“Here lies Mari Joy Palmer, a giver of love, peace, and happiness. It’s a shame the way she left the world. It was sudden, unspeakable, and more painful than I’d ever thought it would be.” I stared down at Mari’s motionless body and wiped the back of my neck with a small towel. The early morning sun beamed through the windows as I tried my best to catch my breath.
“Death by hot yoga.” Mari sighed, inhaling deeply and exhaling unevenly.
I laughed. “You’re going to have to get up, Mari. They have to set up for the next class.” I held my hand out toward my sister, who was lying in a puddle of sweat. “Let’s go.”
“Go on without me,” she said theatrically, waving her invisible flag. “I surrender.”
“Oh no you don’t. Come on.” I grabbed her arms and pulled her to a standing position, with her resisting the whole way up. “You went through chemotherapy, Mari. You can handle hot yoga.”
“I don’t get it,” she whined. “I thought yoga was supposed to make you feel grounded and bring about peace, not buckets of sweat and disgusting hair.”
I smirked, looking at her shoulder-length hair that was frizzy and knotted on top of her head. She’d been in remission for almost two years now, and we’d been living our lives to the fullest ever since then, including opening the flower shop.
After quick showers at the yoga studio, we headed outside, and when the summer sun kissed our skin and blinded us, Mari groaned. “Why the heck did we decide to ride our bikes here today? And why is six AM hot yoga even a thing we’d consider?”
“Because we care about our health and well-being, and want to be in the best shape of our lives,” I mocked. “Plus, the car’s in the shop.”
She rolled her eyes. “Is this the point where we bike to a café and get donuts and croissants before work?”
“Yup!” I said, unlocking my bike from the pole and hopping onto it.
“And by donuts and croissants do you mean…?”
“Green kale drinks? Yes, yes, I do.”
She groaned again, this time louder. “I liked you better when you didn’t give a crap about your health and just ate a steady diet of candy and tacos.”
I smiled and started pedaling. “Race you!”
I beat her to Green Dreams—obviously—and when she made it inside, she draped her body across the front counter. “Seriously, Lucy—regular yoga, yes, but hot yoga?” She paused, taking a few deep breaths. “Hot yoga can go straight back to hell where it came from to die a long painful death.”
A worker walked over to us with a bright smile. “Hey, ladies! What can I get for you?”
“Tequila, please,” Mari said, finally raising her head from the countertop. “You can put it in a to-go cup if you want. Then I can drink it on the way to work.”
The waitress stared at my sister blankly, and I smirked. “We’ll take two green machine juices, and two egg and potato breakfast wraps.”
“Sounds good. Would you like whole wheat, spinach, or flaxseed wraps?” she asked.
“Oh, stuffed crust pizza will do just fine,” Mari replied. “With a side of chips and queso.”
“Flaxseed.” I laughed. “We’ll have the flaxseed.”
When our food came out, we grabbed a table, and Mari dived in as if she hadn’t eaten in years. “So,” she started, her cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk. “How’s Richard?”
“He’s good,” I said, nodding. “Busy, but good. Our apartment currently looks like a tornado blew through it with his latest work, but he’s good. Since he found out he’s having a showcase at the museum in a few months, he’s been in panic mode trying to create something inspiring. He’s not sleeping, but that’s Richard.”
“Men are weird, and I can’t believe you’re actually living with one.”
“I know.” I laughed. It had taken me over five years to finally move in with Richard, mainly because I didn’t feel comfortable leaving Mari’s side when she got sick. We’d been living together for the past four months, and I loved it. I loved him. “Remember what Mama used to say about men moving in with women?”
“Yes—the second they get comfortable enough to take their shoes off in your house and go into your fridge without asking, it’s time for them to go.”
“A smart woman.”
Mari nodded. “I should’ve kept living by her rules after she passed away—maybe then I could’ve avoided Parker.” Her eyes grew heavy for a few seconds before she blinked away her pain and smiled. She hardly talked about Parker since he’d left her over two years ago, but whenever she did, it was as if a cloud of sadness hovered above her. She fought the cloud, though, and never let it release rain for her to wallow in. She did her best to be happy, and for the most part she was, though there were seconds of pain sometimes.
