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She’s delusional.
I’ll always be the asshole. That’s my role in this family.
So perhaps we should plan to divorce. Why saddle herself with a prick for the rest of her life?
Then again, the thought of losing her…
How pathetic it is that I could lose this woman over my words? Or over alcohol? Over complete disregard for myself?
I am the man who made sure his bride ate cake on her wedding day.
I am a protective husband who brought his wife sunscreen and water on the beach.
I am a scoundrel who tricked his early-bird wife into staying in bed.
Who I am is a man who can render her utterly boneless. Proudly so.
I am a man who loves Kala St. Rain-Haart.
She’s not trying to change me at all.
She’s only stripping back the old, tired, used-up, and dried-out protective layers to access the real me.
And gods dammit, that’s my wife. There simply can be no other.
If I have to spend all my days laid bare and vulnerable to anyone, it can only be to her.
The woman I love.
30
Kala
In keeping with Cory’s personality, there’s no traditional funeral.
No memorial service. Just a party and a multimedia display of photos, home videos, and clips of his favorite movies, with a very Cory-like playlist filling the air of the banquet hall at the Royal Art Gallery. Inside an ancient restored castle, it’s a popular spot in the city for weddings, parties, and fundraisers. A funeral? That’s a first.
At the center of the collages and screens looping through scenes from Cory’s life is a sleek box with a framed photo of Cory and his birth date and death date inscribed on it. I realize that box contains his ashes, and a chill runs up my spine.
As if he knows, Etienne places a hand on the small of my back. I look at him, and he gives me a tight smile and a nod. My nerves settle, and together we follow the wall of memories in a long queue of people waiting to express condolences to his wife.
The wait is seemingly never-ending, yet the photos, videos, awards, and scraps of paper I scan along the way are enthralling. When I come across a snapshot of Cory, me, and several of our old chums from back in the day, he looks so happy and young. We also look like we’re freezing, and I realize that was the day we’d rung in the new year with a cold plunge in the North Sea like a bunch of idiots.
The weight of what has happened hits me hard all of a sudden. This is the first funeral of a friend. It feels wrong, like there’s a tear in the space-time continuum, and Cory was sucked in through a portal. It feels like we’re all idiots standing around when we should be mounting up an inter-dimensional rescue mission.
Then the guilt hits. I hadn’t spoken to him in years. We’ve all been so busy. But gods almighty, he was still young. He barely had a chance to live. He should not be in that box. I should not be at a funeral for a friend, and that’s that.
As we approach the front of the line, I see the deep lines of grief on his wife Amanda’s face. She and Cory had just begun dating when we’d graduated from university, and we hadn’t gotten a chance to get to know each other.
“Amanda. I don’t know if you remember me, but—”
“Yes, Kala, of course, I remember you. Thank you for coming.”
“I’m so very sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you. He always spoke highly of you.”
“He was a good man. I could tell by the way he looked at you that you were his perfect match,” I tell her, and I genuinely mean it.
