Page 73 of Love at a Funeral and Other Awkward Conversations

He tucks a hank of my hair behind my ear. “You’re okay, Cass.”

Those words and his kind yet mischievous smile do me in. I follow when he pulls me to him, and he kisses me like he can’t get enough. He moves his fingers over my body like he already knows it.

And I like it, him knowing me. Me knowing him.

I really like it.

Might even love it.

SEPTEMBER 23

I thought I knew what rock bottom was, buried six feet in the ground in a dark oak coffin at Cedar Hill Cemetery. Turns out, there was further to go. Weirdly, it doesn’t feel like I assumed it would. But maybe I’ve been living within a storm of emotion these last few months, so when a hurricane hits, it’s not all that different. Just another thing. Except this time, my house was carried away.

Who needs a house, though? Not I. Not when I have a friend with a home. A very good friend, with a very nice home, who makes me believe that maybe the house I had wasn’t so great anyway. A friend who doesn’t mind my mess in their home.

Everyone should have a friend like mine, to help you up from the bottom and who shares an umbrella in the storm.

#Grief #RockBottom #Family #Pain #FriendLikeMine #EasyLikeSundayMorning

CHAPTER 26

I’ve been spending some nights at Vince’s house. He makes me laugh with stupid jokes, and Gracie and I have become attached at the hip. The other day when I left, he said she paced by the front door for an hour. We cuddle all the time, and I think it makes Vince jealous—and also sort of happy. I caught him staring at us one lazy Sunday, with my head butted up against Gracie’s belly as I read the latest Nora Roberts Vince had bought for me. He’d merely grinned and then gone back to watching the football game on TV.

I spend one hour every day searching for jobs and exploring different paths I could take, but I’m not particularly interested in selling Avon, teaching kids in Asia how to speak English, or working in another restaurant. I applied to a part-time job at the library, which I didn’t get, and also put my application in at a gym, for shits and giggles. Understandably didn’t get that one either. I sent my résumé off to a marketing firm even though I don’t have all of the qualifications they’re looking for. I figure if most men apply for jobs with half the qualifications required, I should too.

I continue to write grief posts, and they’ve earned me a few follows by a couple low-level celebrities, and I’m close to fifteen thousand total now. And if I’m really desperate—and by desperate, I mean I want to see Vince’s face—I hang out at the funeral home for a few hours, but mostly, I spend my days walking.

It clears my head, quiets my thoughts, and has done some really terrific things for my butt. Sometimes I get cocky and challenge Vince to a race when he joins me, but the guy’s like the Energizer Bunny. He goes and goes. My lung capacity can’t seem to make it past the pace of a third grader, but nevertheless, I love it. My shoes, on the other hand, don’t.

Without a job, I’ve severely cut back my spending. But I need new sneakers, and this is my first purchase outside of necessities in weeks. Buying a pair of HOKAs isn’t exactly the same as a Sephora spending spree, but it is oddly satisfying. And I wonder if this is what it’s like to grow older. Finding immense joy in appropriate footwear?

It’s not half bad.

I dig out my debit card at the register, ready to pay, when the kid behind the counter tilts his head at me. “Hey, I know you.”

I raise one eyebrow.

“You’re Coach George’s sister.”

Coach George, the moniker hits me like a wave. I hold on to the edge of the counter, treading water. I haven’t had an episode like this in a while, and I’ve almost forgotten what it’s like to drown in grief.

“Yeah, I’m his sister,” I say after I can breathe again.

He rings up my sneakers. “I played outfield. Man, I really miss him,” he says nonchalantly. “He was the best.”

“The best,” I agree, putting my card into the machine to pay. He hands me the receipt and bag, a wobbly smile on his face. It connects to something inside me, a shared experience, even though we don’t know each other.

“How are you?” I ask, my heart taking another punch.

His cheeks pink as he casts his eyes down. “I’m good. The team didn’t do very well last season.”

I assume he’s probably ashamed, but I’m no athlete, definitely no coach, and have no advice. “Well…I’m sure it’s hard for you guys without…”

He swipes at one of his eyes with the back of his hand before meeting my gaze again. “Coach Fetterman took over, and none of us like him. He’s kind of a dick.”

Of course he is. I don’t know Coach Fetterman, but he’s not my brother, so…

I think of Vince. Of how much he loves baseball, how he gave up his scholarship, and how he would be a great coach. I tuck that idea away for later.

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