Page 55 of Love at a Funeral and Other Awkward Conversations

I am not that person.

I break away so quickly, stumbling back, my lungs seizing like he stole all the air from them. I press one hand to my breastbone, the other to my mouth, and he holds on to my elbow as I steady myself.

“Thanks for helping me,” I eventually mumble then pivot around, finishing packing up. “I don’t want to hold you up any longer. Go have fun with your friends.”

He wraps his fingers around my forearm so I’ll meet his gaze, and his eyes move back and forth between mine. His pupils are dilated, both attraction and confusion there. I try on a smile.

He doesn’t respond with one. Instead, his hand drifts down, his fingers finding mine for a too brief moment, and then he turns to walk away with Gracie lagging behind. “See you later, Cass.”

My cheeks expand on a big exhale, and I load up my car as I replay those moments in my head. Vince is steady, an anchor in the storm, but I have to be able to stand on my own two feet. I don’t want to rely on him. Or anyone, for that matter. I can’t let my emotions run wild; it’s not fair to him.

“You’re the worst,” I admonish myself.

“Talking to yourself?” Aunt Joanie snickers, coming up behind me. I force a laugh too and take the envelope she extends toward me. “It’s all the cash from the concessions and fifty-fifty.”

I open the envelope to count out a couple of twenties. “The school won’t miss this,” I say, raising my eyes to Aunt Joanie. “I figured I should give some of this to Shayna for the girls.”

“Of course.”

Mom and Dad approach us. Mom kisses my cheek, barely a whisper of a touch, while my dad swings his car keys in his hand. “Good job with this, Cassandra.”

“Thank you.”

He clears his throat, his eyes wandering around the field as if he’s seeing something no one else is. His face goes pink, and he blinks rapidly before clearing his throat again then backs away toward the car. Mom follows dutifully. Aunt Joanie leaves after another hug.

Then it’s only me and a couple bags of garbage. I haul it all to a bin at the other end of the parking lot before sitting in my car. As I put the key in the ignition, my breath is suddenly impossible to take in.

It’s finally all over, and the relief I thought I’d feel is nowhere to be found, while the loneliness is in abundance. My high hopes for this fundraiser to bring my family back together are dashed. My parents are more disconnected than before. Detached from me, from each other, from reality.

All day, all I wanted were moments by myself, and now that I have them, I’d like to give them back. The funny thing about going through all of this is when I think I have what I want, it’s not any better. Day to day, moment to moment, it’s a fight to get through, and right when I think I’m good, a wave knocks me back over and I have to start again.

And sitting in my car alone, I know I have to start paddling back to shore again. But it’s hard, and I’m out of breath.

I squeeze my fingers around the steering wheel and jam my head back against the seat, closing my eyes to the tears. I try to imagine what Ray would say to me.

Why didn’t you go for a drink, you loser?

Nell was only trying to help.

I can’t believe you actually put this together. You had to talk to people, like, real live people. Did it hurt?

Maybe he’d be happy. Maybe he’d think I was being overly sensitive. “If you were still alive, I wouldn’t have to wonder.”

I open my eyes and drag my palm down my cheek before swiping my phone on. The deflated balloon hanging off the gatepost is a perfect metaphor for me, and I snap a picture of it, writing a post. Each movement of my thumbs stamps my anger and defeat into words.

Once it’s posted, there are immediate interactions, likes, and comments.

“You should write a book about this,” someone named Harmony writes, and I laugh. If I were going to write a book, it’d be a historical romance with courting, kissing, and a devastatingly handsome dark-haired, hazel-eyed hero. Not a melodrama starring a jaded girl and a dead guy.

JUNE 22

Did you know you can WebMD grief? Some symptoms of grieving are: increased inflammation, lower immunity, high blood pressure, fatigue, dry mouth. This list goes on. But symptoms, to me, allude to a diagnosis, a problem that can be fixed with medicine. A pill. Or surgery. Or Jell-O and an IV bag.

But there is no cure for this.

I don’t need a doctor to tell me I’m sick. I’m like Jessie in that episode of Saved By The Bell. You know the one. I’m her, minus the pills and singing group. When she’s running around like, “There’s no time! No time to study, no time for Stanford, no time to sing!” I’m like, I get it, girl. I get it.

There’s no time. And all I want to do is sleep. Or cry. I’m on the edge of a breakdown, barely holding it together, one hug from Zack away from totally losing it.

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