Page 17 of Chasing Infinity

Noah

“Well, you look put together,” my father observes as I walk toward him. I have my hands in the pocket of my black slacks, and I tighten up one fist where he can’t see it—resisting the urge to punch him in the nose. His compliment is a slight dig at my attire the last time I saw him. In his opinion, this suit would be a significant improvement from my tattered old jeans.

“Thank you,” I reply dryly.

“You could use a haircut, though,” he says, as his eyes scan me head to toe. I’ve worn my hair down today, knowing that he wouldn’t be able to resist making some side comment about it.

“I’ll think about it,” I tell him, biting back a laugh. I have no intention of cutting my hair, especially now that he’s indicated he disapproves.

“Where’s your ring?” Father asks, eyeing my hands in my pockets. “I noticed you weren’t wearing it the other night either.”

I give him a blank look. He’s really going all-in on the attire appraisal today. “I pawned it.”

“Real nice, Noah,” he sneers at me.

I shrug a shoulder noncommittally. “I needed the cash.”

My father doesn’t respond, though I hope he’s fuming on the inside. He turns away from me and glances out the window, straightening his tie in the reflection of the glass. The expensive McCoy signet ring I was gifted on my eighteenth birthday is currently in a safe deposit box in New York. Still, he doesn’t need to know that. He has a deep sense of family loyalty. I’m sure the fact that I’d sold my signet ring and changed my surname is eating him from the inside out.

“Should have a good turnout today. Almost everyone who came to the visiting hours yesterday said they planned to be at the service this morning,” my father speculates in a strained attempt to save face. He tilts his chin up to glance over my shoulder. I follow his gaze, looking out the window at the cars lining up along the roads in front of the church. “It was a shame that the funeral home said we couldn’t do open-casket yesterday. I imagine people would have liked to see her one last time.”

I don’t bother mentioning that I called the funeral home and arranged for the casket to be shut on my way into town. As far as anyone else is concerned, it is closed due to her cause of death. If my mother would’ve had her say in the whole matter, she wouldn’t want people gawking at her while my father puts on a theatrical performance.

“A lot of people really love Mom,” I say fondly as I watch people dressed in black walk up towards the church.

My father’s eyes snap back to me, and his expression hardens. “Of course, she was an extraordinary woman. Impossible not to love.”

“That’s a lot coming from you.”

“For the love of Christ, Noah. This is for your mother. Could you at least make an attempt not to be little shit today? Stop acting like a prick and put on a good face. I raised you better than that.”

Clearly, my father has had enough of our little verbal spar and effectively chose to end it. His version of closing a subject is to lash out and get nasty. And if we’re being honest, he’s full of it, assuming he can stand here and soak up the town’s love for my mother and pretend like he’s a grieving widower. I wish he’d admit that he has less to worry about with her out of the way.

I scowl at him and turn on my heel, heading toward the bathroom. Stalking away, I throw open the bathroom door and lock it behind me. It’s a multi-stall bathroom, but I need a moment to myself to get my head in order. I stride over to the sinks, gripping the edge of the white porcelain so tightly that my knuckles pale. I focus on taking a few deep breaths in and out until my frustration with my father dissipates slightly.

As soon as my heart rate settles, I release the sink, turn on the water, and splash the coolness over my face for good measure. Bracing my elbows against the edge of the sink, I bury my hands in my hair, tugging on the strands. The sharp tug helps me to regain a sense of balance, and I remind myself why I’m here. Once I catch my breath, I lift my gaze and stare at my reflection in the dirty mirror—my eyes look wild, and my hair is a mess. Straightening my spine, I try to smooth out my hair and compose myself.

All I have to do is make it through today. Attending a funeral for my mother is not my first choice of how I’d like to be spending a Monday morning, but there’s no avoiding it at this point. All the memories spent together with my parents circulate around me like a foul odor, never dissipating but effectively suffocating me.

Growing up, I linked my parents together as an unbeatable force for the longest time. I understood that I could always talk to my mother, and she would try her best to protect me from him. Still, it wasn’t until right before I left town that it became clear to me that she and I had been on the same team the whole time.

My father loved my mother, though he had a backward way of showing it sometimes. This circus he is putting on today in “her honor” would embarrass her. Despite being married to an attention-hungry politician, my mother always preferred the more muted events. She wasn’t one to put herself out into the spotlight if she could help it. As the wife of the mayor, she was there to support my father when he needed it and offered a refined strength that he could lean back on when he was losing his grip on control. If my father was running rampant, she would come up behind him, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder and whispering something that would completely disarm him.

It intrigues me to see how he will take advantage of his newfound freedom now that she’s not here to balance him out. This could work in my favor, or it could be catastrophic. Time will tell.

I concentrate on taking a few deep breaths until my world isn’t spinning out of control and my vision settles into focus. My reflection looks back at me as if mocking me, but I stand straight, square my shoulders and leave the bathroom to brave my father again. He observes me walking toward him with an amused expression on his face.

“Are you done with your tantrum?”

“Fuck off.”

He laughs in response to my vulgarity and shoots me a withering glare before sauntering off to greet guests. Across the foyer, I see Parks and her posse walk in through the large doors. Addison’s eyes scan the room, and I realize she’s looking for me. I take a slight step forward, landing myself in her line of sight. Her hazel eyes spot me after a moment of searching, and her expression softens, a sympathetic smile crossing her face. She lifts her hand in a small wave. Some of the tension in my shoulders dissipates as I dip my chin toward her in acknowledgment. A sense of calm settles in my chest, knowing she’s here. For me.

Charlie and Eli stand on either side of her, unaware of our silent interaction. Eli mutters something to Addison, and she looks at him before rolling her eyes and swatting his arm with the program. I step back into my previous position, observing the trio as they head into the church to find a seat for the service.

I stay where I am until my father comes to usher me into the church, informing me that the service is about to start. He directs me to the first row of pews, where I take my seat, and he slides in next to me, much to my great displeasure.

His fake attempts at grief throughout the funeral service distract me to the point where all I notice is what he’s doing. I find myself gritting my teeth so hard my jaw aches. He nods his head, making a show of being moved with emotion by what the preacher says about the processes of life and death.

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