Seconds when she remembered, seconds when she blamed herself, seconds when she felt lonely. Seconds when she allowed her heart to break before she swiftly started piecing it back together.
With every second of hurt, Mari made it her duty to find a minute of happiness.
“Well, you’re living by her rules now, which is better than never, right?” I said, trying to help her get rid of the cloud above her.
“Right!” she cheered, her eyes finding their joy again. It was odd how feelings worked, how a person could be sad one second and happy another. What amazed me the most was how a person could be both things all within the same second. I believed Mari had a pinch of both emotions in that moment, a little bit of sadness intermingled with her joy.
I thought that was a beautiful way to live.
“So, shall we get to work?” I asked, standing up from my chair. Mari moaned, annoyed, but agreed as she dragged herself back out to her bicycle and started pedaling to our shop.
Monet’s Gardens was mine and my sister’s dream come to life. The shop was fashioned after the paintings of my favorite artist, Claude Monet. When Mari and I finally made it to Europe, I planned to spend a lot of time standing in Monet’s Gardens in Giverny, France.
Prints of his artwork were scattered around the shop, and at times we’d shape floral arrangements to match the paintings. After we signed our lives away with bank loans, Mari and I worked our butts off to open the shop, and it came together swimmingly over time. We almost didn’t even get the shop, but Mari came through with a final loan she tried for. Even though it was a lot of work and took up so much time I never even considered having a social life, I couldn’t really complain about spending my days surrounded by flowers.
The building was small, but big enough to have dozens of different types of flowers, like parrot tulips, lilies, poppies, and of course, roses. We catered to all kinds of functions too; my favorites were weddings, and the worst were funerals.
Today was one of the worst, and it was my turn to drive the delivery truck to drop off the order.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to do the Garrett wedding and you do the Russell funeral?” I asked, getting all the white gladiolus bulbs and white roses organized to move into the truck. The person who’d passed away must’ve been very loved, based on the number of arrangements ordered. There were dozens of white roses for the casket spray, five different cross easels with sashes that said ‘Father’ across them, and dozens of random bouquets to be placed around the church.
It amazed me how beautiful flowers for such a sad occasion could be.
“No, I’m sure. I can help you load up the van, though,” Mari said, lifting up one of the arrangements and heading back to the alleyway where our delivery van was parked.
“If you do the funeral today, I’ll stop dragging you to hot yoga each morning.”
She snickered. “If I had a penny for every time I’d heard that, I’d already be in Europe.”
“No, I swear! No more sweating at six in the morning.”
“That’s a lie.”
I nodded. “Yeah, that’s a lie.”
“And, no more putting off our trip to Europe. We are officially going next summer, right?” she asked, her eyes narrowed.
I groaned. Ever since she got sick two years ago, I’d been putting off taking our trip. My brain knew that she was better, she was healthy and strong, but a small part of my heart feared traveling so far from home with the possibility of something going wrong with her health in a different country.
I swallowed hard and agreed. She smiled wide, pleased, and walked into the back room.
“Which church am I even going to today?” I wondered out loud, jumping onto the computer to pull up the file. I paused and narrowed my eyes as I read the words: UW-Milwaukee Panther Arena.
“Mari,” I hollered. “This says it’s at the arena downtown…is that right?”
She hurried back into the room and peered at the computer then shrugged. “Wow. That explains all the flowers.” She ran her hands through her hair, and I smiled. Every time she did that, my heart overflowed with joy. Her growing hair was a reminder of her growing life, of how lucky we were to be in the place we were. I was so happy the flowers in the truck weren’t for her.
“Yeah, but who has a funeral at an arena?” I asked, confused.
“Must be someone important.”
I shrugged, not thinking too much of it. I arrived at the arena two hours before the ceremony to get everything set up, and the outside of the building was already surrounded with numerous people. I swore there had to be hundreds crowding the downtown streets of Milwaukee, and police officers paced the area.
Individuals were writing notes and posting them on the front steps; some cried while others were engaged in deep conversations.
As I drove the van around to the back to unload the flowers, I was denied access to the actual building by one of the arena workers. He pushed the door open and used his body to block my entrance. “Excuse me, you can’t come in here,” the man told me. “VIP access only.” He had a large headset around his neck, and the way he slightly closed the door behind him to avoid me peering inside made me suspicious.
