Page 4 of Good at Being Alive
“No,” I whisper. “I’m not doing that. I’m not greeting people.”
I can’t. Ican’t.Not when every one of them is wishing I’d died instead of Bronwyn. I don’t fault them. I’m wishing it too.
“Rebecca,” Jenny hisses, and I hear a hint of Jessie in the tightness of her tone, which has tears springing to my eyes. I don’t know if my tears are from rage or grief, but I do what I’ve often done when Jessie’s hurt me: I flee.
I fled all the way to California once, but today I only make it as far as the fields behind the church. Away from the prying eyes of the funeral-goers, yes, but inside the cemetery, where a man stands with his back to me, facing three pits, three identical piles of dirt behind them. My insides hollow, my stomach locks…but my feet continue forward—frost-covered grass crunching underfoot, my breath fogging the air. Some voice inmy head screams at me to turn around but I can’t stop moving towardit.
I step up beside the man. He’s tall and older than me but not old. Too well-dressed to be here from the funeral home. A young professor of Bronwyn’s perhaps, or one of those Wall Street douches she dated.
And then I force my eyes to the holes that have been dug, to the dirt. Waiting to close my family in, waiting to hold them deep in the earth and never give them back tome.
This can’t be happening. I’m not going to allow it to happen. I can make this stop. I can do anything I want.
“Do you smoke?” I ask, glancing up at him for the first time. He has a perfect nose, a perfect face. Dark hair, bright blue eyes. Not someone Bronwyn dated, then. She was more attracted to intellect and power than actualattractiveness.
He looks over, startled. “No.”
“Me neither,” I whisper. “Can we start? Is it too late?”
His eyes widen. “I don’t think it’s ever too late, but my father died of lung cancer. Sort of a bad look for me.”
He has a British accent. I don’t know a ton about British accents, but I’m guessing his would be deemedposh.Plus there’s the expensive coat and the exquisite face. Looks like that mostly come from centuries of rich men marrying really hot women.
“What are your feelings about heroin then?”
His mouth curves up, only on one side. It’s there and gone in less than a second, but it’s enough. Bronwyn would forgive him for being so handsome. “I avoid it on an empty stomach.”
I sigh. “A British accent and you’re responsible too. My sister’s going to be so pissed that she missed this.”
I say these words aloud, more to myself than him, and then I choke on them. I don’t know where it’s come from, but suddenly I’m crying so hard I think I’m going to be sick.
Bronwyn can’t be dead. She can’t be. She has too much to offer, too much ahead of her, too much currently at play.She’s got a semester left of law school.For some reason this thought makes me cry even harder because I’m already wondering if they’ll let her defer until next year, when she’s back, and my god…that isn’t how it works.
Arms wrap around me in a tight embrace. Posh overcoat guy. Holding me steady. “I’ll take up smoking if it means that much to you,” he says.
I laugh and sob into his chest.Are they going to bury Bronwyn in the middle? Will she be flanked by my dad and Jessie, protected? Oh god. God. I don’t know if I asked.
I pull his face down to mine and kiss him. I don’t even think before I do it. I just grab him. He makes this noise—surprise, maybe—but he doesn’t stop me and for one long second I can feel him giving way and,yes,this is what I want. I’m going to strip him out of that coat and that suit, and this is how I will pass the time until someone fixes everything for me. There’s no way any of this is happening and—
“Hey,” he says, breaking the kiss. His breathing is erratic. “Hey, this is a bad idea.”
Oh my god. What the hell am I doing? Did I really just kiss him? I did.And yet…I look at three identical pits. I can’t go through with this.
I nod at his crotch. “Part of you”—I’m crying so hard I can barely speak—“seems to think it’s an excellent idea.” I have no idea what I’m doing, what I’m saying.Did I tell them to bury Bronwyn in the center? How could I have forgotten?
The world begins to tilt and his hand shoots out to steady me. “You’re…reallyupset. I’m not sure you’re thinking clearly.” His voice is gentle. “A friend of Bronwyn’s, I presume?”
I press my face to my hands. “Sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m…” Iwipe my face on the inside of my coat but it doesn’t make the tears stop. I’m crying so hard that I’m choking as I speak. “I can’t do this.” I clutch at my throat. “I don’t think I can watch this.”
God. I just grabbed a stranger and kissed him at my family’s funeral. I’ve done a lot of crazy shit, but this is really one for the record books.
He hands me a tissue. “Let me walk you back to the church and get you some water.”
He’s so responsible. So British and hot. So perfect for Bronwyn, despite the hotness. I dig my nails into my palms to keep myself from crying harder and allow him to gently turn me toward the church with his hand on my elbow.
“She’s my stepsister,” I whisper, as we walk. “Bronwyn. You asked if I was her friend. I’m her stepsister.”
He freezes. “What?”
