Shortcake

by Watson, Lucy

  I realize that the fire moving up my neck isn’t because of Ben, even though he’s a total douche. I’m pissed at myself for getting to this place in my life.

  In the shower I decide to get ready for the funeral at Derek’s.

  I brush my teeth, pull my damp hair into a messy topknot, and throw on some pajama bottoms and a clean T-shirt that doesn’t smell like Ben. After stuffing my makeup bag into my purse, I grab my outfit for the funeral, and text Derek.

  Me: Hey. Can I come over?

  His response is almost immediate. You alright?

  Me: I’m fine.

  Derek: I’ll pick you up.

  Me: I’ll walk.

  Derek: K

  The scent of fresh-brewed coffee fills the air as I step out of the den and into the living room. My stomach jumps when Ben appears in the kitchen doorway, wearing sweats and a faded T-shirt that hugs his arms, with Rose’s favorite Betty Boop coffee cup in hand.

  He takes a casual sip, his eyes on me.

  I force my steps to slow. I won’t run from him like a coward. I meet his eyes and raise my chin. Forget Bridgette Jones—today I’m Sarah freaking Connor.

  “Don’t you have virgins to sacrifice or something?” I quip, raising my brows to punctuate my stealth coolness.

  He grins wolfishly, flashing a row of straight white teeth.

  The better to eat you with, my dear.

  “Leaving so soon?” His gaze drops to my purse. “Looks like you forgot a few things.”

  “I’ll grab my things after I pay my respects to Rose.” I take a step toward him. “Do me a favor and make yourself gone when I get back.”

  I give my imaginary shotgun a Sarah Connor one-handed pump and walk out the door, feeling like a total badass.

  The morning air is cold against my lips, so I take in a deep breath, hoping it cools my boiling insides as I walk past Ben’s motorcycle. My foot itches to kick it over, but I steady my steps and continue down the long driveway, wearing my pajamas.

  Can you be a badass wearing pajamas and orthopedic slippers?

  Yes.

  Yes, you can.

  * * *

  Standing in front of Derek’s bathroom mirror, I tug my thick hair out of its low side ponytail, trying foolishly for the hundredth time to arrange it so it will cover my overflowing cleavage, pushed sky-high by the too tight bodice.

  I should have tried on the fucking dress.

  “We’re gonna be late,” Derek gently calls through the door.

  I take a step back from the mirror and go up on my tiptoes, hoping the full picture won’t be as bad. It’s worse, so much worse.

  How can this be the same simple dress that was on the hanger? What kind of witchcraft fuckery is this?

  I turn toward the door, feeling my face flush, swallowing back the lump in my throat.

  “Help,” I plead, now in full panic mode.

  Derek slowly opens the door, looking more like a corporate exec than a ranch-vet in a sleek dark suit.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I can’t go like this.” I run a sharp hand down my newly donned hooker dress.

  Derek’s gaze skims along my curves, his face is stoic, his green eyes impassive until they’re not. I see the lie on his face before he opens his mouth.

  He clears his throat, making room for the bullshit. “You look fine.”

  “No, you look fine… I look like I charge by the hour.” I turn back to the mirror, and my shoulders deflate.

  “High-end call girl maybe,” he teases.

  When I don’t smile, he moves behind me, putting reassuring hands on my shoulders. I meet his eyes in the mirror. I want to lean back against his chest so he’ll wrap his arms around me, but I don’t.

  “No one’s going to care what you’re wearing, Em.”

  “I care.” I grab a tissue with a shaky hand and blot my berry lipstick, which makes my already full lips seem overly puffy.

  My eyes water, blurring the hooker image in the mirror, so at least there’s that.

  I feel myself sinking into the familiar sludge, not just because in a few minutes I have to say goodbye to Rose, again, but because today reminds me of all the people I didn’t have the courage to say goodbye to.

  I close my eyes against the barrage of images from The Night That Shan’t Be Named. The night my life changed. The night my yellow-brick-road of life was stained red.

