Page 47 of Love at a Funeral and Other Awkward Conversations

“Talk to you later?”

“Of course,” he says in his perfectly easygoing way, and I dash from his house, my insecurities trailing behind me. He doesn’t need to carry all of my baggage, even though he would without question. I can’t ask that of him.

Besides, I’m too used to carrying it all myself. I don’t know how to give it up.

MAY 25

FYI: Team registration for the Raymond St. George Memorial Baseball Tournament is now open! Be prepared to enter the team captain’s contact information, number of players, and team name. I will be contacting all captains with more information and paperwork. Registration closes on June 15th.

Don’t forget to follow @RSGMemorial on all social media platforms, and see you on June 22nd to relive some glory days!

#Grief #RaymondStGeorge #RSGMemorial #Baseball #Tournament #GloryDays #TheBoss

CHAPTER 18

Ipark my car in one of the few spots left open and step out into the packed parking lot even though it’s barely noon. A couple of teens sit on the curb outside, while a set of small boys run ahead to the building in front of a woman calling after them. I should’ve expected how busy it would be during this long Memorial Day weekend, but I’ve had my head down, working on the tournament.

Briefly, I wonder if I should come back later, maybe on a different day, but I shake my head.

No.

There are only a few weeks left, and I need sponsors. Mr. Alvarado’s help has been sparse, even though this whole thing was his idea. I’ve kept him in the loop, telling him everything I’ve been doing, waiting for him to offer up suggestions on contacts or companies. He’s given me neither, although he was the first one to sign up a team. So I guess that’s something.

With so much stress, I haven’t been sleeping well, and I can only hope after all this is over, I’ll be able to sleep for fifteen hours straight. But to even put this memorial on, I need money, so I take a deep breath, double-check my folder, and smooth out my sleeveless black romper.

Sunny’s Sundaes is a small business owned by a woman who went to my high school and graduated a few years ahead of Raymond. For my first go at obtaining a sponsor, I thought this might be my best chance. A painted pink, blue, purple, and yellow sign decorates a wide window next to the door. Inside, I’m greeted with cool air conditioning and the distinctive scent of sugar waffles. I haven’t eaten dairy ice cream in a long while, but the pistachio almond fudge is awfully tempting.

As I rummage through my purse for lactose pills, a young man behind the counter greets me. “Can I help you?”

I skip the stomachache and tell him, “I’m here to meet with Sunita. My name’s Cassandra. She’s expecting me.”

“Okay, one minute.” He walks a few steps to a door that looks like it leads to some sort of kitchen and leans inside. A moment later, a woman with light brown skin and black hair tied up in a messy bun appears, stripping off rubber gloves that look like they’re smeared with chocolate. She smiles at me.

“Sunita?”

“Yes, hi. Call me Sunny,” she says then directs her thumb over her shoulder. “I was dipping some of the waffle cones.”

“Oh, you make everything yourself?” I ask as she scoots around the counter and gestures to a small booth in the corner.

“Everything but the little sugar cones. We always have at least twelve homemade ice cream flavors to pick from. The waffle cones and bowls, the cookies, we make everything here. I like to dip the cones myself,” she says with a laugh. “When I let the staff or my husband do it, they all end up with different amounts of chocolate.” She rolls her eyes. “I can’t help that I’m a micromanager. Avyaan and I opened this place two years ago. I’m the creative, he’s the business.”

“Well, everything looks delicious.”

“Is this your first time here?”

I nod, embarrassed to be here asking this business owner for money when I’ve never frequented her shop. “I’ve got a bit of a lactose sensitivity, so I mostly stay away from ice cream.”

“I have two vegan flavors right now. Do you want to try one? Toasted coconut or dark chocolate peanut butter?”

I squeeze my thumb and forefinger together. “I guess I’ll have a smidge of the toasted coconut.”

She hops up and goes back behind the counter. In the meantime, I take out the sponsorship packet, which includes an outline of the event, why I am doing it, and the different levels of sponsorship. I keep from nervously chewing my lip, but my palms are moist. I’ve never asked anyone for money before, not in this sense, at least, and even though I’ve mentally rehearsed the spiel, it’s still nerve-racking.

My hand itches to text Vince. I almost asked him to come with me today, but I stopped myself before I sent the message. I agreed to put this fundraiser together, and I need to take these meetings on my own. If not because it’s for my brother, then to prove to myself I can do it. Vince’s been my crutch through everything, but I want to stand on my own two feet for once. I don’t want to need him as much as I do. Plus, I’m not comfortable with how we left things at his house. We’ve texted a few times about the tournament but nothing too personal. Nothing more than a friend helping out another, a guarantee for a sponsorship from the Mancini Funeral Home.

“Here ya go,” Sunny says, handing me a small cup and spoon as she sits down opposite me again.

“Thank you for this and for meeting with me.”

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