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“I don’t know if it is. I never thought any of this stuff would happen to me but it did. And I feel helpless.” I finally look up at him. “I just want to be a stand-up. I want to make people laugh. Why is that so hard?”
“Come here.” Nick pulls me in, swaddling me in his arms, and his heart beats against mine. I take a deep breath of his scent, all mixed with leathery cologne and cigarette smoke. He rocks me back and forth and strokes my hair. “I understand. I know what it’s like to feel like the world has left you for dead. But you’re tough.”
I whimper at his words, almost wanting to fight them.
He continues. “Don’t give up. You’re gonna make it. And I’m gonna help you land the Late Night audition.” More tears spill out of me. And I don’t know if they’re because of his sweet generosity—the brief relief and glimmer of hope he’s offering—or because of the fear that it won’t matter because the other shoe always drops. Nick lets me go and swipes his thumbs over my wet cheeks. “I’m a survivor. And a true survivor can always recognize another. You’re strong. You’re a winner. I know you’ll get through this. I believe in you.”
I sniffle back tears, stunned by my breakdown behavior and by Nick’s sweet support. “Thanks. That means a lot.” I take another deep breath and clear my lungs. “Should we go back inside?”
“In a minute. This is the strangest funeral I’ve ever been to. I need a smoke.” He lights up and takes in a long drag. “I’m sorry about your dad. When did it happen?”
“Two years ago. He was only forty-eight.”
“Shit. How did he die?”
I glance at the cigarette in his mouth then draw my gaze up to his eyes. “Lung cancer. From smoking.”
Nick exhales a plume of smoke, the realization shifting something in his expression. Like it all makes sense now. He takes a good look at the cancer stick gripped between his fingers, then kneels down and smashes it into the sidewalk like a nasty bug until the smoke is extinguished.
The door behind us swings open. Holly, Jeremiah’s wife, stomps toward us, red-faced and trembling, eyes shooting daggers aimed at me. “How dare you come to my husband’s funeral!”
Oh, shit.
She jabs her finger into my shoulder, shoving me back. “You think I don’t know who you are, you big-city hussy bitch! How dare you show your face here, making a scene with your tears. I’m his wife!”
What is she talking about? Then I remember that woman I met—Just steer clear of his wife, okay, honey?
“No, you don’t understand, I—”
“Oh, I understand perfectly. You think I’m just the idiot hillbilly wife but I did two years in community college too, you four-eyed floozy!” Holly’s removing her star-spangled earrings one at a time.
I step back and Nick moves in. “What are you doing?”
“I’m gonna kick your ass, Yankee ho!” She lunges at me but Jordan grabs her at the last second, keeping her at bay.
“Run!” Nick yells, and we jet off for the Jeep.
“Hooo-lllyyy shhhhh-iiiiitt,” I say, picking up speed. Holly’s on our tail like the Hulk. I’ve never seen anyone in platform stilettos run like that. I jump in the Jeep and slam the door. Since there’s a crowd of people behind us, Nick can’t back out without knocking someone over like a bowling pin.
“What are we gonna do?” I say in a panic.
“Hold tight.” The ignition kicks on. Mötley Crüe’s “Kickstart My Heart” blasts through the speakers. The engine rumbles and Nick steps on the gas, plowing over the grassy curb. He swerves left to miss the cars parked across from it, then makes a sharp right onto the road. And we’re off! I grip on to my headrest, staring out the vinyl back window, which is flapping in the breeze.
Rest in peace, Jeremiah. PUMPIN’ Forever.
