CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
I’m lying in bed on the morning of the service. Bradley is already in his suit, reading quietly from a sheet of paper. The eulogy. I told him it was a bad idea, but he said there was no avoiding it. He works with words every day. Everyone will expect him to speak, and it will be strange if he doesn’t.
“I haven’t got anything to wear.”
“Excuse me?”
“I don’t have anything black I can wear.”
He waves, annoyed, at the wardrobe. “Take one of Grace’s. She has a million.”
“That doesn’t seem right.”
“Come on, Brie. They’re not haunted.” He rubs the bridge of his nose and scans another few lines of his speech. “Honestly, you don’t have to come. I don’t think you’ll be missed.”
“That’s nice.”
He takes his eyes from the paper and gives me a resigned smile. “Sorry, that’s not what I mean. But you barely knew her. I’m serious—no one will care. Just hang out here instead.”
“No,” I say firmly. “I have to go. It’s the right thing to do.”
He raises an eyebrow, then turns his attention back to his speech. I know what he’s thinking. Right and wrong. What’s that got to do with anything at this point?
But I feel compelled to pay my respects. Grace’s death made the newspaper yesterday, but it was buried in the culture section, and today’s paper had nothing. I’d always known her as a famous writer, but she’d only written one book, and must have already faded from public consciousness. Part of me had expected cameras, paparazzi, crazed fans, but that one article is all there is. I search online and find a few people mourning her death on social media, but even that seems performative.
It isn’t enough. I feel insulted on her behalf. Even if she was out to hurt me, Grace deserved more than this.
“I’ll borrow something. As long as no one knows.”
“For the love of Christ,” he mutters. “No one cares about that stuff.”
Grace clearly did, I think, as I search for the right black dress. I find one that isn’t too snug, and complete the outfit with a pair of her tights and flats. By the time I finish my makeup, it’s time to go.
The driveto the church takes over an hour. We don’t talk—we haven’t talked at all, really, since he identified the body. He spent yesterday taking phone calls from family and friends, looking harried. I cooked him lunch and dinner, but he didn’t even sit down to eat.
Once we’re close to the city, he pulls into a gas station to get a snack. He’s being an asshole, but I can put up with it for one more day. Tomorrow, it will all be over. Grace is officially a suicide. Her body will be in the ground. The police will closetheir investigation once and for all. We can start the rest of our lives.
We just need to get through the day.
“I’ve been thinking,” he says, getting back in. “You should get a cab.”
“Excuse me?”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to arrive together. Grace’s family will be there. I don’t want to answer their questions.”
“You gave me this ring,” I say, waving my hand in his face. “Remember? We’re together now.”
“Don’t wear the ring either. And we can’t sit together.”
“Jesus. You really don’t want me to come, do you?”
“I do,” he says. “It just can’t be as a couple. Out of respect.”
He places his hand on my knee, but I swat it away. “Respect! Well, I’m glad you want their respect. Maybe one day I’ll see some of that respect myself.”
“Please, Brie. My mom will be there. I can’t. Not yet.”
“I thought your mom was dead.”
