In ancient India, when a man died, his widow would throw herself into her husband’s funeral pyre and burn to ashes.

Of course, not every widow did this. If the husband had chosen to be buried instead, she could simply join him in his coffin—alive. She could also choose to drown herself.

So, you see, plenty of options for those widows.

This practice was outlawed in the nineteenth century, not long after Europeans entered India and started meddling in their affairs.

I know. It sounds like a terrifying, inhumane practice.

But right now, I wish those Europeans would’ve seen some good in it and spread the custom throughout the Western world instead.

As men lower a shiny, brand-new, wooden casket into the ground, undeterred by heavy rain, I raise my gaze to stare at her—the woman who’s made my life a living hell more times than I can count.

Her ex-husband died years ago, and this funeral is for her son, but better late than never, right?

I guess, technically, she’s not a widow because she’d already gotten divorced when her ex-husband died, but I don’t think divorce existed in ancient India.

I imagine myself pushing her off into the damp, muddy hole while black-clad mourners cheer and egg me on. I’d be doing the right thing. I mean, I’d prefer to see her go out with a literal blaze, but it’s raining pretty hard right now, and I don’t think we could start a blazing pyre if we tried.

Or maybe we can. I don’t know. I’m really not an expert on the subject; it was just something I came across on Wikipedia when I was bored.  

I don’t feel like looking it up on my phone now because that would be disrespectful to the good man whose funeral I’m attending. Besides, the wind’s trying to snatch my black umbrella away, and I need to hold it with both my hands.

I don’t care about being historically accurate. I just want to fantasize about my mom dying a horrible death.

It’d be easy, too, because she’s practically skin and bones these days.

Her hair is dull. Her skin is pale and blotchy. The darkness around her eyes isn’t just makeup.

She looks bored with her empty gaze, no doubt because she’d rather be shooting up some drugs at home. I’ll bet good money that underneath those long sleeves, she’s hiding needle marks.

Even though it’s only been five years since I last saw her, it looks like she’s aged twenty years. The lines on her face are so deep and numerous that her skin appears leathery.

If she showed up at a plastic surgeon’s office, asking for Botox, they’d have to restock their supplies when they were done with her. I can’t even begin to imagine how she’d look with permanently tight facial muscles, though. As it is right now, her face shows no emotions. Or, maybe she doesn’t have any left anymore.

That said, when I was growing up, it felt like she was always wearing a scowling mask. Maybe her current lack of facial expression is an improvement.

I tighten my grip on the umbrella handle as the wind pulls it in all directions. My black lace dress is already half wet, despite my best efforts in rotating the umbrella every time the wind changes directions. It’s chilly, and I can’t help but shiver every once in a while, gritting my teeth together.

Almost everyone else is battling the elements, including the minister, who’s got an altar boy holding an umbrella over his head while he reads from his holy book.

Yet, there’s one man who doesn’t seem perturbed by the weather at all. Water’s soaking his clothes until they’re dark and heavy. He can’t be comfortable, but he doesn’t appear to care.

Taller than everyone else, his head pokes out above the dark umbrellas. His eyes are red, but if he’s crying, I can’t tell. Droplets of water shower down on him and drip down his entire body—his dark hair, his somber face, his collared black shirt that sticks wetly to his hard body.

I’m going to hell for this, I think to myself when I find my eyes wandering up his rolled-up sleeves and settling on his muscular, tattooed forearms. This is my brother’s funeral. I shouldn’t be checking out an old one-night-stand, not even if all I feel like doing now is cry on his broad shoulder.

But I can’t deny it’s almost impossible not to notice Luca today.

He stands apart. Although most people are huddled together as close as their umbrellas will let them, there’s at least three feet of space between him and the next person. Thanks to his myriad of tattoos and ex-convict status, the townsfolk are distrustful of him.

To be fair, Ashbourne is a small town that’s suspicious of any outsiders, especially those who keep to themselves.

That was probably why he got along so well with my brother. They were both misfits.

Luca doesn’t scare me, though. In fact, it was probably those bad-boy vibes that grabbed my attention in the beginning. I did it for the thrill.

I do a quick mental calculation. He must be thirty-one now.

He’s let his facial hair grow. Dark shadows line his strong jawline, his chin, and the bit of skin above his lips.

Like my mom, he appears older, although that’s probably just a temporary effect of grief. He’s just lost his best friend, and it shows. He slouches his shoulders and stares blankly at the grave. It’s like only his body is here.

Except he suddenly turns his gaze on me, jump-starting my heart until the beats compete with the pitter-patter of raindrops all around us.

What’s wrong with me?

Those green eyes . . . I forgot how intense they are. It’s almost like there’s a source of light in that brilliant head of his. In this gloomy, damp atmosphere, they seem greener than the blades of wet grass underfoot, or the leaves on the trees lining the perimeter of this cemetery.

He gives me a solemn nod, a small gesture that somehow conveys the crushing weight of his sadness and sympathy.

I swallow my nerves, and without breaking eye contact, I return his nod. My vision blurs, and for a moment, I think some rain must’ve gotten into my eyes, until I realize the droplets rolling down my cheeks are warm.

For some reason, seeing the anguish in Luca’s eyes has taken me from “anger” and “denial” to whatever the next stage of grief is. For the first time since I heard the news, it feels real.

And so, as the minister drones on about the fleeting nature of life, I start to sob.

My brother’s no more, and I’m all alone in the world.