T W E L V E
LOS ANGELES, CA
The morning of the funeral, as I sit in my rented bedroom and nurse my insomnia, there are two new developments.
For starters, Theo blows up my phone with calls and texts, demanding to know why in the world I'm in Los Angeles, neglected to tell her about it, and refused to join her in New Haven for this, which, in retrospect, would have been a much better use of my time. Replying to her requires a lot more cognitive and communicative effort than I can muster at the moment, so, unfortunately, she'll have to wait.
Secondly, Nick also tries to contact me, but he's much more respectful of my boundaries and timezones and decides to text me once instead. I have to remind myself he doesn't know the truth, either, and I can't expect him to know every single one of my dirty little secrets, so I try not to take it too personally that he's not sending me condolences or wishing me luck for the undoubtedly hard day I have ahead of me. I keep him on a need-to-know basis, the same treatment I've given everyone in my life whose name isn't Sadie Girlboss, even though, realistically, I should let him in just a little bit.
NICK ST MARTIN, 06:11 AM: Thinking of you today (had an Aperol Spritz first thing in the morning, as one does). Proceeded to drink three more. Come home soon so I don't humiliate myself even further. Please.
I smile at it, especially at the selfie he sends alongside his plea for help, surrounded by empty cocktail glasses, hair all disheveled from the wind. He's still built like a wall, despite being slender, and I hate that the first thought that comes to my mind about a man I trust is that he's much taller and stronger than me and I couldn't possibly take him on in a fight if it ever came down to that.
Shame fills me to the core and I shudder, certain this is exactly why no one is ever going to love me; if I can't stop doubting even the one guy I'm supposedly this devoted to, how am I supposed to ever allow myself to be so vulnerable around anyone?
He waits for a response, and I wait for the courage to pour my heart out to him. It's not nearly the same thing.
It's noon there now, nine in the morning on this side of the country, and I have to leave the house in thirty minutes. I can hear Sadie getting ready across the hall, her blow dryer echoing in the silence of the hallway like a vacuum cleaner, and I'm still in my underwear. I've showered, which is a good sign, but I'm not sure I have it in me to glam myself up for a funeral I have no intention of attending or feeling sad at. I'll have to wear black and behave, the bare minimum of respect, but I also don't trust myself to keep my feelings in check around the golden trio that is Adam, Michelle, and my mother.
Letting out a frustrated sigh, I roll out of bed, where I've been lingering for hours almost uninterrupted, and search my bags for the most decent black dress I've brought along with me. I didn't waste much time packing before I left, as I barely had any time to process the fact that I'd be reliving every single memory I'd been keeping at bay for over half a decade, and did little more than pull random pieces of clothing out of my closet. There are things in here I'll never wear when I run the risk of being in the same vicinity as Adam, and they're incredibly inappropriate to wear to a funeral.
Would it be funny to wear them, though? Yes, absolutely. No matter how funny it would be, there are times when my safety and my father's dignity come before my deep-rooted desire for revenge, and this is one of those.
I'm putting on a pair of pearl earrings—classy, I know—by the time Sadie marches into my bedroom, dressed like we're headed off to Paris Fashion Week, but I'll give credit where it's due. I can very well ask her to read the room instead of acting like she has to make a statement everywhere we go, but there's a reason women do this sort of thing. It's more likely to be an extra set of armor, an illusion that we're untouchable, and women tend to use that to fuel their jealousy when faced with a confident woman, but that confidence is often a façade.
It's never a smart choice to show men any signs of vulnerability, and women are turned off by what feels like arrogance. It's a dangerous path to walk down, and there's little to no room for compromise, but I don't dare ask who she's dressing up for. Some men like the challenge of the chase, but others don't want to bother, so there's never any way of being safe. Alienating the people who ensure there's safety in numbers isn't a great idea.
"How are you holding up?" she asks, helping me zip up my dress. It has a modest neckline and ends halfway down my thighs so, as long as I don't move too much and sit all prim and proper like a good girl, there shouldn't be any issues. "Have you slept at all?"
"No." She steps back to fix my hair. "I don't want to be around . . . around him."
"I know. If it's of any reassurance, I'll be with you the whole time, so, if he even tries to do anything, he'll have to get through me." Her hands, warm and steady, hold me by the shoulders before she spins me around to face her. With her standing much taller than me, she has to place two fingers under my chin to raise my head so I look her in the eye for once in my life, and the gesture feels almost like what a sister would do. She's doing with me what I've failed to do with Michelle all these years. "It's two more days. Then it's back to therapy with you."
I wrinkle my nose. "Do you think I should go back?"
"I mean, that's a decision I can't make in your place, but it's a suggestion. A friend's suggestion. If you want me to talk to you as my client, I can tell you to channel all those emotions and memories into whatever role forces you to keep reliving those things and traumatize you all over again. For the sake of art and entertainment."
"That was so wise of you. I can tell you're ditching the Sadie-bot act."
Sadie elbows me in the ribs, then reaches out for a pair of Louboutins. "Give them hell."
⊹˚. ♡
Material Girl by Madonna is playing on the radio as we ride an Uber towards the cemetery.
It used to be Michelle's favorite song growing up. I realize, one second too late and with a sharp stab to the gut, that I don't get to text her about it both because I don't have her number and because she doesn't want to have anything to do with me, and also that I no longer know what songs she likes nowadays.
That's the thing about growing up—you also grow out of the things and the people you once loved.
With that in mind, I make the wise decision to delete the idiotic I love you text I'd drafted for Nick. Girls like me don't get to be in love. Not anymore.
⊹˚. ♡
At the cemetery, I notice people offer their condolences to my mother, but the crowd surrounding my father is considerably smaller.
