But what choice do I have?
“I think we should stay, Celeste. There’s something I need to tell you. And it’s big.”
chapter 7
Celeste
“There’s something I need to tell you. And it’s big.”
I stare at Saylor. The courtyard is quiet around us except for the rhythmic whoosh of the ocean waves, cresting and breaking. I watch his face cycle through something I can’t quite read. He’s not nervous, exactly. He’s careful. Choosing his words the way I choose fabric—feeling the weight of each option before committing.
My mind does what it always does: races ahead to the worst possible scenarios and ranks them by devastation level.
Eleanor said something to him. Cornered him during the service and told him I’m unstable, dramatic, not worth the trouble. Handed him a check to disappear or worse, out me as a desperate old lady who hired an escort for a funeral.
Perhaps he’s quitting. The day has been too much between the crying, the panic attack, the speech, the full-body clinging on a stage in front of two hundred strangers. Maybe he’s decided this isn’t worth what he’s getting paid.
That last thought hits differently than it should. Sharp and low, like a paper cut in a place you didn’t know could bleed. I’veknown this man for less than a day. The fact that losing him already feels like something worth fearing is a problem I’ll need to address later, likely with my therapist and a very large glass of wine.
Saylor glances back toward the building. Through the windows I can see the dinner setup taking shape—long tables draped in white linen, more hydrangeas, silver candelabras. Eleanor’s staff moving with military precision. A butlered dinner. At a funeral. Because apparently we’ve run out of ways to avoid actually grieving, so we’re going to sit down and eat a five-course meal while a string quartet plays pretentious classical music, and everyone pretends this is normal.
Nothing about this is normal. Nothing about this feels okay.
“Not here,” Saylor says, to my great relief. He turns back to me and his expression settles into something resolute. “Would you be open to leaving early? Eating somewhere that doesn’t serve champagne and truffle brie?”
I look at the estate hall. I look at the ocean. I look at the man standing in front of me in the suit I picked out, asking me to leave my best friend’s funeral to go grab a bite like we’ve known each other for years.
“Promise me something.”
He nods, unbothered. Unintimidated. As if he’s been waiting to make this promise all day.
“If I die,” I say, “you are personally responsible for ensuring there is no catered, black-tie dinner at my service. No hydrangeas. No string quartet. No pomegranate sorbet.”
“What do you want instead?”
“Potluck. Crock-Pots. Paper plates. That awful-looking seven-layer dip from the grocery store with the avocado layer that’s neon green. No one here will admit, but that stuff is delicious. I want warmth, love, and people telling stories, andabsolutely none of—” I gesture at the building behind us. “None of whatever this is.”
Saylor’s mouth curves. “Sure, Celeste. I’ve got you. Potluck, cheap dip, and casual attire. I’ll show up in socks and sandals, just to show you how committed I am.”
Despite myself, despite today…I smile. “Thank you. How about you? How can I give you the funeral of your dreams?”
He points to his chest. “Oh me? No, I don’t plan on dying. I would like something in exchange though.”
“What do you want then?”
His gaze sweeps over my lips. “Obviously not this weekend, but when you’re ready, could I see you again? Outside of work, I mean.”
“For what?”
His eyes lift to the sky, then drop back down. “To discuss your funeral arrangements in more detail, obviously.”
“Obviously,” I echo, still not understanding. “Wait…what?”
“Celeste, this is me, asking you out…at the most inappropriate time and location possible. But clearly, I love a challenge.”
“A challenge?” I erupt with laughter—the kind that starts deep in your belly and takes over your whole body. Even as I watch Saylor’s face crumple with dismay, I can’t rein it in. The sound keeps spilling out of me, beyond my control. Rising to my tiptoes, I place my hands on his shoulders, placing a quick kiss on his smooth cheek.
I get a faint whiff of his aftershave and visions of bright lightning striking the ocean at sunset come to mind. This is how creativity approaches me. It’s a dance that starts with an invitation—a visual, smell, a taste. It’s really the only superpower I have as a designer. My brain loves to set a scene. My Willow line was inspired by the cattails in bloom in a scorching summer, the dandelion debris floating through theair like snow on a sunny day. My Scarlett line was inspired by a London rainstorm at night. Thick, angry droplets pummeling into the ground, exploding like grenades. That line was all dark hues, sharp, sexy angles, leather mixed with lace. I’m used to the visuals, but this is odd. Never once has inspiration started with this—a small, innocent kiss to the cheek.