  The images play from every corner of my mind, and I let them—reliving this nightmare is my penance for breathing.

  My penance for each sunrise.

  For each starry sky.

  The echoed memory of gunshots jolt my spine, and my eyes spring open. In the mirror, I see Derek slip off his suit jacket and lay it over my shoulders. My body disappears as it engulfs me and warms my goose-bumped skin.

  “Better?” he asks, taking a step back, his brows raised in question.

  I force a smile. “Yeah. Thanks, D.” I want to be the person he thinks I am. The person he thinks he put back together. I don’t have the heart to tell him that my pieces will never fit again. So, I pretend.

  I could teach a master class on that shit.

  I take in a deep breath, as deep as the witchcraft dress will allow, grab my purse from the counter, and turn to face him with my fake smile in place. He grins, his eyes twinkling with mischief. He used to get that same look before he ran off with the last ice cream sandwich.

  “What?” My eyes narrow in suspicion.

  “Nothing.” He motions for the door. “After you.”

  I walk past him into the living room where I’m transported in a time machine of weathered plank walls, rustic wood beams, worn leather sofas, and wood burning stoves, to a bygone era with covered wagons and cowboys.

  I spent my first few sleepless nights in Woodside here on that sofa, counting those planks. And it looks like I’ll be spending a few more nights recounting while I decide what I’m going to do with my disaster of a life.

  I walk past his massive oak desk, full of medical folders and the many framed pictures of us and all of his friends through the years, to the front door. The familiar tinge of jealousy mixed with envy sits heavy on my chest.

  It’s an ugly combination that I despise feeling, especially for Derek, but I can’t help it. Life just comes easy to him, always has, probably always will. Not that I don’t want that for him, I do. But sometimes, it’s hard to be around so much beauty when you have so much ugly on the inside.

  My steps stutter to a stop when Roy Orbison’s Pretty Woman suddenly blares from behind me. I turn to see Derek holding his phone with a cheesy grin, while he mouths the words.

  Years ago, we watched that movie on repeat, both too sick with food poisoning—that forever ruined fish and chips for me—to take out the DVD. So, it just played all night on a loop.

  “You’re such a dork.” I laugh with a shake of my head.

  His grin widens. “Julia Roberts has got nothing on you.”

  “Big mistake. Big. Huge,” I say, giving him my best Julia Roberts impression as I walk out the front door, letting the sun warm my cheeks.

  The sound of his rich laughter follows me as he shuts the door.

  My gaze turns to the tree-lined driveway as I round his truck, wondering what it would feel like to have my own Richard Gere carry me down it in a white limo with a promise of forever-love, and a bouquet of red roses.

  Probably pretty freaking good.

  4

  Staying Alive

  The minute I step foot into the elegant funeral home, packed with colorful flower arrangements and standing funeral sprays, I feel myself go on autopilot.

  Even seeing Rose’s urn, next to a blown-up picture of her, with her perfectly styled silver hair and lips painted her signature red, doesn’t do anything to move my heart from outside my body back into my chest.

  I wear an autopilot-smile while giving my condolences to her friends who I recognize from Bingo nights and Taco Tuesdays. I give the same smile when I recei
ve hugs from both Catherine and Mark, who apologize for yesterday, ignoring the fact that he calls me Rebecca, then Bianca. I’ve been called worse. The same smile, when I introduce Derek to everyone, and when Dirty Dale introduces us to his companion who is stunning in the effortless way French women are.

  And then there is Ben, who doesn’t bother with a fake smile as he stands alone in the far back, near one of the many flower sprays, wearing a black suit and a cold stare that makes him look every bit as deadly as a young John Wick.

  He ignores me completely, not even sparing a glance when I walk past, which is fine since he’s honestly the last person on this planet I want to have a funeral chat with.

  Sitting next to several gossipy old ladies, I learn Mark hasn’t invited any of Ben’s friends, which surprises me because I know at least one of them has come to visit Rose while I was at the ranch.

