Page 46 of Love at a Funeral and Other Awkward Conversations

When he doesn’t continue, I lean forward, circling my hand to urge him on.

“Her name was Sandi with an I.”

“As opposed to a Y? That’s important?”

He offers me a shy grin. “I met her down the shore.”

“Ah, where all good Jersey romances start,” I joke, but I wrinkle my nose. I hate to admit it, but I’m jealous of Sandi with an I.

Vince shakes his head at me. He can tell I’m judging the woman he used to date. “She’s a nice girl, a pediatric nurse, super-Italian family.”

“But you’re from a super-Italian family.”

“Yeah,” he acknowledges. “And it was too much.”

“Too much what?”

“I’m close with my family. She was close with hers. You know…too many Sunday dinners, too many gossipy aunts and interfering mothers. It got to be too much after a while.”

My own family is basically the opposite, but I can understand why it might be hard. When I sit next to him on the bed, he elbows me, tossing my own question back at me. “What’s your deal?”

I hesitate, glancing down at my hands as I scratch at my nail polish.

“Hey, I told you. Now, you tell me.” Vince puts his hand on top of both of mine, his golden tan over my fairer skin, his fingertips a little rough.

I resist curving my palm up, lacing our fingers together, and instead move my hands to tie my hair up in a ponytail. “Well…since I changed my Tinder profile to Sister to a dead brother looking for the meaning of life, I haven’t gotten many matches.”

He huffs next to me. “You didn’t.”

“I didn’t,” I say. “I deleted the app after moving home. Living in your parents’ basement doesn’t make for the greatest opportunities for houseguests.” I pick at the comforter, unnerved by Vince’s concentration on me. “Besides, I’m sort of a mess anyway.”

“I don’t mind your mess,” he tells me, and I shoot my eyes back up to his. He’s so sincere, I have to blink a few times to clear my senses. He doesn’t shift toward me, not even a centimeter, simply lets his words settle between us. For as much as I should be warmed and comforted by them, I’m scared. Fifteen years ago, I would have been jumping for joy, melting right into his arms at the first sign of him wanting to be with me. Now, I’m melting, but for a different reason.

Because I don’t have the capacity to reciprocate the same honesty.

Vince has been a constant in my life since it happened. He’s been a friend and my oasis, a chance to forget about everything. It terrifies me that at this moment I want to get lost in his smile for a long time.

“I should go,” I say, leaping up from his bed.

“You sure? Are you okay to drive?”

I wave his questions away and leave his bedroom before I change my mind. “Yeah. I’m fine. The wine was basically grape juice.”

He follows me downstairs, and I stop next to the front door, where Gracie’s lying down. I bend to pet her, and when I straighten back up, Vince is in my space.

Yielding to my instincts, I close my eyes and lean against him. He combs his fingers through my hair, brushing it behind my shoulder, then he presses his lips against my temple, my cheek, and my ear, where he murmurs, “Happy birthday, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart.

God, how I love that word.

Though I don’t think it suits me very well.

I’m not sweet, and I certainly don’t have a working heart.

But I love hearing him say it, love imagining that I am as sweet-hearted as he believes me to be. And for one short moment, I pretend I’m worth his smiles and gentle endearments.

When I finally open my eyes, he’s standing back by the thick railing of the steps with his hands in his pockets.

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