.
Phew.
“I can’t see!” Palmer is flailing, feeling around the room for something to rub on his face, hands grappling at the discovery of a decanter of holy water placed on a nearby table. “Get this off me!”
I snatch it out of his reach before he can douse himself with it. “You can’t use holy water to clean your eyes, dude—what the hell!”
Ugh.
This guy, I swear.
Calmly and rationally, I remove a wet wipe from the fanny pack around my waist. Tear it open and shake it out so it resembles a teeny, tiny bed sheet, then begin wiping beneath his nose.
Palmer flounders when I try handing him the wipe so he can clean his face. “My eyes—get my eyes.” His hand pushes mine away. “You do it for me.” He pauses. “Please.”
