Page 17 of War on Christmas

I park across the street from the church, a traditional stone behemoth with two steep gables and a towering spire. When I turn off the car, we sit for a minute, saying nothing. The last time I was inside this building, I was eight years old, and my mom and Gary were getting married. I still remember Freya’s collared, purple dress flying around her knees and her lacy socks drooping down her ankles as we raced through the church basement before the ceremony.

“So,” I finally turn to her. “Coming to my stepdad’s funeral…that’s downright friendly, wouldn’t you say, Sunshine?”

Sunshine was my nickname for Freya in high school. It was guaranteed to get a rise out of her—pretty much my raison d’être sophomore through senior years—and teachers felt silly punishing me for a name that was, essentially, complimentary.

They severely underestimated how conniving I was when it came to Freya.

“Just playing to my strengths,” she says and twists to grab the wreath stand from my back seat.

I grin. During Freya’s years working at the shop, she was the de facto funeral expert. Friendly, fun-loving Thad would practically break out in hives when he had to make funeral deliveries—“Seriously, dude, look at my back. Can you see ‘em? I feel itchy all over.”—and the rest of the sunny Nilsens weren’t much better. Funerals were an unfortunate but necessary task of owning a flower shop. But Freya, according to Thad, was a natural. Calm, quiet, unperturbed. She never, as Thad had, fucked up by asking people how their day was going or cheerily commenting on the gorgeous weather.

Grabbing the wreath, I follow her inside, my eyes glued to the swing of her hips as she walks. I have no clue what to expect from her after last night, and a pleasant anticipation thrums through my veins at the novelty of this little game we’re playing. Whatever it is.

We drop off the wreath in the church sanctuary, setting it up next to the closed cherrywood casket, and I pause for a moment to watch Freya fiddle with the blue flowers scattered among the white. She prods and pokes them into position, her full red lips pursed with concentration, but when she catches me staring at her, she pulls back.

“What?”

I can’t very well tell her how mesmerized I am by her mouth. That would definitely be a point in the Seduction column, and she’d use it against me. Ruthlessly. Learning to live with that mouth is the price I’ll have to pay if Freya and I are going to be friends, and I’m prepared to pay it. So, I smile and glance pointedly around the church.

“Just pleasantly surprised you haven’t burst into flames or been struck by lightning.”

I’m not sure what reaction I expected. Probably an eye roll or an angry snort. What I’m not prepared for is the full-belly laugh that erupts from her. It’s husky and warm, and her meticulously lined eyes heat from gray to deep, shining silver.

My body’s reaction to that laugh is so strong, so instantaneous, that I know in my bones I am helpless against it. It’s my Achilles heel. That laugh wraps around my cock like crushed velvet and demands I fall to my knees, prostrate before her. There is nothing, literallynothing, I wouldn’t do to hear that laugh again.

Then I’m about to panic because—holy shit—I’m going to lose this friends-versus-benefits standoff, and part of me thinks that’s the best, most amazing thing that could ever happen to me.

“Is that little Freya Nilsen?”

Like a ghost, my mother materializes at my elbow. For the first time since I’ve been home, I’m happy to see her, and without thinking, I wrap my arm around Mom’s slim shoulders. She doesn’t shrug me off, but when her muscles tense underneath my arm, I remove it and tuck my hands into my pockets.

“Yup,” I choke out. “Little Freya Nilsen.”

***

In the hour before the service starts, Freya throws herself into “theater manager mode.” Gary’s funeral is a performance that, under Freya’s watch, will go off without a hitch. My mom and I watch in awe as she double-checks details with the church receptionist and pastor, then adjusts the handful of flower arrangements. She’s efficient, thinking of details that never would have occurred to me. When she discovers that the sign directing people to the service has a typo—“Garry Cassidy” instead of “Gary Cassidy”—she gets one reprinted in the office right before the first attendees arrive.

When her parents show up, she comes over and rests a hand across my forearm. If she notices my muscles jump at her touch, she doesn’t show it.

“Is there anything else you need?” she asks.

I swallow, a little overcome with gratitude. I’d been relieved when she asked if she could come along. If nothing else, I knew I’d appreciate having a buffer so I wouldn’t have to be alone with Mom. But Freya went above and beyond. Not only was she undaunted by the circumstances, but she was also helpful.

“No. You were—well, you were perfect.” I clear my throat. “Thank you.”

She nods and joins her parents a few rows behind where Mom and I will sit.

It's a small service. There’s a handful of Gary’s relatives as well as his boss and a few of his friends from the factory where he worked for almost thirty years. His union buddies call him “Big Gare” when they talk to my mom, and I look to the rafters to stop myself from rolling my eyes.

“Big Gare” is a guy who plays catch with his stepson at halftime during Packers games. “Big Gare” takes his wife to the supper club for Friday night fish fry and sometimes forgets their anniversary but is overall a nice, steady husband. “Big Gare” ruffles his kid’s hair and tells him it’s ok when he spills his milk.

Gary—the real Gary—had a nightly practice of cataloguing every minor mistake his wife made throughout the day, from parking three inches too far to the left in the garage to not adding enough salt to the tuna casserole.Garymade his stepson scrub the floor with his toothbrush when he spilled his milk.

Luckily, I had two friends who walked the half-mile to the drugstore with me to buy a new one, even though we weren’t technically allowed to cross the streets with stoplights. They even gave me the two dollars to buy it, since I didn’t get an allowance.

I don’t listen to the service. Common wisdom says “Don’t speak ill of the dead,” but I’m tired of pretending. Instead, I watch my mom, sitting next to me in a black dress that’s too big for her frame. I’m not sure what her reaction will be. Sad tears? Happy tears? Which one, I wonder, would be better? Maybe it will hurt less if she’s overcome with grief. If she truly, deeply loved him, at least it would be an explanation, however disturbing, for why she picked him over her own son.

However, she remains dry eyed and quiet. Her hands lie folded in her lap, and she doesn’t so much as shift her weight or rearrange her legs until the service is over.

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