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Twenty-Nine
Knock, knock.
Morning light spills into my darkened motel room when I open the door. Nick’s clean-shaven face and tamed hair are almost unrecognizable. Not to mention the getup—a tailored dark gray suit and light blue tie. I’m partial to tousled-hair, scruffy-beard Nick. But I could get used to this look on him. Hell, with those dimples and that body, he could probably make anything look good.
“Did you rent that outfit this morning?” I ask.
“No, it’s mine.” He dusts the lapel. “I clean up nice, don’t I?”
“You brought a suit and tie on tour? You really are a Jerry, aren’t you?”
“If I were, this blazer would have shoulder pads.”
“Or an emblem. Remember that episode?” I ask, and Nick snickers. “But seriously, why did you bring a suit?”
“Just in case.”
“In case what? You have a meeting at the bank?” Not once have I seen Nick in anything other than his jeans and leather jacket, or that Elvis jumpsuit. And of course there was that one night when he was wearing nothing at all. But who’s keeping track of his wardrobe anyway?
“You just never know,” he says, and I think about Jeremiah and his family for a moment. People always say we never know when our time’s up and it’s so true. “What about you? You going on a date?”
On the off chance of a nice night out, I packed a relatively tasteful dress with me—navy blue, not black. “It’s either this or jeans,” I say, wheeling my two-ton suitcase over to the door with my garbage bag pillow tucked beneath my arm. “C’mon. Let’s get this over with.”
—
So here we are in our road trip best at a funeral for a guy we never knew existed until last night. Soft harp music sounds through the room—the kind that plays softly at Hallmark stores. Entering the funeral home is about as nerve-racking as waiting to go onstage. I haven’t been to one of these since my dad’s. Everyone’s dressed in mourning attire, and they all have the same question on their faces—How did he go so young?
The only question on my mind: Do I have to be here?
My phone buzzes in my bag. It’s Imani, probably calling me back from last night. I’ll call her later—don’t want to explain this very odd outing. A group of people pass us wearing American flag pins on their lapels and carrying handheld flags too. Hard to tell if Jeremiah was a veteran or if they’re observing our Independence Day—whose flashy tradition is somewhat responsible for his death.
“Think there’ll be a firecracker finale?” I ask.
“What kind of person dies from fireworks?” Finally, he says something honest about this whole thing.
I pat Nick’s shoulder. “The kind that thinks you’re hilarious.”
“I’m gonna go find Jordan and figure out where I’m supposed to be.” Nick buttons his suit jacket and rushes off.
“Wait,” I call after him. “Don’t leave me...” My words trail off as he makes his way through the crowd. “Shit,” I mutter under my breath. The reality of this whole thing sets in. Somebody died (probably Nick’s number one fan).
“Sweetie, you look lost.” A woman approaches me. “Are you here for the Jeremiah Hill service?”
“Uh, yeah,” I say, adjusting my glasses.
“Well, okay. Now, you must be from out of town.”
“New York,” I say.
The woman narrows her eyes in suspicion. “You don’t sound like you’re from New York.”
“Well, I am.”
“All the way from New York just to pay your respects to Jeremiah. Well now, y’all must’ve been good friends.”
“Not exactly.”
“Oh.” The woman’s eyes widen. “Oh, I think I know who you are now.” She leans in, whispering, “Just steer clear of his wife, okay, honey?” The woman pats my arm in a condoling kind of way and walks on.