“Oh, no, I’m just dropping off the flowers for the service,” I started to explain, and he rolled his eyes.
“More flowers?” he groaned, and then he pointed to another door. “The flower drop off is around the corner, third door. You can’t miss it,” he said flatly.
“Okay. Hey, whose funeral is this exactly?” I asked. I stood on my tiptoes and tried to get a peek of what was happening inside.
He shot me a dirty look filled with annoyance. “Around the corner,” he barked before slamming the door shut. I yanked on the door once and frowned.
Locked.
One day I’d stop being so nosey, but obviously that day wasn’t today.
I smiled to myself and mumbled, “Nice meeting you, too.”
When I drove the van around the corner, I realized we weren’t the only floral shop who’d been contacted for this event. Three vans were in line before me, and they weren’t even able to go inside the building; there were employees collecting the flower arrangements at the door. Before I could even put the car in park, workers were at the back, pounding on the back doors for me to open it up. Once I did, they started grabbing the flowers without much care, and I cringed at the way one of the women handled the white rose wreath. She tossed it over her arm, destroying the green Bells of Ireland.
“Careful!” I hollered, but everyone seemed to be deaf.
When finished, they slammed my doors shut, signed my paperwork, and handed me an envelope. “What’s this for?”
“Didn’t they tell you already?” The woman sighed heavily, then placed her hands on her hips. “The flowers are just for show, and the son of Mr. Russell instructed that they be returned to the florists who delivered them after the service. Inside is your ticket for the event, along with a pass to get backstage afterward to collect your flowers. Otherwise they will be tossed.”
“Tossed?” I exclaimed. “How wasteful.”
The woman arched an eyebrow. “Yes, because there was no possible chance the flowers wouldn’t have died all on their own,” she stated sarcastically. “At least now you can resell them.”
Resell funeral flowers? Because that wasn’t morbid.
Before I could reply, she waved me off without a goodbye.
I opened an envelope and found my ticket and a card that read, “After the service, please present this card to pick up the floral arrangements; otherwise they will be disposed of.”
My eyes read the ticket repeatedly.
A ticket.
For a funeral.
Never in my life had I witnessed such an odd event. When I rounded the corner to the main street, I noticed even more people had gathered around and were posting letters to the walls of the building.
My curiosity hit a new high, and after circling around a few times in search of parking, I pulled into a parking structure. I parked the van and climbed out to go see what everyone was doing there and whose funeral was taking place. As I stepped onto the packed sidewalk, I noticed a woman kneeling down, scribbling on a piece of paper.
“Excuse me,” I said, tapping her on the shoulder. She looked up with a bright smile on her face. “I’m sorry to bother you, but…whose funeral is this exactly?”
She stood up, still grinning. “Kent Russell, the author.”
“Oh, no way.”
“Yeah. Everyone’s writing their own eulogies about how he saved their lives and taping them to the side of the building to honor his memory, but between you and me, I’m most excited to see G.M. Russell. It’s a shame it had to be for an event such as this one, though.”
“G.M. Russell? Wait, as in the greatest thriller and horror author of all time?!” I gushed, realization finally setting in. “Oh my gosh! I love G.M. Russell!”
“Wow. Took you long enough to connect those dots. At first I thought your blond hair was dyed that color, but now I see that you are actually a true-blue blonde,” she joked. “It’s such a big event because you know how G.M. is when it comes to public appearances—he hardly makes them. At book events, he doesn’t engage with the readers except for his big fake grin, and he doesn’t ever allow photographs, but today we’ll be able to take pictures of him. This. Is. Big!”
“Fans were invited to attend the funeral?”
“Yeah, Kent put it in his will. All the money is being donated to a children’s hospital. I got solid seats. My best friend Heather was supposed to come with me, but she went into labor—freaking kids ruin everything.”
I laughed.
“Do you want my extra ticket?” she asked. “It’s super close up front. Plus, I’d rather sit beside another G.M. fan than a Papa Russell fan. You’d be shocked by how many people are here for him.” She paused, cocked an eyebrow, and went digging through her purse. “On second thought, maybe not, seeing as how he was the one who croaked and all. Here you go, they’re opening the doors now.” She handed me her spare ticket. “Oh, and my name’s Tori.”