This doesn't surprise me in the slightest, as evidenced by every single one of her actions leading up to this moment—spending resources in tracking me down across the country, hosting a cocktail party under the excuse of organizing a wake, creating a seating chart for a funeral, inviting Adam—but it doesn't stop me from wincing when I'm faced with the duality of facial expressions between my parents. While his face is twisted with pain, regardless of how hard he attempts to hide it, she's treating her former mother-in-law's funeral as a networking opportunity.
Sadie's tight grip on my wrist is the only thing keeping me sane at this point, even when she drags me away from a long table filled with refreshments and snacks, and I have to keep reminding myself this is still a funeral. Even though I don't feel sad about my grandmother passing away (there's a dull ache in my chest, which I suppose is the natural effect of a family member dying, regardless of whether you liked them or not) and even though nothing about this event screams funeral.
"Don't," Sadie hisses, though it's more of a request than an order or even a warning. I find it quite embarrassing that I'm so dependent on alcohol to get through a complicated situation, and know damn well it's not something to be proud of, but if there's one thing about me is that I never know when to quit. I've always had a hard time letting go. "We should head outside. There's no reason for us to mingle here, unless you want to go talk to your father."
Do I?
I look at him, trying to catch his eye, but he either doesn't notice me or, if he does, acts like I'm not even in the room. Whatever scenario is the real one doesn't matter, and I'm not particularly offended, but I expected different—part of me did, anyway. However, after the way I treated him yesterday, maybe there's a good reason I never bothered to assume I'd be welcome today with open arms.
As always, I'm left to lick my own wounds, far too anxious to do anything else, especially with my hands shaking as wildly as they are. All I can do is excuse myself to go to the bathroom, because surely I'll be okay here, out of all places, and Sadie even attempts to offer me the pleasure of her company. I refuse, despite knowing there's safety in numbers when it comes to women, even when they think they have nothing to worry about.
Once upon a time, that used to be me, back when I didn't carry a can of pepper spray and a switchblade in my handbag, back when I didn't walk with my keys between my fingers, back when I believed I was invincible. Believing in the purity of the human heart used to be such a beautiful thing.
My cheeks are scorching hot and there's sweat getting woven into my hair at the base of my skull, so saying I feel disgusting is an understatement. All that revenge I swore I'd cast upon this city has had to take a break, with me unable to stop being brought to tears over the smallest things, but being around Adam has always had this effect on me. Even before everything, even before he ruined my life, there was always something about him that immediately raised red flags, but, at the time, I found them alluring. I wanted to prove to myself, to him, to the world that I was deserving of time and attention.
All of that for nothing. All of that and all it cost me was my dignity.
He's there when I exit the bathroom, the lack of sleep catching up to me. I can barely walk straight, despite being fully sober, and every movement feels criminally sluggish, a clear liability. I couldn't run away from anyone like this, and Adam is no exception; it's no surprise he manages to corner me this easily.
"So," he begins, blocking my path with a colossal arm. When I try to sidestep him, he mimics my movements. "I'd really like to know what you've been telling people about me. I thought my lawyers had made it perfectly clear I can ruin your life if you decide to go down the defamation route, but then I remembered you can ruin everything by yourself. I don't even need to get involved; I can just sit back and watch."
"Please do." Though his mere existence represents danger, I'd much rather have him not do anything. Admitting this aloud will only strengthen his ego, but he doesn't leave me with many choices. "Let me through. We're not doing this. Not here. We're at a funeral."
"I didn't do shit to you back then. You lied."
"No, I didn't! I told you to stop. I begged you. I was bruised all over, you ripped my hair out—"
"You didn't say no. You asked me to come over. You invited me for drinks."
I raise my chin, force myself to stay firm. "I changed my mind. The second I asked you to stop, you should've stopped, and you didn't. I wasn't asking for it, you creep. I was drunk and vulnerable, and you took advantage of me."
"You can't prove that."
"No. No, I can't, but you know that's what happened. You can't make me doubt reality, not again."
"Are you serious right now? What about my reality, huh? Why is your version the correct one? I was also there, and you enjoyed it. You wanted to cry assault because you wanted attention, because you wanted me to be at your will—"
"Goodbye, Adam."
A muscle in his jaw throbs. "You're paying for my car, just so you know." Adam moves closer, so closer I can count all the short blonde hairs lining his chin, and my heart beats so hard I fear it might explode. "You don't want to fuck me over, Rebecca. I'm not someone who goes down easily and, if I go down, I'm bringing you down with me. The difference is that no one would care if you simply disappeared. You're inconsequential. You're nothing. No one would ever believe you; they didn't believe you then, and they won't believe you now."
"Fuck you," I spit. Even though I know this is exactly what he wants, I still curse my body for betraying me, for daring to give into my upset feelings and making me cry in front of him. It's pathetic, the way I can't stop humiliating myself over this man.
"See, unlike you, Michelle is fun. She doesn't try to ruin things for everyone." At the mention of Michelle's name, blinding hot fury fills me up inside, and I'm the Vesuvius to his Pompeii. Even if she hates me, even if it's the last thing I do, I won't let him ruin her the way he did to me. "I have her wrapped around my finger, and I didn't even have to try. It's kind of pathetic, you know, the way the both of you just bend over backwards just to get some attention."
I step forward, hands balled into fists. "I'll kill you. If you touch her, if you do anything to her, I swear to God I'll kill you. I'll kill you with my bare hands if I have to."
The sound of high heels clicking against the floor around the hallway startles us both, and he finally jumps back, as though I've burned him.
It's not Sadie. It's not my mother.
It's Michelle.
⊹˚. ♡
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