Page 52 of Love at a Funeral and Other Awkward Conversations

I give in because I don’t know if what they had was real, but I do know what it’s like to want to rewind somehow, have a little piece of him back. “My aunt’s at the registration table. She’ll give you 50/50 tickets you can sell. Sound good?”

She wipes at her nose and straightens herself up. “Yes, great. And maybe afterward, we can hang out? Maybe finally get to know each other? I’d love to ask you some questions about RJ.”

I offer her a fake smile and mumble a thanks before skirting her because, hell no, I don’t want to get to know her. I don’t want to be her stand-in for Ray or her crutch to lean on. I have enough of my own shit going on to take on hers too.

Gracie and I jog off behind the fence to a small patch of grass by the parking lot, where I sit next to her. “Why does everyone think I can manage their grief?” I ask Gracie. “I can barely manage my own.” She licks me. “It’s not like I can bring him back from the dead.”

I people watch, glaring at them as I’m overwhelmed with animosity toward everyone here at the park.

I know it’s irrational, but ever since Ray died, I resent everyone for living their normal lives. Typically, my hatred’s buried under the depression and anxiety, but it’s out in full force today. I don’t want them to be happy. I want them to suffer.

I want them to endure what I do. Live in the shadow of a ghost. Be responsible for every fucking person’s memories. Rip open their rib cage in order to put their heart on display for the world.

I grind my teeth and growl.

What I wouldn’t give for something to take the edge off right now. When I lived in the city, I had a friend, Marissa, who dealt weed. It was some real cheap stuff she upcharged rich college kids for, but she’d always let me have some for free. The rare times I had the night off, we’d spend it on her couch, under her weighted blanket, watching Boy Meets World. I’d usually conk out after one episode.

I thought my life was shit then.

Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

Gracie and I soak in some sunshine for a few more brief moments while I put myself back together. I’ve become quite adept at it since Raymond’s death. I give in to the emotion only enough to relieve the pressure, a pinhole in a balloon, then slap on another Band-Aid to keep it all from draining out. After tying my hair up in a bun, I stand and stretch my back. For a moment, I consider actually opening that yoga app I have on my phone every once in a while, but who am I kidding?

Making my way back over to the field, I’m stopped by a man who introduces himself to me as a reporter for the local newspaper, and I paste on a grin. I’ll be the person I need to be for now and figure out the rest later. The reporter questions me about my brother, and I offer bland answers I know everyone will want to read. We discuss how the tournament will help out the school before Mr. Alvarado intercepts us. This time, I don’t actually mind. I’ve planned this event for months, I should enjoy this, but instead, I can’t wait until it’s over.

It’s a long day, and Gracie stays by my side the whole time. Between counting money and restocking snacks, I stop to watch one of the games. Vince’s team is playing. They’re all old teammates, and it actually brings me a small amount of joy to see them laughing and clowning with one another. Some of them look familiar, most of them don’t, but it wouldn’t matter anyway as my eyes always find Vince. He’s behind the plate, shouting directions, playing catcher. He’s so at ease, a complete natural, even now, all these years after he stopped playing. I wonder if he regrets not taking that scholarship. I sort of regret it for him. It’s clear he loves playing, and I want him to be happy.

At his next turn up to bat, he notices me and winks with a tip of his helmet. It’s totally dorky and endlessly charming. Not to mention, the wave he throws me as he jogs to first base after his home run. I refrain from melting into a puddle and take Gracie to the shade under a few trees. I try to enjoy a pack of nuts, but more people keep coming over to talk to me. They want to tell me stories about Ray, and I laugh or frown on cue, but underneath, my patience wears thin. I suppose I should be comforted by all of their words, yet I’m not. They knew “RJ,” some veneer of a person Raymond put on for them. He might’ve been the life of the party, but he was certainly no hero.

He was just your average guy. A guy who stole Nana’s 80th birthday cake from the grocery store because he didn’t want to wait in line to pay for it. A guy who’d split checks down to the cent over fifty-cent wings at our favorite pub. A guy who had good and bad qualities. But you wouldn’t know it. To them, he’s an angel, some kind of celebrity, a star in the middle of New Jersey.

To me, he was my big brother, and my love wasn’t based on an idea of him. Rather, the real Raymond. I loved him for all of it, the good and the bad, the secrets and the loud parts. I love him so much it makes me hate other people for loving the version of him they thought they knew.

“He’d be so proud of you,” someone tells me, and my skin goes hot. My fingers clench around Gracie’s leash, and I give them a curt nod goodbye.

One more thing they don’t know. Ray’s not proud. He can’t be anything. He’s dead.

I ignore the calls for my attention, including Aunt Joanie beckoning me, and head straight for my car. I lock myself in, with only Gracie’s shallow pants to keep me company as she sleeps with her head in my lap.

In the quiet, I let my head fall back and close my eyes.

Two soft taps on the doorframe wake me up, and I blink over to find Vince’s face. The sun is almost set behind him, an orange halo around his dark hair. He motions for me to roll down the window, and I do.

“You’re not supposed to lock dogs in the car in this kind of heat. It’s how they die from dehydration and heat exhaustion.” He squints. “Or was that your plan for the two of you?”

I know he’s being facetious from his tone of voice, but he’s doing the skeptical eyebrow raise that makes me think twice. “I’m depressed, not suicidal.” I hold up the water Gracie and I had shared. “I had the windows cracked, and we were only in here for—” I check the time “—fifteen minutes.”

His hazel eyes appraise me before he juts his chin toward the passenger seat. “Can I sit?”

I nod, and he makes his way around the front of the car. Sitting down, he leans against the door to face me and removes his baseball cap, his hair sweaty and sticking up every which way. Gracie settles herself in his lap.

“Tough day?” he asks, and I turn to the window.

“I thought it would be different doing this.”

“Different, how?”

“Closure, I guess.” When he puts his hand on my neck, I face him. “I thought it would be fun, but this sucks.”

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