Page 20 of Look, Don't Touch

The cool morning air seeps into the cocoon I’m hesitant to leave. It skates up my tights and ruffles the end of the A-line blazer dress I’ve chosen for the occasion. Its color matches my mood. Dark as night. The temperature outside matches my heart. Nearly frozen.

“I’ll pick you up in one hour.”

I don’t bother responding more than to gently close the door behind me. The car pulls away before I take a step. Can’t blame him. My feet refuse to move toward the arched doorway. I draw a deep breath into my lungs and relish the cold burn.

My clutch vibrates.

Since I’m stalling anyway, I fish out my phone. I know who it is. I knew before the call came through. Guilt is a heavy weight to bear.

“Hi, Nat,” I answer.

“Hay Bale, I just want you to know I love you more than the sun and the moon and the best photographers and the best designers combined.”

“I know you do.”

“I’m sorry I can’t be there with you.” Her sigh is long and labored. The seconds stretch in silence. “You know how I get at funerals,” she adds.

I know how she got at the last funeral she went to more than fifteen years ago. I know she hasn't been to one since. I know she didn’t have to fly to Paris for work this week. I also know she’s doing the best she can for me and herself.

“When I get back, let’s have a girls’ day. We’ll do brunch and go to Aire for the rest of the afternoon. Massages. Facials. Followed by a nice soak. Then we can go to the shelter and serve dinner.”

A taxi pulls up behind me. I step out of the walkway and turn toward the gently sloping hill. I doubt the occupant will be headed this way. The cemetery gobbles a vast swath of The Bronx. Hundreds visit it every day. Some to spend time with lost loved ones, but most use it like a museum. A fun thing to fill half a day. I wish I was one of them.

“The Veterans Residence,” I remind. “And you hate going to Long Island.”

“Yes, I do,” she agrees. “Still, I’ll go with you.”

Will I even want to go now? Matt won’t be there.

My eyesight blurs, turning the trees, sky, and grass into a watercolor painting.

“I also made a small donation to The Veterans Residence in Matthew’s name.”

My heart squeezes. “Nat.” I flutter my lashes wildly.

“It’s okay. It will be, at least. Talk to you later, my love.”

“Bye, Nat. Safe travels.” I put away my phone and dab the corners of my eyes.

When I turn around and face The Woolworth Chapel once more, Astor stands opposite me at the end of the walkway. Her proud shoulders are covered in a black sweater dress that hugs her slim body and flares at the chunky ankle booties that lend her at least five inches she doesn’t need, but loves. She looks at me through thick lashes. Her dark lips pull into a sad smile.

Surprisingly, my pink ones mirror the gesture.

We don’t speak. Just stand for a while and let the leaves fall around us. Finally, I nod. She eases to the path leading to the chapel and holds out her hand. I walk forward and curl my cold fingers around hers. Porcelain white skin against stunning ebony. She squeezes mine tight and leads me to the door.

“Thank you,” I whisper, feeling a little stronger in her powerful presence.

“Don’t thank me yet.” Her already strong cheekbones are accentuated by the purse of her lips. “You know where we have to go after this.” She whips her head in my direction, and the tight curls of her hair bounce in a halo around her face. Her dark skin is effervescent with a hint of copper eye shadow and blush.

An unexpected warmth settles into the center of my chest. “I do.”

“There’s no getting out of it.” She narrows her nearly onyx irises at me. “He knows we’re in the borough.”

“Because you told him.” I open the door without pause. If I stop now, I’ll never make it inside. Not without Astor dragging me.

Our footsteps echo off the marble floor and high ceiling. Rows of ornate pews sit empty, save for one. The pastor is canted forward, praying, I think. I recognize the blond lob draping just over her shoulder, her signature white collar peeking through, and her black ankle-length cassock from the video chat we had during the middle of the week to plan the service.

Her head jerks up and swings around. A bright smile lights her bubbly face. For a second, all I can wonder is how God scored a true-blue cheerleader for his team.

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