Page 7 of Four Weekends and a Funeral

Driving to a suburban man-made nature trail feels inadequate, but it’s the best I can do on my haunted iCal’s short notice. The path is too groomed and well maintained, and I can still hear the highway in the distance. It’s hardly a communion with nature. Sam wouldn’t even count it as a hike—more of an unproductive stroll to nowhere.

“I left you alone for ten minutes.” A twig snaps beneath Mara’s bright white sneakers, which have never seen the outside of a Life Time Fitness. She’s always a bit twitchy this far away from cell reception, because, in her words, “You never know where you’ll be when the Guy—I don’t know—accidentally posts a Reel of his dick set to ‘Unholy.’ ”

The specificity of that “hypothetical” haunts me to this day.

“You abandoned me in my time of need.”

The reflective strip on her Lululemon running jacket catches in the sun as her hand swipes at something in the air. “I assumed you could handle yourself well enough to not volunteer to pack up your dead ex-boyfriend’s home for his family. You hear how insane that sounds, right?”

“No way, Al. I love how committed you are to fake-dating their son. It’s sweet.” Coconut-scented blond strands whip into my mouth as Chelsea spins in the direction of whatever creature is pounding on a neighboring tree. “Ooh, a red-bellied woodpecker!”

Chelsea’s always been an animal lover, but years of teaching fourth-grade science have turned her passing interest in Minnesota fauna into a mild obsession. The only barrier to her hoarding formerly stray cats is her landlord Joel, whose strict no-pet policy forced her to rehome Colonel Corduroy, the one-eyed calico she found wandering around the state fairgrounds.

“I’m not ‘fake-dating’…,” I start to argue before accepting defeat, swatting at the mosquito dive-bombing my face. Most summer bugs have died or gone indoors, and only the most stubborn tiny vampires remain. They can feel the cool breeze of winter closing in on them, and the beasts are reckless with nothing to lose.

“ ‘Fake-dating’ assumes a level of participation on Sam’s part that Al can’t rely on.” Mara high-steps over a swarm of ground hornets crawling along the grass. When I close my eyes, I swear I can feel them creeping up my hiking boots and push down the shudder rising up my back.

Chelsea yanks her eyes away from the majesty of nature. “This won’t interfere with my kids’ holiday concert, right? Half of the parents will be away for travel hockey, and we need bodies. If you bail, send someone else in your place. It’s a one-in, one-out situation.”

“Don’t worry,” I say to ease her mind. “I’ll be there with bells on.”

“I’m ninety percent sure you’re kidding, but please don’t. It’ll really mess with the handbell choir’s Rihanna cover, and Kaylee and Hunter are already holding on to that bridge by a thread.”

I pull a water bottle out of my belt bag. “You gave the children bells?”

“Don’t pretend you’re not intrigued by a ringing rendition of ‘Umbrella.’ ” Chelsea stuffs her hands in the pocket of her highlighter-pink hoodie, popping a brow.

“We said we’re coming. Please stop telling us about it,” Mara begs.

Chelsea rolls her eyes at us. “I should have rescheduled rehearsal yesterday. If I’d known it was going to get all cloak-and-dagger at Sam’s service, I would’ve been your ‘plus-two.’ Oh, I could’ve done an accent! I’ve been bingeing Bachelor in Paradise Australia, and my Aussie accent is getting good.” Chelsea says “getting good” in an accent not authentic to any region of the Commonwealth.

Mara holds her phone above her head as if cell service will strike her arm like a lightning rod in a storm. “You’re staying on top of Real Housewives too, right? There is always Housewives trivia.” Her question is a thinly veiled directive.

Along with Chelsea’s coworker Patrick, Chelsea and I are part of a bar trivia team that Mara takes far too seriously. Every year, we participate in a league championship on New Year’s Day, and every year, we never make it past the quarterfinals. Our poor showing only fuels Mara’s competitive nature for the year ahead.

“Don’t worry, Mar. I’m just as devoted to the cause as ever.” Chelsea turns back to me. “Why didn’t Sam tell anyone you broke up?” The million-dollar question.

“Rachel said his parents wanted to see him settled, and he couldn’t face them until he was in another relationship. They’re a bit intense about that stuff. His mom, especially.” I grimace, remembering how Mrs.Lewis—after a couple of Bud Light Limes at her Fourth of July party—more than once inquired after the state of my womb. I knew she was trying to parlay her unsubtle questions into an open discussion of babies, family, and the general state of my reproductive health, but I wasn’t in the mood to discuss how my BRCA diagnosis complicated all of these decisions while on a pontoon boat with my brand-new boyfriend’s mom as “Party in the USA” thrummed in the background. “Being ‘the girlfriend’ is the absolute least I can do. It’s just packing stuff up. And his friend Adam will be helping me. It’ll take—what—one day? Maybe two? Then it’s done.”

“There’s a friend? What’s this friend’s deal? Is he hot?” Chelsea prods, kicking up dirt along the trail.

I stumble on the uneven terrain. “What? No!” I shriek too quickly as Mara shouts, “Yes! It’s a disaster.”

“Oooh. Twist.” Chelsea rubs her hands together, greedy for any crumbs of salaciousness.

“He’s completely Al’s type,” Mara says, trying her phone toward the ground now, getting increasingly desperate.

“I don’t have a type,” I argue, but my voice is shrill and defensive.

“So, like…a beardy Indiana Jones?” Chelsea inquires. Mara nods without looking up from her device.

“I think I would have noticed if he looked like a young Harrison Ford.” I trip over a rock, trying, and failing, to make the messy maneuver look like a natural human movement.

Sure, Adam is handsome, but all of Sam’s friends are. Collected in one room, they look like a casting call for a North Face catalog. If anything about him was uniquely attractive to me, I didn’t register it. Everything about the day felt wrong, like we were all victims of a horrifying practical joke gone too far.

Mara rolls her eyes. “Oh, you noticed. And it was reciprocated.”

I fidget with my sleeve. “You saw us talking for one second.”

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