Positive actions lead to positive outcomes. Negative actions? Well, they lead to this: ongoing exposure to both Charlie and Edward Cavendish, each bringing his own unique flavor of emotional exhaustion.
Clearly, I’m reaping the cosmic consequences of being a terrible bridesmaid.
Because let’s be real—I’ve been harboring some secret uncharitable thoughts about Sophia. Like how she’s treating this wedding as if it’s the most important event in human history.
I know she’s stressed. Iknowshe’s not sleeping.
But instead of being a supportive friend, I’ve been sitting here thinking,Jesus fucking Christ, Sophia. They’re motherfucking flowers. Pick a color and move on.
Instead of stepping up, I’ve been radiating toxic energy. My vibe is rancid.
And now, the universe has decided to take notice of my bad attitude and punish me in the most creative, sadistic way possible. How the hell am I supposed to look Edward in the eye knowing he’s in possession of that terrifyingly massive penis?
Rest in peace, Uncle Bernard, may the angels take pity on your whiskey-soaked soul. And may they all wear industrial-grade chastity belts for their own goddamn safety.
Edward
It’s telling that I feel more at ease at my great uncle’s funeral than I do at my sister’s glamping weekend. Then again, I suppose I have more in common with a room full of retired surgeons than a pack of excitable twenty-somethings.
The drawing room is heaving with mourners—surgical pioneers, hospital directors, academics. The great and the good of British medicine have turned out in force to honor one of their own. Most of Bernard’s true contemporaries, of course, are long gone, outlived by him, as he liked to point out with a smug grin.
I navigate the crowd, shaking hands. While I have a lot in common with these people—mostly men—there’s something about large social crowds, whether it’s a funeral or a party, that always drains me.
“Just a terrible loss,” murmurs Sir James Wright, his hand trembling as he grips his whiskey. At ninety-three, he’s probablyfighting the unnerving thought that he could be next on the Reaper’s list.
But funerals are a reminder that the reaper does not discriminate against age alone.
“Yes,” I reply quietly. “It’s hit my mother particularly hard.”
“Your uncle will not be forgotten,” he says, eyes misty. “First man to perform keyhole surgery in Great Britain. Changed the bloody landscape of surgery in our little island forever. What a thing to have on your tombstone.”
“Indeed. So much legacy, in fact, that we had trouble fitting it all on the tombstone.”
The old man barks out a laugh, nearly spilling his drink.
But it’s not hyperbole. As a boy, I idolized Bernard. To me, he was a superhero—his stories of operating-room heroics more gripping than any comic book.
He wasn’t just my great-uncle; he was a living legend. His name is immortalized in textbooks. His innovations, discussed reverently by my Cambridge professors, serve as the very foundation of modern British surgery. Every time I perform a laparoscopic procedure, I’m walking in his shadow.
But legacies are tricky things. They inspire, yes. But they also weigh heavily—especially when the man behind the legend turns out to bepainfullyhuman.
Which is precisely why it canneverbecome public knowledge that one of the pioneers of British medicine met his end with a bottle of lubricant in one hand and a television remote in the other.
Across the room, I spot Mrs. Hayes hovering near the doorway, looking like she’s seconds away from handing in her resignation. Understandable, really. Discovering one’s employer deceased is distressing enough without the . . . additional complexities of the situation.
“If you’ll excuse me, Sir,” I say, touching his shoulder briefly. “There’s a rather urgent matter requiring my attention.”
I navigate through the assembled mourners toward Mrs. Hayes, who looks a little green around the gills as I approach.
“Mrs. Hayes,” I say when I reach her. “Might I have a word? In private.”
She nods. “Of course, sir.”
I lead her to Father’s study, the one room in the house where discretion is guaranteed.
Mrs. Hayes clutches her handbag like it might shield her from further trauma. Her expression suggests she’s seen things no housekeeper’s training manual could prepare her for.
“I wanted to extend my deepest sympathies for what you encountered,” I say.