“Lucy,” I said with a smile. I hesitated for a moment, thinking how weird and out of the ordinary attending a stranger’s funeral in an arena was, but then again…G.M. Russell was inside that building, along with my flowers, which were going to be tossed in a few hours.
We made it to our seats, and Tori couldn’t stop snapping photographs. “These are amazing seats, aren’t they? I can’t believe I snatched this ticket up for only two thousand!”
“Two thousand?!” I gasped.
“I know, right? Such a steal, and all I had to do was sell my kidney on Craigslist to some dude named Kenny.”
She turned to the older gentleman sitting on her left. He had to be in his late seventies, and was handsome as ever. He wore an open trench coat, and underneath it, a brown suede suit with a polka dot blue and white bowtie. When he looked our way, he had the most genuine smile.
“Hey, sorry, just curious—how much did you pay for your seat?”
“Oh, I didn’t pay,” he said with the kindest grin in the world. “Graham was a former student of mine. I was invited.”
Tori’s arms flew out in a state of complete and utter shock. “Wait, wait, wait, time out—you’re Professor Oliver?!”
He smirked and nodded. “Guilty as charged.”
“You’re like…the Yoda to our Luke Skywalker. You’re the Wizard behind Oz. You’re the freaking shit, Professor Oliver! I’ve read every article Graham ever wrote and I must say, it’s just so great to meet the person he spoke so highly of—well, highly in G.M. Russell terms, which isn’t really highly, if you know what I mean.” She chuckled to herself. “Can I shake your hand?”
Tori continued talking through almost the whole service, but stopped the moment Graham was called up to the stage to deliver the eulogy. Before his lips parted, he unbuttoned his suit jacket, took it off, unhooked his cuffs, and rolled up his sleeves in such a manly-man style. I swore he rolled each sleeve up in slow motion as he rubbed his lips together and let out a small breath.
Wow.
He was so handsome, and effortlessly so, too.
He was more handsome in person than I thought he’d be. His whole persona was dark, enchanting, yet extremely uninviting. His short, midnight black hair was slicked back with loose tiny waves, and his sharp square jaw was covered with a few days’ growth of beard. His copper-colored skin was smooth and flawless, not a blemish of imperfection anywhere to be found, except for a small scar that ran across his neck, but that didn’t make him imperfect.
If I’d learned anything about scars from Graham’s novels, it was that they, too, could be beautiful.
He hadn’t smiled once, but that wasn’t shocking—after all, it was his father’s funeral—but when he spoke, his voice came out smooth, like whisky on the rocks. Just like everyone else in the arena, I couldn’t tear my eyes from him.
“My father, Kent Russell, saved my life. He challenged me daily to not only be a better storyteller, but to become a better person.” The next five minutes of his speech led to hundreds of people crying, holding their breaths, and wishing that they, too, were kin to Kent. I hadn’t ever read any of Kent’s tales, but Graham made me curious to pick up one of his books. He finished his speech, looked up at the ceiling, and gave a tight grin. “So, I’ll end this in the words of my father: Be inspiration. Be true. Be adventurous. We only have one life to live, and to honor my father, I plan to live each day as if it’s my final chapter.”
“Oh my gosh,” Tori whispered, wiping tears from her eyes. “Do you see it?” she asked, gesturing her head toward her lap.
“See what?” I whispered.
“How massive my invisible boner currently is. I didn’t know it was possible to be turned on by a eulogy.”
I laughed. “Neither did I.”
After everything finished, Tori exchanged numbers with me and invited me to her book club. After our goodbyes, I made it to the back room to collect my floral arrangements. As I searched for my roses, I couldn’t help but think how uncomfortable I felt by the lavishness of Kent’s funeral. It almost seemed a bit…circus-like.
I wasn’t one who understood funerals, at least not the typical mainstream ones. In my family, our final goodbyes normally involved planting a tree in our loved one’s memory, honoring their life by bringing more beauty to the world.
As a worker walked by with one of my floral arrangements, I gasped and called after her. “Excuse me!” The headphones in her ears kept her from hearing me, though, so I hurried, pushing my way through a crowd, trying to keep up with her. She walked up to a door, held it open, and tossed the flowers outside before shutting the door and walking off dancing to the sound of her music.
