Page 81 of Love is a Game

Because today is not about him. Itissomething that he came. But not enough to erase all the years of neglect and absence.

Then to the graveyard. And with the sun casting our shadows long—“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust”—she’s lowered into the earth. Buried beside her parents. My grandparents. The three of them together again.

Did they come and welcome her when she passed? Did they soften the shock of her transition into the afterlife? Are they all humming around as free spirits in the atmosphere?

Is she still with me at all?

Maybe the answer is at the bottom of the whiskey bottle Keith cracks open at the wake. Maybe it’s in the seams of the house—the stagnant air finally disrupted by bodies filling the space, people crossing a threshold that, for decades, welcomed no one new.

Or maybe it’s in the endless kindness milling around me on this awful day.

Like Vivian’s thoughtfulness—sending Brady back from their restaurant, laden with dips and mini-sliders for the unexpected excess of mourners. While Vivian stayed behind, covering service without hesitation, insisting Brady should be here.

This is what love looks like. Not words, not promises. Justshowing up.

In the kitchen, people are filling cups, passing plates, tending to the tasks that soften the edges of grief with routine. Someone slices tarts into neat triangles, arranging them on a serving platter. Another hands out deviled egg sandwiches to restless children. The coffee pot gurgles, never quite keeping up with the demand, as hands reach for sugar, for cream…or, like me, something harder.

And the surreal sight of my father scouting the periphery, empty coffee cup still in hand. Uncomfortable, but here. An effort, however small.

There’s always someone with me. Keith splashing whiskey into my glass, or Nora, insisting I eat something. Tuck mingling politely, thanking people I’ve missed…covering my gaps.

Conversations rise and fall, punctuated by the occasional, muffled laugh—soft, almost guilty, but human. The sounds of mourning and memory, of people stepping in where they can.

It’s a day where I’m lost in a life I thought I’d left behind. Voices from my past surround me. The community of Blue Mountain Lake stepping up in a way I never expected for an eternal outsider like me. Someone who grew up here but somehow inherited my mother’s wariness. Her quiet shame.

As the crowd thins, I say another round of goodbyes. My father squeezes my arm as he, too, makes his leave. And I’m grateful he chooses silence over useless excuses and platitudes.

I head back down the hallway and bump into the woman I never placed before. The woman in the hat and oversized glasses, lingering at the edges of the funeral crowd. But with everything else, the burial, the wake, the sheer weight of today, I hadn’t given her much thought.

Until now.

She moves toward me with purpose, grabbing my hand and steering me down the hall. Before I can protest, she pushes open a bedroom door and pulls me inside, shutting it firmly behind us.

“Sorry.” She exhales, voice low. “I’ve been waiting for a chance to talk, but I can’t keep up the act any longer.”

Before I can respond, she yanks off the hat and glasses…followed by the short blonde wig.

I stare.

“Holy shit.Mia!” My eyes flick over her, the unmistakable movie star angles of her face, the famous, striking eyes.

A sharp twist of guilt knots my stomach.The dress. The deadlines. The work I abandoned.

I sink onto the bed. “Is this about the wedding dress?”

She blinks in surprise. “What? No. Of course not. I came for the funeral, Penelope. Unfortunately, Mason’s stuck overseas—his jet couldn’t take off because of some dust storm. I told him I’d come instead.”

She squeezes my hand. “I’m so sorry about your mom. I wanted to be here.”

“You came all the way from LA just for the funeral?”

Mia nods, like it’s obvious. “It’s what friends do, Penelope.”

I give a weak smile back, but something shifts. A sharp reminder. A wake-up call.

The bubble I’ve been living in here, this strange limbo of grief and nostalgia, fractures. Whatever ties I’ve felt pulling me back to Blue Mountain Lake suddenly feel less solid. More like smoke, already drifting away. I can’t keep real life on hold much longer.

And when we return to the living room, I seek out Tuck.

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