Morganville (Justin Bieber)

Chapter 98

Michael looked sick. "Of course not. Justin - "

"It's all right." The fight dropped out of Justin's voice. He sounded resigned. "I'm okay with it."

"And that bugs the crap out of you, doesn't it?"

Justin looked up, startled. The two of them stared it out, and then Justin tugged on my arm again. "Let's go," he said. "See you at home."

Michael nodded. "See you."

He was still holding the empty bottle, I realized. There was a tiny trickle of blood left in the bottom.

As the door shut between us, I saw Michael realize what he had in his hand, and throw it violently in the trash can.

"Oh, Michael," I whispered. "God." In that one gesture, I realized something huge.

He really did hate this. He really did, on some level, hate what he'd become, because of what he saw in our eyes.

How much did that suck?

The rest of the night passed quietly. The next morning, we woke up to a ringing phone.

Eve's dad was gone.

"The funeral's tomorrow," Eve said. She wasn't crying. She didn't look much like herself this morning - no makeup, no effort at all put into what she'd thrown on. Her eyes were veined with red, and her nose almost glowed. She'd cried all night; I had heard her, but when I'd knocked on the door, Eve hadn't wanted company. Not even Michael's.

"Are you going?" Michael asked. I thought that was a funny question - who wouldn't go? But Eve just nodded.

"I need to," she said. "They're right about that closure thing, I guess. Will you . . . ?"

"Of course," he said. "I can't do graveside, but - "

Eve shuddered. "So not going there, anyway. The church is bad enough."

"Church?" I asked, as I poured mugs of coffee for the three of us. Justin, as usual, had slept through the phone. "Really?"

"You've never met Father Joe, have you?" Eve managed a weak smile. "You'll like him. He's - something."

"Eve had the hots for him when she was twelve," Michael said, and got a dirty look. "What? You did, and you know it."

"It was the cassock, okay? I'm over it."

I raised my eyebrows. "Is Father Joe a . . . ?" I did the teeth-in-neck mime. They both smiled.

"No," Michael said. "He's just nonjudgmental."

Eve got through the day without too much trouble; she did the normal things - helping with the laundry, taking half the cleaning jobs for the day. It was her day off from work. I had a few classes, but I skipped three that I knew I'd already built up enough momentum in, and attended only the one that seemed critical. Michael didn't go in to teach private guitar lessons, either.

It was nice. It was like . . . family.

The funeral was held at noon the next day, and I found myself trying to pick out what to wear. Party clothes seemed too . . . festive. Jeans were too informal. I borrowed a pair of Eve's black tights and wore them with an also-borrowed black skirt. Paired with a white shirt, it looked moderately respectful.

I wasn't sure how Eve planned to dress, because at eleven a.m., Eve was still sitting in front of her vanity mirror, staring at her reflection. Still in her black dressing gown.

"Hey," I said. "Can I help?"

"Sure," Eve said. "Should I do my hair up?"

"It'd look nice that way," I said, and picked up the hairbrush. I brushed Eve's thick blonde hair until it shone, then twisted it into a knot and pinned it up at the back of her head. "There."