Page 4 of The Woman at the Funeral

“You don’t drive.” She’d been born and raised in the city. And while she’d traveled extensively for work at one point, she never did get around to getting a license.

Those were little details about her I probably wasn’t supposed to have memorized. But despite myself, whenever Matt tossed out crumbs about his wife, I picked them up and stored them for later.

“I can take a cab.”

“No, let me drive you. You shouldn’t be alone.”

As I gently guided her with a hand near her lower back, but not quite touching, I could have sworn I heard her mumble something about being alone under her breath, but the city streets were too loud to make it out.

Beside me in the car, Blair trembled a bit. Whether it was from the cold rain or the effort to keep her grief in, I had no idea. So I turned on the seat warmers and the heat as we drove toward the cemetery, despite the fact that it was still summer.

Neither of us said a word, and the tension grew tight by the time we were walking toward the grave. Blair’s heels kept sinking into the muddy ground. And when she pitched forwardone time, she finally took my offered arm as we gathered under a white tent set up beside the casket.

The service started, and Ronny’s cries were joined by those of Matt’s aunts, father, and brother.

Beside me, Blair was stony-faced as she watched the casket lower.

As for me, well, being the oldest child in a large family with a lot of emotional weight put on my shoulders, I learned to tamp my feelings down at an early age.

The grief was there.

But it wasn’t allowed to surface.

Eventually, it was all over.

And Ronny turned toward us. “There’s a repast at Maria’s. Forclosefamily,” she added, casting a quick sideways glance toward Blair. Who was not close. And now would never be. “And you, of course, Nico. Though I know you’re a busy man.”

Blair and I both watched as the family made their way back toward the parking lot before we silently started the trek ourselves.

Again, we said nothing. Not on the drive back to the city. Or toward the apartment building she once shared with Matt.

She didn’t even comment on my following her up to her door. She just silently slid her keycard into the lock and moved inside, leaving me to follow. Or not.

But she stopped a few feet inside the door, back to me.

“Was he staying with you?” she asked, her voice a hollow shell.

“Yes.”

“So you know,” she said, turning toward me.

“Yeah, I know.”

“I probably have no right to grieve,” she said, her voice getting thick.

“Regardless of what happened the past few days, Blair, he was your husband. You have every right to grieve. In whatever way you need to.”

That, apparently, was the right—or wrong, depending on how you were looking at it—thing to say.

Blair’s hands rose to her face as a cry escaped her.

Then she just… shattered.

“Oh, sweetheart,” I said, moving forward to catch her right before she slid to the floor.

I gathered her close, holding her against my chest as she fell apart.

And hated myself for thinking of how nicely she fit in my arms.

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