Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 63282 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 316(@200wpm)___ 253(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63282 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 316(@200wpm)___ 253(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
Almost everyone else is battling the elements, including the minister, who’s got an altar boy holding an umbrella over his head while he reads from his holy book.
Yet, there’s one man who doesn’t seem perturbed by the weather at all. Water’s soaking his clothes until they’re dark and heavy. He can’t be comfortable, but he doesn’t appear to care.
Taller than everyone else, his head pokes out above the dark umbrellas. His eyes are red, but if he’s crying, I can’t tell. Droplets of water shower down on him and drip down his entire body—his dark hair, his somber face, his collared black shirt that sticks wetly to his hard body.
I’m going to hell for this, I think to myself when I find my eyes wandering up his rolled-up sleeves and settling on his muscular, tattooed forearms. This is my brother’s funeral. I shouldn’t be checking out an old one-night-stand, not even if all I feel like doing now is cry on his broad shoulder.
But I can’t deny it’s almost impossible not to notice Luca today.
He stands apart. Although most people are huddled together as close as their umbrellas will let them, there’s at least three feet of space between him and the next person. Thanks to his myriad of tattoos and ex-convict status, the townsfolk are distrustful of him.
To be fair, Ashbourne is a small town that’s suspicious of any outsiders, especially those who keep to themselves.
That was probably why he got along so well with my brother. They were both misfits.
Luca doesn’t scare me, though. In fact, it was probably those bad-boy vibes that grabbed my attention in the beginning. I did it for the thrill.
I do a quick mental calculation. He must be thirty-one now.
He’s let his facial hair grow. Dark shadows line his strong jawline, his chin, and the bit of skin above his lips.
Like my mom, he appears older, although that’s probably just a temporary effect of grief. He’s just lost his best friend, and it shows. He slouches his shoulders and stares blankly at the grave. It’s like only his body is here.
Except he suddenly turns his gaze on me, jump-starting my heart until the beats compete with the pitter-patter of raindrops all around us.
What’s wrong with me?
Those green eyes . . . I forgot how intense they are. It’s almost like there’s a source of light in that brilliant head of his. In this gloomy, damp atmosphere, they seem greener than the blades of wet grass underfoot, or the leaves on the trees lining the perimeter of this cemetery.
He gives me a solemn nod, a small gesture that somehow conveys the crushing weight of his sadness and sympathy.
I swallow my nerves, and without breaking eye contact, I return his nod. My vision blurs, and for a moment, I think some rain must’ve gotten into my eyes, until I realize the droplets rolling down my cheeks are warm.
For some reason, seeing the anguish in Luca’s eyes has taken me from “anger” and “denial” to whatever the next stage of grief is. For the first time since I heard the news, it feels real.
And so, as the minister drones on about the fleeting nature of life, I start to sob.
My brother’s no more, and I’m all alone in the world.
Sarah
As soon as the minister stops talking, I thank him and slip away, avoiding the crowd.
Ashbourne being a small town, everybody’s here, regardless of what they thought of my brother while he was still alive and regardless of how close they were to him.
Many of these people probably hadn’t talked to him in a year when he died, and they probably don’t have anything of value to tell me, other than the clichés. You know, “sorry for your loss,” or “you’re in my prayers.”
I don't need prayers or sympathy. I know exactly what I need, and it's nothing I can mention at a funeral. Hell, it's nothing I’ve ever said out loud anywhere.
It’s probably not the healthiest coping mechanism, but who cares? This is, without a doubt, the lowest point in my life. I’m pretty sure I’ve earned the right to indulge in any vice I want.
Ever since I got back to Ashbourne, I’ve been busy making arrangements for Peter’s funeral. I never knew there was so much paperwork to be done and so many bills to pay when someone dies. When Dad died ten years ago, I was only thirteen, so Peter was the one who handled everything. Turns out dying’s pretty expensive.
Luckily, I’d been saving up while I was working in the city, so I had just enough money to cover all the expenses. Currently, my bank account balance is as close to zero as it’s ever been, but at least the funeral’s over, and my work is done.
I’ve been looking forward to putting this behind me, but now I don’t know what to do with myself.