“Those were three-hundred-dollar flowers!” I groaned out loud, hurrying through the door. As it slammed, I raced over to the roses that had been tossed into a trash bin in a gated area.
The night’s air brushed against my skin, and I was bathed in the light of the moon shining down as I gathered the roses. When I finished, I took a deep inhale. There was something so peaceful about the night, how everything slowed a bit, how the busyness of the day disappeared until morning.
When I went to open the door to head back inside, I panicked.
I yanked on the handle repeatedly.
Locked.
Oh crap.
My hands formed fists and I started banging against the door, trying my best to get back inside. “Hello?!” I hollered for what felt like ten minutes straight before I gave up.
Thirty minutes later, I had sat down on the concrete and was staring at the stars when I heard the door behind me open. I twisted myself around and gasped lightly.
It’s you.
Graham Russell.
Standing right behind me.
“Don’t do that,” he snapped, noting my stare glued to him. “Stop noticing me.”
“Wait, wait! It—” I stood up, and right before I could tell him to hold the door, I listened to it slam shut. “Locks.”
He cocked an eyebrow, processing my words. He yanked on the door then sighed heavily. “You have got to be kidding me.” He yanked again and again, but the door was locked. “It’s locked.”
I nodded. “Yup.”
He patted his slacks pockets and groaned. “And my phone is in my suit jacket, which is hanging on the back of a chair inside.”
“Sorry, I would offer you my phone, but it’s dead.”
“Of course it is,” he said moodily. “Because the day just couldn’t get any worse.”
He pounded on the door for several minutes without any results then started cursing the universe for an extremely sucky life. He walked over to the other side of the gated area and placed his hands behind his neck. He looked completely exhausted over the day’s events.
“I’m so sorry,” I whispered, my voice timid and low. What else could I say? “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
He shrugged, uninterested. “People die. It’s a pretty common aspect of life.”
“Yes, but that doesn’t make it any easier, and for that, I’m sorry.”
He didn’t reply, but he didn’t have to. I was still just amazed to be standing so close to him. I cleared my throat and spoke again because being silent wasn’t something I knew how to do. “That was a beautiful speech.” He turned his head in my direction and gave me a cold hard stare before turning back around. I continued. “You really showcased what a kind, gentle man your father was and how he changed your life and the lives of others. Your speech tonight…it was just such…” I paused, searching my mind for the right words to describe his eulogy.
“Bullshit,” he stated.
I stood up straighter. “What?”
“The eulogy was bullshit. I grabbed it from outside. A stranger wrote it and posted it on the building, someone who’d probably never spent ten minutes in the same room as my father, because if they had, they would’ve known how shitty of a person Kent Russell was.”
“Wait, so you plagiarized a eulogy for your father’s funeral?”
“When you say it like that, it sounds awful,” he replied dryly.
“It probably sounds that way because it kind of is.”
“My father was a cruel man who manipulated situations and people to get the best bang for his buck. He laughed at the fact that you people paid money for his pile of shit inspirational books and lived your lives based on the garbage he wrote about. I mean, his book Thirty Days to a Sober Life? He wrote that book drunk off his ass. I literally had to lift him up out of his own vomit and filth more times than I’m willing to admit. Fifty Ways to Fall in Love? He screwed prostitutes and fired personal assistants for not sleeping with him. He was trash, a joke of a human, and I’m certain he didn’t save anyone’s life, as many have so dramatically stated to me this evening. He used you all to buy himself a boat and a handful of one-night stands.”
My mouth dropped open, stunned. “Wow.” I laughed, kicking around a small stone with my shoe. “Tell me how you really feel.”
He took my challenge and turned slowly around to face me, stepping closer, making my heart race. No man should’ve been as handsomely dark as he was. Graham was a professional at grimacing. I wondered if he knew how to smile at all. “You want to know how I really feel?”
No.
Yes.
Um, maybe?
He didn’t give me a chance to answer before he continued to speak. “I think it’s absurd to sell tickets to a funeral service. I find it ridiculous to profit from a man’s death, turning his final farewell into a three-ring circus. I think it’s terrifying that individuals paid extra to have access to a VIP gathering afterward, but then again, people paid to sit on the same couch Jeffrey Dahmer sat upon. I shouldn’t be surprised by humans at all, but still, each day they tend to shock me with their lack of intelligence.”