  After a short, but efficient service led by Dale, we’re ushered into a banquet room to join the family for brunch and to share memories of Rose. I don’t want to share my memories. I want to drown them in a bottle of wine, but here I am with a perma-smile fixed on my face, standing amongst the grieving, who are surprisingly jovial.

  My smile falters, and my stomach flips when I spot Ben, not that I was looking for him.

  He’s standing against the back wall near the door, for an easy escape no doubt, with a don’t-talk-to-me scowl on his face.

  I turn my eyes before he can catch me staring at him, to the commotion in the room. I’ve never understood how people can eat at a funeral, but they’re swarmed around the lavish buffet table, pecking at it like a pack of street pigeons.

  My stomach knots as Mrs. Baker breaks free from the gaggle and faces me. Her gaze catches mine, her plate filled like she’s at a Vegas buffet.

  I send a casual glance over my shoulder toward the double-doors, not wanting to give her the invitation of prolonged eye contact, willing Derek to come back in from his call.

  Inky dread spreads through my body as she stops at my front. I hold tight to my smile, but it’s hard. We are the same height, which I’d typically find refreshing, but she’s a Seinfeld-worthy close-talker, so, umm…no.

  “Aren’t you hungry?” she asks, invading my personal space as she stuffs another deviled egg into her wrinkled mouth, her tongue already chalky-yellow from the first dozen she probably scarfed at the table.

  “No, not really.” Especially not now.

  She studies me from under droopy lids as she chews. “You don’t eat enough. That’s why you’re so cold,” she explains, motioning to Derek’s jacket, which hangs on me like a tent.

  “You’re probably right,” I concede, giving her a placating nod while taking a casual step back, glancing over my shoulder to the double doors—this time vowing to dedicate my life to God if Derek walks through them.

  “You need steak,” she continues, while chewing on a thick piece of salami. “Donny’s wife never ate steak, and they couldn’t have children because of it.” She swallows. “Just broke his poor heart.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “He would have been a great father,” she concludes as if she’s an authority on such things.

  I have no clue who Donny is, but I nod in sympathy, praying it will help end this conversation. But since this is Mrs. Baker, I could probably spontaneously combust and she’d keep talking.

  “I’m sure he would have,” I say, flicking my gaze around the room, trying to catch eyes with someone to save me.

  “You’re not getting any younger.” Her words are spoken like an accusation before she turns her attention back to her plate.

  I watch her thin arthritic fingers rummage through her bounty. She pulls out large garlic-stuffed olive from the pile and pops it in her mouth.

  Run, Emmy! Run!

  “Well, it was really nice talking—”

  “Better snag that handsome fellow you’re always with.” She swallows the olive and, without missing a beat, picks up a cube of cheddar and pops it into her mouth. “Heard he’s got quite the following.” She raises her brows, pointedly.

  I’m so disgusted but oddly mesmerized by the speed at which she’s eating, it takes a few seconds for her words to sink in.

  “You mean Derek? He’s actually my cousin.”

  My asshole cousin who has currently abandoned me…

  “On your mother’s or father’s side?”

  “Umm… my father’s,” I answer, not wanting to go into the whole his-mom-married-my-uncle-when-he-was-ten spiel.

  “Then it doesn’t count.” Did she just say it doesn’t count? I have no words. “It only counts if it’s on your mother’s side.”

  She states her genetic knowledge with such conviction that I’m pretty sure her family reunion looks eerily similar to the banjo scene from Deliverance. I don’t bother to clarify that he’s my step-cousin. That would make him sound like less than he is. Which is family.

  A brief high-pitched sound screeches through the room and brings our attention to a pudgy older man with wire-rimmed glasses, standing in front of the buffet table, holding a microphone.

  He’s wearing a tie and cable knit cardigan that makes him look like a squished Mr. Rodgers.

  He clears his throat and taps the microphone to make sure it’s on. “This is at Rose Crawford’s request,” he states, seeming uncomfortable as he signals to someone behind me before he walks off.

