Page 21 of Love at a Funeral and Other Awkward Conversations

Life is different now. I don’t feel like smiling, and if I do, I feel bad doing it. I know it’s ridiculous, the internet has told me so, but I can’t turn off the guilt. Raymond isn’t walking this earth anymore, yet I am, and I’m not sure how to reconcile those two facts. If anyone has any bright ideas, pass them along to me, but please no more “With time, the pain will fade” platitude. Because at this point, the pain is the only thing keeping me sane. I’m afraid if I gave in to the sorrow, it would swallow me whole, so for now, I’m surviving on my rage. Not even the Rent soundtrack can move me.

#Grief #Renthead #FiveHundredTwentyFiveThousandSixHundredMinutes #Rage

CHAPTER 8

Lunch isn’t my favorite shift. Really, no shift is my favorite, but today is extra hard.

Putting my kilt and knee-highs back on after being away for two weeks felt ickier than usual. The way the guy with the short-sleeved button-down winks at me is more annoying than usual. Everything about working here is worse than usual.

Sassie’s Lassies—with its green paint, faux-leather seating fabric, and framed photos of rolling hills, the Loch Ness Monster, and the occasional big-breasted woman—is not exactly a five-star restaurant. But the patrons aren’t here for the décor or food. They’re here for the early-bird special, cheap alcohol, or the all-female staff in tiny uniforms. I took this job when I moved home to make a quick buck while I tried to find a job at the local newspaper. At the time, the paper only had unpaid internships. Nearly two years later, here I am, still slinging beers in a top that won’t cover my stomach or cleavage at the same time.

I place the plates of a plain cheeseburger and shepherd’s pie in front of two elderly men. They thank me, and I force a smile while wondering how old they are. One is completely bald, his face covered in lines and sunspots. He’s got a weathered tattoo of a pinup girl and a rose on his forearm. The other man’s hair is so thin it reminds me of Charlie Brown as he runs a bony hand over it, his clothes hanging loose on him.

It’s clear they’ve been around a while. They’ve enjoyed their time on earth.

So why are they alive when my brother’s not? I hate them for it.

Then guilt fills me up. They appear perfectly nice.

As I return to the kitchen, the guy in the stupid short-sleeved brown shirt, touches my arm. I raise a brow and toss him my best sneer, having no patience for shit today. “What?”

His eyes suddenly change from confident to nervous. “Can I have some ketchup?”

I step away to the bar to grab a bottle of ketchup and thump it on his table. I hate him too.

I hate them all. Every single person here. Why aren’t they dead?

They should be, from eating this food.

With a disgusted grunt, I head outside through the back door in the kitchen to take five minutes, but the door barely shuts before Gary pokes his head out.

“Hey, what’s with you today?” he asks.

Without my coat on, my skin prickles in the cold air. I clench my hands around my biceps.

“You look like you’re gonna kill somebody,” he says.

“I’d like to.” I pivot to face him and tilt my head. “You volunteering?”

He laughs at me, but I’m not joking.

“You’re not wearing your lipstick.” He opens the door wider and moves to stand to his full height, which is well below average. It’s a clear power move, as I’m on the pavement, a step below the door.

I put my hands on my hips. “What?”

“You should go back to wearing the red lipstick you usually do. You’d get more tips that way.”

“Fuck off, Gary.”

“Hey, you can’t talk to me that way.”

I turn away from him.

“This is your first day back, so I’ll cut you some slack after everything, but that was really uncalled for. You disrespect me again, and I’m going to write you up.”

“Yeah, sure, Gar.” I flip my middle finger at the click of the door shutting behind me. He’s an asshole and this job sucks, but I make good tips here. I’ve thought about applying to grad school, though tuition would only pile on to the loans I’ve already got. And I’ve browsed through enough jobs online to know there aren’t many available with my experience as a celebrity wrangler. Sometimes I wonder if that unpaid internship is still available.

Nevertheless, none of it matters now. That was before.

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