“Wow…” I smoothed out my white dress and swayed back and forth. “You really didn’t like him, did you?”
His stare dropped to the ground before he looked back up at me. “Not in the least.”
I looked out into the darkness of the night, staring up at the stars. “It’s funny, isn’t it? How one person’s angel could be another’s biggest demon.”
He wasn’t interested in my thoughts, though. He moved back to the door and started banging again.
“Maktub.” I smiled.
“What?”
“Maktub. It means all is written, that everything happens for a reason.” Without much thought, I extended my hand out toward Graham. “I’m Lucy, by the way. Short for Lucille.”
He narrowed his eyes, not amused. “Okay.”
I giggled and stepped in closer, still holding my hand out. “I know sometimes authors can miss out on social cues, but this is the moment when you’re supposed to shake my hand.”
“I don’t know you.”
“Surprisingly, that’s exactly when you’re supposed to shake a person’s hand. “
“Graham Russell,” he said, not taking my hand. “I’m Graham Russell.”
I lowered my hand, a sheepish grin on my lips. “Oh, I know who you are. Not to sound cliché, but I’m your biggest fan. I’ve read every word you’ve ever written.”
“That’s impossible. There are words I’ve written that have never been published.”
“Perhaps, but if you did, I swear I’d read them.”
“You’ve read The Harvest?”
I wiggled my nose. “Yes…”
He smiled—no, it was just a twitch in his lip. My mistake.
“It’s as bad as I think it is, isn’t it?” he asked.
“No, I just…it’s different than the others.” I chewed my bottom lip. “It’s different, but I can’t put my finger on why.”
“I wrote that one after my grandmother passed away.” He shifted his feet around. “It’s complete shit and should’ve never been published.”
“No,” I said eagerly. “It still stole my breath away, just in a different kind of way—and trust me, I’d tell you if I thought it was complete trash. I’ve never been a good liar.” My eyebrows wiggled and my nose scrunched up as I moved on my tiptoes—the same way Mama used to—and went back to staring up at the stars. “Have you thought of planting a tree?”
“What?”
“A tree, in honor of your father. After someone close to me passed away, she was cremated, and my sister and I planted a tree with her ashes. On holidays we take her favorite candy, sit beneath the tree, and eat the candy in her honor. It’s a full circle of life. She came in as energy of the world, and went back into it as the same.”
“You’re really feeding into those millennial stereotypes, aren’t you?”
“It’s actually a great way to preserve the beauty of the environment.”
“Lucille—”
“You can call me Lucy.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-six.”
“Lucy is a name for a child. If you ever truly want to make it in the world, you should go by Lucille.”
“Noted. If you ever want to be the life of the party, you should consider the nickname Graham Cracker.”
“Are you always this ridiculous?”
“Only at funerals where people have to buy tickets.”
“What was the selling price?”
“They ranged from two hundred to two thousand dollars.”
He gasped. “Are you kidding me? People paid two thousand dollars to look at a dead body?!”
I ran my hands through my hair. “Plus tax.”
“I’m worried about the future generations.”
“Don’t worry, the generation before you worried about you, too, and it’s obvious you’re a bright, charming personality,” I mocked.
He almost smiled, I thought.
And it was almost beautiful.
“You know what, I should have known you didn’t write that eulogy based on how it ended. That was a huge clue that it wasn’t written by you.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “I actually did write that eulogy.”
I laughed. “No, you didn’t.”
He didn’t laugh. “You’re right, I didn’t. How did you know?”
“Well…you write horror and thriller stories. I’ve read every single one since I was eighteen, and they never ever end happy.”
“That’s not true,” he argued.
I nodded. “It is. The monsters always win. I started reading your books after I lost one of my best friends, and the darkness of them kind of brought me a bit of relief. Knowing there were other kinds of hurts out in the world helped me with my own pain. Oddly enough, your books brought me peace.”
“I’m sure one ended happily.”
“Not a single one.” I shrugged. “It’s okay. They are all still masterpieces, just not as positive as the eulogy was tonight.” I paused and giggled again. “A positive eulogy. That was probably the most awkward sentence I’ve ever said.”
We were silent again, and Graham went back to the banging of the sealed door every few minutes. After each failed attempt, he’d heavily sigh with disappointment.
