Bella
Eleven Weeks to Opening Day
He’d brought me to a funeral.
For the love of bees, cheese, and saving the motherfucking trees, my date had brought me to a goddamn funeral.
Apparently, this was what I got for trying to be spontaneous, for saying yes to a guy who wore loafers without socks and called himself “low-key” unironically. For convincing myself that maybe—just maybe—this would be the kind of sickly sweet and slightly obnoxious date that people wrote about in lifestyle blogs or Hallmark Christmas movies.
Instead, I was sitting in the second pew at a stranger’s memorial service, fingering the edge of my sleeve and wondering if this was karmic payback for cutting in line at Trader Joe’s last week.
It was only because I needed to pee,I pleaded with the universe.I will never shop on a full bladder again.
This wasn’t even a good funeral, you know, assuming there was such a thing. Admittedly, my experience with ritualistic ceremonies honoring the dead was somewhat limited, but in my humble opinion, stale, store-brand crackers and out-of-tune hymns were no way to send off your grandma.
But what did I know? The last time I had been around anything remotely death adjacent was during Millie Evans’s post-prom sleepover. Millie had tried to summon the ghost of Heath Ledger with a glow-in-the-dark Ouija board, andmuch to the disappointment of a dozen seventeen-year-old girls, Heath never showed.
I picked at a thread, twirling it around my finger like it was one of my auburn curls.
Dagnabbit, this was a new dress. Afavorite, too, and that was saying a lot—I didn’t pick my favorites lightly.
Loose-fitting clothing didn’t often flatter my tall, diamond-shaped frame—more often than not, they made me look like a gift-wrapped refrigerator—but “big red” was an anomaly. The red, knit material hugged my curves just right while also showing off the ideal amount of cleavage for a first date. It also didn’t hurt that I’d gotten it half-off from a local boutique while visiting my mom in Vermont last month.
Unfortunately, as gorgeous as it made me feel, the dress was at least six emotional miles away from the somber black-and-gray palette everyone else was wearing. And my matching, beaded headband wasn’t doing me any favors either. I looked like I was dressed for an office holiday party.
Worst of all—because yes, itdidget worse—I had left my usual armor at home. Fidget toys, my Loop earplugs, whatever paperback I had checked out from the library, anything really, so long as it kept me anchored when conversation got too loud or I needed a break from eye contact.
I always kept my bag fully stocked for battle.
Well,almostalways.
For some strange reason, one that I would no doubt discuss at detailed length with my therapist for years to come, I’d decided that today was the day to cosplay as somebody else. The cool, unbothered, spontaneous girl—she of effortless charm and naturally tousled hair, who somehow managed to look put together even in bouts of chaos.
The kind of girl who laughed easily, drank black coffee without grimacing, and never had to Google things like “how to make small talk without feeling like you’re going to die.”
Guyslovedher.
How could they not? She didn’t stim or overthink or need a sensory break halfway through dinner. She didn’t count the exits in every room she walked into. No, she was mysterious in a way that felt safe and interesting without being too intimidating. Because let’s face it, nothing threatened a man more than an assertive woman.
There was a fine line between confident and cunty, or so I had been told, and it was about as fragile as the thread wrapped around my finger.
Just once, I’d wanted to be like all the other girls who didn’t carry around small sensory survival tools like raccoons with emotional support trinkets.
Wait, I take that back.
Raccoons didn’t deserve that. In fact, when it came to my list of favorite animals—one that has been carefully crafted and archived in the digital folder of spreadsheets that took up most of the storage on my phone—raccoons were second only to bees.
Or maybe manatees. Or—
“Smile a little, yeah?” Jasper whispered, rudely interrupting my musings. He leaned over, close enough for me to get a good whiff of his cologne. It was an aggressive odor, one that probably came with an equally aggressive name likeDominionorPredator. “It’s notyourfuneral.”
I blinked at him. Slowly, purposefully.
He grinned, seemingly proud of himself for his pathetic attempt at humor, though I couldn’t understand why.
“I’m kidding,” he added, a bit too forced, in that way insecure men often did when women didn’t laugh at their jokes. “You’re cute when you get all serious.”
I stared straight ahead at the casket, unsure whether to cry, scream, or try out that right hook my brother had taught me at fifteen. Maybe it was finally time for me to get back into kickboxing classes. At least then I could channel my poor lifechoices into something productive, like uppercutting my way through regret.
