“How was that?”
“Not like this.” My words were soft but factual. “I had a lot of friends. I was hopeful, pretty, and apparently I smelled better.” I sigh, because it isn’t just about my smell. I used to be pretty too. I used to turn heads. Men used to ask me out. Not that I want to go out with anyone, but it’s that feeling that I miss. The feeling of being desired.
Rigsby pipes up. “My uncle said you were pretty.”
“Excuse me?” I bark a laugh trying to cover up my instant blush. “W-what did he…” I stutter to a pause and try again. “He spoke about me, hmm? When was this?” I bumble, feeling as if I just pounded fourteen shots of espresso. My heart slams against my rib cage, warning me to put up my guard. My breath is faint, almost transparent as I manage to say, “Your uncle said I’m pretty?”
“He said you were gorgeous but annoying.”
“He said gorgeous.” The word sticks in my throat, plugging my airway. My defenses weaken like a wall of bricks ready to crumble at the first disappointment.
Gorgeous is good, right?
Not like dirty dishes.
A kink springs in my neck, and I struggle to clear my airway. It draws my ear near my shoulder, but I can’t resist thinking about him—his name, that perfect manly name that slips off my tongue so easily, his voice, and that crooked smile.
There.
I finally admitted it. It’s not like I’m blind and hadn’t noticed how adorable he was, but I was clearly avoiding thinking about it. Because why would I think about it—ahem—him.
I’m a single mom who smells like dirty dishes. I wouldn’t think about him, because he wouldn’t think about me.
Except, Rigsby said he did.
“When did h-he . . . when did he say that?” I struggle to keep my tone cool, hiding my sudden anxiety.
“Can I help you with anything?” A store clerk peeks her head into the aisle, inserting herself into the conversation.
She takes me by surprise, and I startle, holding up the purse. “No, I found what I need. I’m ready to pay.”
Swiping her hand in a smooth gesture, she points to the front. “The cashier can help you.”
“Thank you.” I smile at her, then my gaze goes back to Rigsby, who is studying his handful of candy. I decide not to ask my question again. That would be awkward.
Even though I’m dying to know more.
“Oh, Mom,” Bella grabs my hand and pulls me forward like she has marching orders. “Let’s go already.”
“Alright,” I whisper, holding the bathroom door wide open and using my free hand to silently gesture for the kids to walk forward. I took one last stab at getting the mustaches off. Was I successful-meh? There’s still a faint line above each of their lips. On any other day, it would be funny, but it doesn’t exactly scream showing proper decorum and respect. I don’t know this family. I hope they aren’t offended that I brought the kids. I’m doing my best to slip in, sing what I need to sing, and disappear as soon as I can.
Setting an example, I walk at an exaggeratedly slow pace. With one finger to my lips to visually remind the kids not to talk, I glide through the church and find a couple of empty seats in the last row. I wave them forward and keep a stern eye on them while they sit.
Bella’s still toting around Little B, and she rests the bear on her lap. At first, I said no to Little B coming inside. Then I figured the bear might help keep her quiet. Also, it could bring comfort since she’s never been to a funeral, and I have no idea how she’ll react. Rigsby seems content as he leans back in the pew and crosses his arms over his chest. His cheek hollows, as he’s still sucking on candy. In another situation, I might ask him to spit it out, but if it keeps him sitting silently for the next hour, I’ll allow it. Especially since I can’t sit next to them.
I take one more moment to put my finger to my lips and whisper, “Shush.” Then I straighten, steel my shoulders, and stride to the piano to take my seat. People bustle in, filling almost every pew in the church. If I crane my neck, I can seethe family lined up with the casket in the back. That’s my cue to start. I take a deep breath and play the first chord on the piano, keeping one eye on the kids and the other on my music.
God must have blessed this family, because everything goes smoothly. I let out a giant sigh of relief when the last piano chord is struck. The church has mostly emptied. I have a clear line of sight to the kids. They are exactly where I told them to be.
Never have I wanted to shout hallelujah more.
One of the family members walks up to me with an envelope and hands it to me. “Thank you so much. It was beautiful.”
“You’re welcome.” I take the envelope, adding an empathetic expression.
“I’m hoping it’s not a burden, but I want to ask if you could follow us to the gravesite. I know my father will smile down from heaven if we sing “Amazing Grace” as the final goodbye.”
“Uh.” My eyes dart to the kids—still perfect. It’s not unusual for people to request gravesite songs, but it’s also common enough that I anticipated it. I was totally hoping to be done.