  People continue shuffling around, talking and stuffing their faces like this is senior night at Sizzler, and it’s starting to really piss me off.

  My gaze flicks to Ben who’s taken a few steps from the wall, his clenched jaw says I’m not the only one getting angry.

  The Bee Gee’s “Staying Alive” blasts from the ceiling speakers, gaining the crowd’s attention. They stop eating and start to look from one to another, some clearly confused, others seeming scandalized by the inappropriate disco ballad.

  Not me.

  Pain swift and sharp steals my breath.

  I can see Rose laughing her hearty belly laugh while picking out this song, imagining the look on everyone’s faces.

  Through my tears, I smile with her. A small laugh is pulled from my heart.

  I meet Ben’s eyes from across the room. After a breath, the angry lines on his face melt into a tender smile. He can see her too.

  My smile widens in return, enough tears for us both break free and trail down my face. His watery smile brightens. He looks to the floor, pinches his eyes with a shake of his head, his shoulders moving with his own small laugh.

  When he looks up, his pain is raw and unguarded, his love for Rose so plain to see, so heartbreaking and beautiful, I wonder how in the world I missed it.

  Rose’s Sweet Benny.

  We stand, eyes locked as the rest of the room falls away—Rose’s last laugh wraps around us like a warm blanket.

  He glances somewhere over my shoulder. His smile fades, and the beauty in his eyes melts away, replaced with the usual cold edge. I take a step toward him, wanting to somehow bring it back, needing to bring it back.

  A firm hand on my arm steals my attention. I turn to see Derek looking down at me, his brows pulled tight in concern.

  “You okay?” He wipes a fresh tear away from my cheek with his thumb.

  “I, uh, I,” I stammer, glancing back to see Ben disappear through the hallway door. I turn back to Derek. “I have to go to the bathroom.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  “No, that’s okay. I’ll be right back.”

  He nods, giving my arm a final sympathetic squeeze.

  * * *

  I wade through the crowd, choking on a cloud of old-lady perfume. I have no idea what I’m doing, or why I’m doing it, but my feet carry me forward as though Ben’s on the other end of my lifeline, pulling me to him and I’m helpless but to follow.

  I push open the heavy door and step into the hallway. My breath catches when I see him. He’s leaning against the wall, his hand grasping the back of his
neck, his eyes downcast. The door clicks shut behind me, muffling Rose’s last laugh on the other side.

  Ben lifts his eyes to mine. The sadness etched in them causes fresh tears to cloud my vision. I choke them back as pain grips my chest. My mind flashes with his emails, some years old, some new, some only a single line or two, all ending with the same three words: love you more.

  He loved Rose more.

  The urge to go to him, to hold him is so strong that I have to wrap my hands around my waist to keep from reaching out.

  He gives me a strained smile, his hand falling from his neck.

  He clears his throat and stands from the wall.

  “Only she would play the Bee Gees at her funeral.” His voice is tight with emotion. His watery smile slays me.

  Guilt sinks a jagged knife through my already bleeding heart.

  I fucked up.

  I should have emailed him about Rose’s condition. I shouldn’t have promised Rose I’d keep her secret. I should have given him a chance to say goodbye. I stole that from him. From his family. I told him he didn’t deserve her. I actually told this broken man he didn’t deserve his Grammy Rose. I said that. Me.

  “I’m sorry,” I choke out, swallowing back the painful tears clogging my throat.

  I turn my eyes to the floor, quickly wiping my tears, feeling like an imposter amongst these people who have known Rose their entire lives. I feel like these tears aren’t mine to shed. That I haven’t earned this giant hole she’s left. I hug myself tighter, but I still feel cold and empty.

  I jerk my head back, surprised to feel Ben’s heavy hand on my shoulder, and meet his gentle gaze, feeling undeserving of the warmth I see in them.

  “I’m so sorry,” I repeat.

  “Me too.” His rough voice is soft. He squeezes my shoulder. “Glad she had someone with her.”

  Shame washes over me.