“I’m sorry about your father,” I told him once more, watching how tense he seemed. It’d been a long day for him, and I hated how clear it was that he wanted to be alone and I was the one standing in his way. He was literally caged with a stranger on the day of his father’s funeral.
“It’s okay. People die.”
“Oh no, I’m not sorry about his death. I’m one of those who believe that death is just the beginning of another adventure. What I mean is, I’m sorry that for you, he wasn’t the man he was to the rest of the world.”
He took a moment, appearing to consider saying something, but then he chose silence.
“You don’t express your feelings very often, do you?” I asked.
“And you express yours too often,” he replied.
“Did you write one at all?”
“A eulogy? No. Did you post one outside? Was it yours I read?”
I laughed. “No, but I did write one during the service.” I went digging into my purse and pulled out my small piece of paper. “It’s not as beautiful as yours was—yours being a stretch of a word—but it’s words.”
He held his hand out toward me, and I placed the paper in his hold, our fingers lightly brushing against one another.
Fangirl freak-out in three, two…
“Air above me, earth below me, fire within me, water surround me…” He read my words out loud and then whistled low. “Oh,” he said, nodding slowly. “You’re a hippie weirdo.”
“Yes, I’m a hippie weirdo.” The corner of his mouth twitched, as if he was forcing himself not to smile. “My mother used to say it to my sisters and me all the time.”
“So your mom’s a weirdo hippie too.”
A slight pain hit my heart, but I kept smiling. I found a spot on the ground and sat once again. “Yeah, she was.”
“Was,” he murmured, his brows knitting together. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. Someone once told me people die, that it’s a pretty common aspect of life.”
“Yes, but…” he started, but his words faded away. Our eyes locked and for a moment, the coldness they held was gone, and the look he gave me was filled with sorrow and pain. It was a look he’d spent his whole day hiding from the world, a look he’d probably spent his whole life hiding from himself.
“I did write a eulogy,” he whispered, sitting down on the ground beside me. He bent his knees and his hands pushed up the sleeves of his shirt.
“Yeah?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want to share it?” I asked.
“No.”
“Okay.”
“Yes,” he muttered softly.
“Okay.”
“It’s not much at all…” he warned, reaching into his back pocket and pulling out a small folded piece of paper.
I nudged him in the leg. “Graham, you’re sitting outside of an arena trapped with a hippie weirdo you’ll probably never see again. You shouldn’t be nervous about sharing it.”
“Okay.” He cleared his throat, his nerves more intense than they should’ve been. “I hated my father, and a few nights ago, he passed away. He was my biggest demon, my greatest monster, and my living nightmare. Still, with him gone, everything around me has somehow slowed, and I miss the memories that never existed.”
Wow.
His words were few, yet they weighed so much. “That’s it?” I asked, goose bumps forming on my arms.
He nodded. “That’s it.”
“Graham Cracker?” I said softly, turning my body toward him, moving a few inches closer.
“Yes, Lucille?” he replied, turning more toward me.
“Every word you’ve ever written becomes my new favorite story.”
As his lips parted to speak again, the door swung open, breaking us from our stare. I turned to see a security guard holler behind him.
“Found him! This door locks once closed. I’m guessing he got stuck.”
“Oh my God, it’s about freaking time!” a woman’s voice said. The moment she stepped outside to meet us, my eyes narrowed with confusion.
“Jane.”
“Lyric?”
Graham and I spoke in unison, staring at my older sister, who I hadn’t seen in years—my older sister who was pregnant and wide-eyed as she stared my way.
“Who’s Jane?” I asked.
“Who’s Lyric?” Graham countered.
Her eyes filled with emotion and she placed her hands over her chest. “What the hell are you doing here, Lucy?” she asked, her voice shaking.
“I brought flowers for the service,” I told her.
“You ordered from Monet’s Gardens?” Lyric asked Graham.
I was somewhat surprised she knew the name of my shop.
“I ordered from several shops. What does it matter? Wait, how do you two know each other?” Graham asked, still confused.
“Well,” I said, my body shaking as I stared at Lyric’s stomach, and then into her eyes, which matched Mama’s. Her eyes filled with tears as if she’d been caught in the biggest lie, and my lips parted to speak the biggest truth. “She’s my sister.”