Broken Knight

“Or what?” he pressed.

“Or I’ll open it for you, and that’ll be the only damn thing people remember about your mother’s funeral.”

When he made no move, I stood up. I really didn’t give a fuck about making a spectacle, and I think he knew it, because we were the exact same person. He was my mini-me, much more than sensitive, kind-hearted Lev was.

Knight tugged me down by the hem of my blazer.

“Christ,” he mumbled. He opened his mouth, still staring at me hard and defiantly.

I had a sniff. Sober as a nun. I leaned back, keeping my face hard and grim.

“Have you been eating tuna?”

Lev snickered from my other side. I took that as a little win, although it wasn’t Levy I was trying to make amends with.

“Vaughn, Hunter, and Luna are taking turns watching me.” Knight clapped his mouth shut, rubbing his jaw.

“I know.” I sat back.

Vaughn accompanied him to the restrooms at school, even though Vaughn, apparently, was above taking a piss there. Luna shadowed his every move from the moment he left school, and I checked in on him every single hour. Hunter came at nighttime. Mainly, I suspected, to take refuge from the harem of girls he’d been bedding and dumping. I couldn’t care less, as long as he took care of my kid.

“I’m not three,” Knight said.

“Debatable,” I answered flatly.

“Why am I being treated like a toddler?”

“Because you’re just about as reliable—at least until you go an entire month sober.”

“You suck.”

He nearly goddamn sulked, and although he was giving me shit, I also acknowledged that he’d at least talked to me, which was something. Which was everything right now.

“Thank you,” I said quietly.

He looked at me like I was crazy. Guess I needed to elaborate.

“I needed to suck and do my job as a parent months ago. From now on, I am going to suck like a whore in a brothel, kiddo.”

“I can do whatever I want. I’m already eighteen,” Knight said at the same time Lev coughed all over my inappropriate little speech.

“You are,” I whispered, leaning closer to Knight. “But you want to get better. I know you do. And I also know why.”

The service opened with a prayer by Father Malcolm, the same man who’d baptized Knight and Lev when they were born. Personally, I wasn’t big on religion, but Rosie had wanted the kids to be baptized, and what Rosie wanted, she always got. Next, Emilia went up to talk about my wife. Then it was my turn.

I kept it light. I didn’t believe in the afterlife, but if there was a slight chance Rosie was watching from above, and she saw me shed a tear, I knew she’d haunt my ass to the grave, Casper the Unfriendly Ghost-style. Besides, I’d run out of tears over these past two weeks. The ruthless motherfucker I was prior to losing my wife had been shed and dumped behind.

I cried every night.

Sometimes all night.

Many times with the door open, when Emilia, Knight, Lev, and my parents could hear and see me. Pride was a luxury I could no longer afford.

When I made my way from the podium back to the pew, I expected Father Malcolm to wrap the ceremony up so we could get to the real nasty stuff. The part where I had to bury the love of my life. The part where I’d undoubtedly break.

To my astonishment, the next person to walk to the raised podium in front of Rosie’s casket was my son’s sometimes-girlfriend, Luna Rexroth. Her steps were brisk, yet somehow full of trepidation. What in the ever-loving fuck was happening?

Luna Rexroth didn’t talk. Was she going to communicate her grief about my wife’s untimely death via telepathy?

I felt Knight shifting beside me, tugging at his collar and wiping his mouth. He couldn’t look at her without getting flustered. Plus, he knew she hated crowds and people. Everyone goddamn knew that. Which begged the question—what was she doing up there?

I threw him a glance, asking just that with my eyes. He ignored me, his eyes still glued on her frame, wrapped in a long, black dress.

Luna cleared her throat and smoothed over an object she was holding—some kind of a notebook. She tapped it with her finger, nodding silently, as if having some sort of a conversation with it.

People began to look around, whispering. As far as the town of Todos Santos was aware, Luna Rexroth was a mute. Some knew it was selective muteness. Most simply didn’t care.

“Save your girl,” I ordered Knight without moving my lips an inch, still staring at her as she shifted from foot to foot, busily flipping the pages of her notebook.

Transfixed, Knight answered me, his eyes still on her. “No.”

“No?”

“No. She needs to see this one through.” He drew in a breath.

I was about to stand up and save my best friend’s daughter from a debacle when she hurried to the edge of the stage, produced a small remote, and darted back to the center. She swiveled on her heels, giving the audience her back, punched the remote keys a few times, and a portable projector behind Rosie’s casket came to life.

A picture appeared on the screen: Rosie and Emilia when they were no older than four and three, butt naked, their messy, curly hair the same shade of brown-blond, sitting in two buckets full of water, grinning at each other.

Luna looked back to the audience, took a shuddering breath, and opened her mouth.