Page 24 of Love is a Game

Tuck, ever the mediator, suggested I sleep on it. Then he pushed ahead, planning our visit to the funeral home today like it’s all already decided.

But instead of letting his presence unsteady me, I grip onto my newfound superpower. This bristling, restless energy inside me—raw and ready to strike.

I hold onto its swirling darkness as we grab takeout coffee and blueberry muffins from Déja Brew. I cling to it even as the soft blue morning sky, dotted with cotton-ball clouds, reflects over the lake, where canoes, kayaks, and paddleboarders drift across the glassy surface.

It’s a palette worthy of a Monet painting.

The air is pine-fresh, the coffee floral and nutty, and the buttery sweetness of the muffin tingles on my tongue.

But still, I don’t let go. Because all that beauty and warmth is disconcerting.

My mother is dead. Cold and unfeeling, even as the sun radiates over the peaked mountaintops and projects sparkles of silver off the pristine lake.

I feed the anger, stoking it with my irritation at Tuck’s constant glances—measuring my mood like a high-stakes gambler reading the table, searching for the slightest tell.

I wallow in all the ways we are incompatible…his long history of dating tall, honey-blonde, confident types who, unlike me, have never had to grapple with their ability to fit in; to struggle with bouts of paralyzing insecurity; or the ingrained unworthiness that comes from having—literally and figuratively—absent parents.

Because how else am I supposed to walk into the hushed white funeral home where my mother lies?

How else do I face John Feldman, her boss of more than twenty years, who arranged to meet us? How else do I just stand here, nodding at his condolences, when I feel like I should be offering them to him?

Because John looks appropriately grief-stricken, his hand pressing against his chest as he speaks. “Life is so unpredictable,” he says. “She didn’t deserve this.”

No, she didn’t.

And yet, here we are.

I drift out for a moment as his next words jolt me back.

“…following thewill readingat your convenience,” John says, averting his gaze to the hovering funeral director. “And, of course, there are the burial arrangements—”

Herwill? I never considered that. Even though it makes total sense. Mom worked for a lawyer, after all.

“It’s good she had her affairs in order,” I concede. “But there actually won’t be a funeral service as such—”

“Oh?” John looks between Tuck and me, a deep frown etching his face as he reaches into his jacket. “But I have her last wishes request right here. That’s why I thought it best to meet you here today. I know you need to make the arrangements, and Caitlyn provided all the details —the coffin, burial clothes, the service. It will make it much easier for you, Penelope.”

I glance at Tuck as I silently accept the document.

Then I stare at the typed header: “Caitlyn Miller’s Last Wishes.”

I swallow, my mouth dry and scratchy like I’ve eaten a lump of baking soda.

“Easier” for me: it’s supposed to be a comfort, but it feels more like an accusation. I need things made easier because I wouldn’t know where to start to fulfill my mother’s wishes.

The words blur…my hands trembling as I grip the paper. The irrefutable proof that she’s really gone.

Tuck shifts beside me, his hand lightly brushing my arm.

“I didn’t realize,” I say, my voice low, shaky, “that she made all these decisions…” I trail off.

John clears his throat. “Your mother just wanted you to have peace of mind, Penelope.”

But no part of this feels like “peace of mind”. The weight of her wishes is heavy in my hands. The finality of it all settles around me. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m somehow failing her—failing to handle this with the grace she deserves.

Then I feel Tuck’s hand on my back. I lean into him, the steady warmth of his body, solid and reliable, so that the floor beneath me has stopped shifting. For a moment, my aching heart softens with trust and relief. He’s always been there for me. No matter what.

Except now, that refuge feels under threat.

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