Page 59 of Love at a Funeral and Other Awkward Conversations

“Cassandra.” Mr. Mancini greets me with a light squeeze, his hand rubbing my back. “How are you?”

“I’m good, thanks.”

“How’re your parents doing?”

“They’re okay,” I lie.

“Good. You have a drink?”

I hold up my beer.

“Make sure you grab some food. My sister makes the best pasta salad, but?—”

“Hello.” A woman with a sleek two-tone pixie cut sidles up next to Mr. Mancini, and he introduces us.

“Cindy, this is Cassandra St. George. Cassandra, this is my wife.”

“Oh, Cassandra.” She presses her palms against my cheeks. “I’m so sorry for what you’ve been through. My heart aches for your parents.”

I force a smile.

“I’m happy you’re here,” she goes on, gently patting my cheek.

Vince’s attention is on a toddler showing him some kind of motorized plane with blinking lights. He’s of no help to me.

“Cindy, let the girl breathe,” Mr. Mancini says.

“Of course. I’m sorry.” Cindy catches herself, pressing her hands to her chest. “Vinny’s always yelling at me about personal space.”

Vince butts in. “I’m what?”

“You always say I smother people,” she says, running her hand down the side of his face. “But I can’t help it, you know. It’s how I show love. And I’m your mother, I can do whatever I want with you.”

Vince rolls his eyes but presses his cheek into her hand, and I’m actually jealous of the exchange between them. There’s so much love there.

“So, you’ve met my mom,” Vince says to me as he wraps his arm around his mother’s shoulders.

“Thank you for having me over.”

“It’s absolutely my pleasure. Make yourself at home.” She waves her hand in an arc encompassing her whole house, and I use this moment to take my leave.

Vince follows me to the six-foot-long table covered with a flag tablecloth. “Sorry ’bout that.”

I pick up a plate and scoop pasta salad onto it. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Mom’s a hugger. I know you aren’t.”

I grab a cheeseburger. “She’s not the only hugger around here.”

He agrees and fills his plate high with food before we go to a table where his cousins Nick and Tony are. Since I’d met Nick at Sassie’s, we all fall into easy conversation. Tony’s pregnant wife, Annie, tells me stories about the hard time she’s having. Normally, I’d be totally put-off by the baby topic, but it doesn’t irk me so much now. I haven’t been around many women—or people, for that matter—my age since I’ve moved home, and especially since Raymond died. I’ve cut myself off from the outside world completely. I’ve had my head buried in the sand, so I like being here.

I like talking with Annie and grow some secondhand excitement for her baby. I don’t even mind when they ask me personal questions about my childhood with Ray and how I’ve been dealing with his death. I’m honest, for the most part. I tell them about the time Ray “accidentally” lit the carpet on fire in the basement and how his pyromaniac tendencies continued into adulthood with the time he put so many birthday candles on Lucy and Lara’s cake last year, his kitchen curtains caught fire.

Vince brags about my growing social media and how I write “so eloquently” about my grief, and they all pull out their phones to follow me. It’s oddly satisfying to watch them read through a few posts and witness their physical reactions to it in real time.

“It’s beautiful and sad,” Annie says. Nick and Tony agree, and Vince raises his eyebrow at me in a See? look.

“I’ll think about it,” I whisper to him, referring to that idea of his.

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