Page 22 of Look, Don't Touch

“He couldn’t have any of those things.” I wipe at the tears slipping down my nose. “He can have a measly scrap of grass and dirt of his own and a headstone that tells anyone who cares to look what a great man Matthew Banett was in his short time on this earth. It’s the least I can do.”

“Nothing you gave him was your least, Hailey.” She produces a tissue from her purse and extends it to me.

I plop down next to her, snatch it, and dab my face. Through gritted teeth, I grind, “I couldn’t save him.” The words stab me in the belly over and over again.

More tears come, soaking the thin tissue. Astor’s hand soothes a trail over my back. “That was never your job.” I nod in bitterness. “Your job was to try. No one tried harder than you. No one gave more than you.”

My skin crawls, and I’d like nothing more than to unzip it and peel it off. To run screaming through the cemetery as a bloody skeleton. How freeing.

This feeling, right here. This is why I avoid attachment at all costs.

Astor pulls me to her bosom and wraps her arms around me. She rocks me as though I’m a baby for what seems like forever. It’s contradictory to my nonattachment policy. This comfort. I know I can be made to pay for it tenfold in the future. I have paid before. The price was high enough to ruin me.

I allow her comfort because I can’t strip my skin. As contradictory as it is, her reassurance dampers the itch.

A loud noise funnels in from the door, and I straighten. My friend grabs my hand, stuffs another tissue in it, and pats it between hers. “If this is your care and compassion when your heart is heavily fortified, I feel nothing but awe and adoration for the person who breaks through your defenses and earns your love.”

“I feel sorry for them.” I laugh without humor and blot my face.

“Why?”

“They’d be loved by a basket case masquerading as a regular woman.”

Astor snatches my snotty, tear-soaked tissues and stuffs them back inside her bag. “Ordinary?” She sneers. “Who wants that when they could have you?”

“Most people.”

We’re saved from our conversation by a bustle at a door close to the altar. The charcoal-gray casket I chose for Matt is wheeled inside. All the air leaves my lungs. Matt is inside there. Dead. Never coming back. I bite my cheek to keep the tears at bay. My damned lip quivers.

Two men in suits escort him to the center of the aisle, just ten feet away. They use their feet to lock the wheels into place, hidden behind heavy fabric skirting the casket. The men go, but I’m stuck in place like the wheels. My eyes are locked on the bare, cold box of death. The men return and obstruct my view for a moment.

“Jeez, Hailey. Did you take out a loan on those flowers?” Astor’s voice overflows with bewilderment.

I have to shake myself and blink several times before her words register.

A massive spray of lilies and white roses covers Matt’s death box while matching stands of arrangements bracket each side. A peace lily plant, much smaller than the rest, sits on the floor between them.

“They had to come with the package. I didn’t pick any flowers.” I like flowers, just not funeral flowers. I couldn’t bring myself to choose any.

“No, doll. Those things probably cost as much as the casket. You’d know about them.”

I look at her as though she’s grown another head. Then I remember two years ago when her uncle died of a sudden heart attack. So many people at the service had to pay extra to keep the doors open two and a half hours longer than planned, allowing well-wishers and mourners their time. The place had been overrun with flowers and donations to the American Heart Association. But for the casket flowers, her dad had to keep the diner open for two months of Sundays to pay for the damn things.

“I don’t know.” I shrug. I don’t care if I paid for them. I don’t care about much right now. I can’t do much except stare at the void in front of me.

Time passes. I don’t know how much.

Pastor Pam, cheerleader for God, Barbie of the church, clears her throat. She looks at her watch, then looks at the arched doors we entered through. “It’s time.” She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes this time. “We can wait a few more minutes. Traffic can be terrible on eighty-seven.”

I look at my watch. It’s ten on the dot. “Let’s get started.” I don’t say no one else is coming. I don’t have to.

The pastor nods and moves to the lectern beside the casket. A bit of her glow has dimmed. I thought that’s what I wanted. Now that it’s here, it feels cumbersome, like the onset of seasonal depression. No fucking fun.

“Maybe give it two more minutes?” Astor sits straighter and interlocks her fingers in her lap. It’s a signature, I’m professional, I’m unflappable, I have my shit together maneuver. Even when we don’t and aren’t.

My eyebrow crooks at her beautiful face.

“Sure.” Cheerleader for God, Barbie of the church preens with false hope.

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