Rainbow allows the faintest of smiles onto her face. "I suppose I could share my knowledge."
Lunch is odd, but everybody makes an effort. Cecily tells the story of the guy she went on a date with who tried to steal the salt shaker, and there are chuckles around the table. For a brief moment, there is a lighter feeling, but it is smacked down by the heaviness of the day. That is how grief works. It's a process.
Nobody tries to be happy, or anything they aren't. They are simply trying to do it together.
After lunch, we part ways. Everyone will see each other soon, and Glenn and Marilyn will stay in town to be a part of planning Ophelia's funeral.
Cecily asks me to come back to her place. When I offer to have Klein pick me up, she tells me she'd like to stay in my orbit.
This is precisely why I do not need to hear her tell me she loves me. Her actions make it clear.
When Cecily takes a shower that afternoon, I hear her crying. Stepping in behind her, I take her in my arms. Hold her while the warm water pours over us. Afterward, I towel dry her body and her hair, and she drapes across my chest in bed and falls asleep. While she softly snores, I look at the final text Ophelia sent me, just after she parted ways with Cecily last night. I didn't see it until I woke up this morning, when I checked my phone hoping to see Cecily's absence explained by her in a text.
Ophelia: I'm happy she found you. Don't duck it up.
Ophelia: Dammit. I said FUCK. Don't duck it up.
Ophelia: DAMMIT.
I laugh silently at the words, hearing them in her voice. Salty heat burns my eyes, and they fill with tears. I've been staying strong for Cecily, for her family, but I'm hurting, too. I only knew Ophelia a short time, but to know her is to love her.
I try to control the shuddering of my chest, but it wakes Cecily anyway. She takes one look at me, sleepy-eyed, and knows.
Her tears spill forth. She cries and cries, hiccuping sobs that send me searching for tissues. I can't find a box, so I make my own with a wad of toilet paper, the end streaming like the tail of a kite.
Cecily noisily blows her nose, and I tell her, "My parents never bought tissues. They said it was a waste of money."
She smiles in the most wistful way. She's radiant in the late afternoon sun. "They were probably right."
Climbing back into her bed, I pull her onto me. She props herself on an elbow and brushes her hand over my chest. "I'm grateful you knew her."
"I am too."
Later, when the dehydration headaches we got from crying have subsided, I run out for groceries.
"How much did you hate driving my Jeep?" Cecily holds out her palm for her car keys when I return.
"It wasn't as bad as I remember." Lie. I hate that vehicle.
She smirks. "Sure."
"What exactly is your reason for"—I reach into the grocery bag—"this?"
Cecily's eyes grow wide. "I can explain."
I brandish the weird little doll. "It was under your passenger seat. An orange fell from the bag and rolled under. Imagine my surprise reaching for an orange but coming away with whatever this is." Despite the terrible hair, I see the similarities.
"First of all, no harm came to you as a result of that doll." Cecily snatches it from my hand.
I walk into her kitchen and unpack the groceries. "He needs to be thrown out."
"He has a name," she defends, reaching for the bottle of white wine I picked up.
"Yeah, I know. Dominic."
"His name is Malibu Dom."
I freeze. Turn around with the box of dried pasta. "Malibu Dom? As in, Barbie?"
