Page 48 of Love at a Funeral and Other Awkward Conversations

She inclines forward, one hand on top of the other on the table. “Of course. I’m happy to help. I didn’t know your brother personally, but I can sort of understand what you’re going through. My cousin died when she was thirty-two from complications of childbirth.”

“Oh my god,” I gasp, the spoon of ice cream paused halfway to my mouth.

She frowns, nodding solemnly. “It’s amazing that happens in this country, you know? My family came here for opportunity, a better life, right? And then something so preventable happens… It’s kind of unfathomable. We were all devastated.”

“I’m sorry,” I say even though I’ve come to the conclusion that is the dumbest thing to say to someone mourning. There is nothing I can do for her. There has been no wrongdoing, except maybe death coming too early for this woman and a messed-up healthcare system. “That’s awful.”

She brushes stray hairs back from her face and takes a deep breath. “So, what do you have for me?”

I hand her the papers and, in between bites of ice cream, explain to her what I’m doing for the tournament and that I need funds for rentals and permits. In exchange for donations, Sunny’s Sundaes would receive advertising on all social media platforms, in event emails, signage, and on our T-shirts. She listens intently and smiles encouragingly. I take it as a good sign that we pull out our phones to follow each other, but she doesn’t give me an answer now.

“Let me go over all of this with Av, and I’ll get back to you.”

“Great. Thank you again.”

“Good luck with all of this. It’s really cool you’re doing it,” she says as we shake hands. She’s so bubbly and friendly, I wonder if I put myself out there more, maybe we’d be friends. When I lived in New York, one of the biggest cities in the world, I didn’t go out often. My work schedule as personal assistant didn’t allow it, but if I’m honest, I didn’t try all that hard. I had a handful of friends yet never made an attempt to meet new people, and now I think it’s possible I’ve lost the ability to make friends. Perhaps that skill fades away if not used enough.

Though, this meeting is a turned corner. Proof I’m not totally inept at people-ing.

Later, at work, I sneak away to check my emails and find one from Sunny. She’s in.

JUNE 6

Big hi, hello to all my new followers! Whether you’re here for my so-called honest and sad but kind of funny posts about my dead brother or for more information about the memorial tournament for said dead brother, welcome.

The tournament will be held at Hillsdale Park on June 22nd. You can find more information on the park, along with directions, in the link in my profile. And don’t forget, team registration closes on June 15th!

I’d like to shout out some of our sponsors: @SunnysSundaes_ @BigAlsBBQ @TheTurfNJ @LilysHair_N_Nails and Mancini Funeral Home. Message me for information on sponsorship packages.

Remember, you don’t have to play baseball to enjoy the Raymond St. George Memorial Tournament. Come hang out and have some snacks. There’ll be a raffle table and 50/50 tickets. Or if you’d like to skip the event altogether yet still donate, that’s okay too.

Keep your fingers crossed for good weather. I don’t deal well with heat. I’m more of an indoor cat myself, but I’ll be there and hope you will be too!

#Grief #RaymondStGeorge #RSGMemorial #Baseball #Tournament #Summer #TheresNoCryingInBaseball

CHAPTER 19

With less than twenty-four hours before the big day, I’m both relieved that it’s almost over and nauseous I still have to put the actual event on. I take my break at an empty booth in the back of Sassie’s, double-checking I have the appropriate paperwork for every team registered with my notebook, folders, and binder. I didn’t know I needed medical releases for each player until Aunt Joanie told me a few days ago. And now that the local news is covering it, I need media releases as well.

“Hey, what’re you doing?”

Buried in my work, I’m startled when Gary appears next to me.

“Taking a break,” I tell him, going back to the checklist of names to cross-reference against the paperwork.

“Your break was over ten minutes ago,” he says, and I blink at him. He frowns at me in return. “It’s ten after two.”

“Okay.” I peer around the vacant tables. “The place is empty.”

“It is not.” He nods to a couple of tables at the front of the restaurant where people are seated.

“They aren’t my tables.”

“Your break’s over. You should be working, not doing this.” He flaps the edge of my binder up.

“Please don’t touch my stuff,” I say, righting the papers he’s shifted.

He ignores me. “We need the utensils and napkins refilled.”

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