Page 166 of What We Bury

It’s a wreath. A funeral wreath. The kind that sits on a stand at memorial services, with a big satin ribbon across the front. Except instead of REST IN PEACE, the ribbon reads: I’M SORRY I’M AN IDIOT in gold block letters.

And the person carrying it is Milo.

What the hell?

I’d texted him on my way into work:come by on my break, we can talk.It was the first I’d reached out since I told him—through his own camera, no less—to give me space until I was ready. And to his credit, he didn’t push for more. Two days. No calls, no ambushes, no Tupperware of pasta left on my doorstep like an offering to an angry god. He waited for me to reach out.

So yes. I invited him.

Technically.

But I didn’t invitethis.

He’s struggling. The wreath is enormous, easily four feet across, and the stand keeps catching on the sidewalk. He triesto muscle it through the front door—the bells jangle, the stand catches, and the whole thing tilts sideways, nearly decapitating an elderly woman on her way out.

She ducks, swears, and gives Milo the finger as he stumbles aside. The stand wedges in the doorframe long enough for the entire diner to turn and watch.

Jamie chokes on his coffee. “Oh my God,” he says, voice sticky with glee. “Do you know that guy?”

I want to die.

Milo finally gives up on the door and sets the wreath up on the sidewalk, angling it so it faces the diner window. He adjusts the ribbon, drops to his knees on the pavement, presses his hands together in prayer position, and screams, “Saaaaage!” like he’s in a production ofA Streetcar Named Desire.

Every head in the diner turns toward me.

“Oh my fucking God,” I mutter.

Jamie stares. “Is that . . . a funeral wreath?”

“Yes.”

“And that man is on his knees—isthatwhere the hickey came from?”

“No,” I say distractedly, already untying my apron. “He’s a different beast altogether.”

Jamie’s mouth falls open. “Adifferent—Wow. I want to be you when I grow up.”

I’m already heading for the door, calling out to Rosa that I’m taking my break.

Milo sees me coming and somehow manages to look both pathetic and delighted. He’s still on his knees, hands clasped, his face arranged into the most exaggerated expression of remorse I’ve ever seen. The wreath towers behind him like a floral headstone for his dignity.

“A funeral wreath?” I stop in front of him.

“It seemed appropriate,” he says, still on his knees. “Given that our trust died a premature death due to my own stupidity.”

“Where did you even get a funeral wreath?”

“A friend of Eli’s knows a guy.” He lowers his voice. “Professional mourning-adjacent services. Very discreet. Great reviews.”

“Of course.”

“Anyway, he knows a florist and she’s very nice. Gave me a discount when I told her I’d ruined the most important relationship of my life through invasive surveillance technology.”

“You told the florist about the cameras?”

“Not the cameras-cameras.” His eyes widen like he realizes, one second too late, that this is not helping. “I said I was a tech-savvy idiot who violated someone’s privacy out of misguided love and needed a grand gesture of repentance. No names. No felonies. Just vibes and lilies.”

“Milo.”