Page 1 of Four Weekends and a Funeral

1

We Start with the Funeral

When I learn I’m still dating Sam Lewis, I’m at his funeral.

Mara and I drift into St. Ignatius Catholic Church twenty minutes early.

“You’re sloshing,” she tells me out of the side of her mouth.

“Puddle in the parking lot.” The wet squish of my foot into damp insole punctuates my words.

I grip her elbow when we reach the threshold, as if I’m guiding her toward the vaguely familiar faces of my ex-boyfriend’s friends and loved ones. Really, she’s the one who’s keeping me upright. Such is her duty as my best friend, though her striking, angular features and statuesque frame make her an only slightly more discreet companion than an emotional-support corgi.

Today, we’re a study in contrasts. Where Mara is tall and steady in her stacked heels, I’m short and unwieldy in my waterlogged, machine-washable flats. Her auburn hair is spun up neatly in a French twist while my long brown curls fall messily around my face, because I’m thirty years old and still can’t follow a YouTube hair tutorial.

She shakes herself from my death grip to unbutton her coat, revealing a pristinely black, Woolite-commercial-ready sweater topping a pair of effortlessly chic wide-leg trousers. I—as a chronically reckless washer of dark woolens—had nothing so perfectly Burial Black to don for the funeral of a man who’d gently dumped me in a rowboat. I settled for a faded charcoal dress and a cardigan that exists somewhere between pea green and the color of the dead late-autumn grass. I hope it snows soon. I’m already so sick of fall. I’m already so sick of today.

The wooden doors thud behind us, announcing our arrival. I suppose it’s not ordinary to bring a plus-one to these sorts of things, but the funeral of my most recent ex is no ordinary occasion.

My eyes search the front hall for someone I know. More accurately, I’m hoping to see no one I know and confirmation that I’m in the wrong place.

No, no. Not your Sam Lewis, a stranger might say. A different Sam Lewis. Though he hasn’t been my Sam Lewis for six weeks—if he ever really was.

But I recognize his friend Russell immediately, and relief and disappointment flood my chest like an inflowing tide. Today is real. This is no mistake.

We sidle up to his group, and Russell introduces himself to Mara with an overly familiar hug. I watch her struggle against her natural urge to recoil. Russell Rossi is an adventure seeker, a shameless flirt, and a level of attractive that loops all the way back around to unattractive. He’s uncanny valley–level hot and a self-proclaimed “hugger.”

Since Mara once described a high five from her accountant as “inappropriately chummy,” I swoop in to hug Russell myself. He presses his whole body against me and holds it approximately three seconds too long. Releasing me from his grip, he presents me to the group as “Alison Mullally, Sam’s girlfriend.”

“Former girlfriend,” I correct Russell.

“Well, obviously, babe,” Russell says dismissively before returning to his conversation.

His words snap against my skin like a rubber band. I stand there dumbly while the group continues speaking about people I don’t know and sharing memories I don’t have. The words He broke up with me six weeks ago sit on my tongue.

My mouth opens and shuts once, twice, and then a third time. With each second that passes, my correction morphs into an uncomfortable non sequitur in a conversation that’s moved on. All of my explanations dissolve in my mouth like sour cotton candy.

Sam’s mom joins our circle, greeting each of us with a cool, stiff embrace. I can hardly look at her when she pulls me close, murmuring into my putrid-colored sweater—so quietly I almost can’t make it out—“I’m just grateful he found you before…”

My role in this tragic drama finally clicks into place.

At funerals, we’re all present tense in relation to the dead. Judy Lewis is his mom. Rachel is his sister. I’m introduced over and over as his girlfriend. This is Alison, Sam’s girlfriend. Only Sam is past tense.

To this group, I am Sam’s girlfriend. No one interrogates the seriousness of our relationship to determine how much grief I’m allowed. We could have been together two weeks or ten years—though any of his Instagram followers could see I surfaced around June. I never made it to his TikTok. A relationship wouldn’t fit the “nomad” aesthetic, he said.

Dread pools in my belly while I hover between lukewarm coffee carafes, overhearing alternate versions of my love life making their way through the sympathy floral arrangements. Most timelines diverge at the annual Lewis family Labor Day party.

In my version of events, Sam dumped me three days prior. Mrs.Lewis, on the other hand, was sad to hear of my bout with food poisoning. Russell’s still bummed I was out of town and missed his epic bonfire—the tallest one yet! A few people are sure they saw me there.

In every story but mine, I was still with Sam on Labor Day, and I was still dating him when he crashed his rental car last Tuesday in Sedona on a spur-of-the-moment climbing trip. Therefore, at his funeral, I’m Sam Lewis’s girlfriend—possibly in perpetuity.

Part of me wonders if Sam’s lie means that he felt more for me than he ever let on, but I immediately dismiss the thought. It’s more likely that the breakup didn’t warrant a special announcement. My departure would have been self-explanatory when he showed up with a new girlfriend at the next big event. It just so happens that event is today, and he can’t be here for it.

As the crowd filters into the church, I yank Mara through a set of heavy double doors into a parochial school hallway, decorated with brightly colored drawings of Jesus on the cross demonstrating varying levels of artistic competency.

Mara stumbles over her feet. “Alison, what the—”

“Why would they all think…?” I can’t seem to find the words as nausea clenches my throat.

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