One Bride for Five Brothers

Yeah, I couldn’t stand being at my best friend’s funeral and wake for a second more, but I don’t want to talk about that in front of the gentleman that’s here.

“Things ended early,” I say simply.

“Oh honey,” my mom says, swooping in and kissing me on the cheek. “I’m so sorry. How did it go?”

“It was fine,” I answer quickly, dismissively. My mind is churning with thoughts and emotions. I don’t know how they did it, but it was an open casket. Kelsey died in a car crash, and her forehead hit the windshield. I guess the airbag didn’t deploy. But whoever did her makeup restored her to the way she looked when we were fifteen, except peaceful. Clear. She looked different later—kind of cagey, somehow. After a certain point there was a shadow across her face when we hung out that never quite left. I don’t know why it was like that. I figured we just were growing apart.

For me, I tried to hold on too hard, to cling too much to her. But she was my rock for so long that it was difficult to try to get along without my best friend at my side all the time.

It’s hard for me to trust anyone now that she’s gone, and if I’m honest, some part of me didn’t even trust her, though I did follow her.

“Jordan, this is Mr. King,” my mother says too brightly. “He and your father were best friends in college, and now they’re going into business together.” Best friends. Like Kelsey and I were.

“Hello, Mr. King,” I say dutifully. It feels strange that a man my father’s age could be so attractive, and that even on the day of my best friend’s funeral I could feel heat rising in my chest, and tingling in my core.

“We met before, Jordan,” Mr. King says. “But you’ve grown up a lot since then.” There’s an appreciation in his voice that goes just to the edge of what might be flirting, or might just be politeness.

“That’s right!” my mother says, clapping her hands to the sides of her mouth. “You met Jordan when she was a little baby!”

“She was adorable,” he smiles, and his full lips stretch over perfect teeth. “And later too, when she was eleven or twelve? Now she’s a real lady.” His eyes flicker almost imperceptibly over my body. “You must be very proud.”

My mother smiles. “We couldn’t be prouder of Jordan,” she trumpets.

I slip off my heels. I’m not usually so done up, but I had to show my respects and wear heels. “Thanks,” I say. “I’d love to stay and chat, but I really need to change into something more relaxing.”

“I think you still have some clothes in your old room,” my mother says. “Jordan was at her best friend’s funeral today,” she stage-whispers to Mr. King. He looks stricken.

“I’m so sorry,” he says softly. I glance up at him, and there’s genuine compassion in his eyes, but something else as well. What is it?

“That’s okay,” I say inanely, caught in his glance. Of course it’s not okay. But neither is wanting to crawl into this stranger’s arms, and I feel like that as well.

“Go on up and get changed, Jordan honey,” my mother finally says, and I rip my eyes away from Mr. King.

“Yes.” I walk up the carpeted spiral staircase and head to my old room, the path I’ve walked so many times before. In my mind I hear Kelsey’s voice, feel her fingers wrapping around my hand and pulling me along, me falling behind, her urging me on to whatever scheme she wants to pull. I was her sidekick, her security blanket, and without her, I’m completely lost.

I push the door open into my room, and crumple on the bed, still in my dress. It’s so surreal. Kelsey, where are you? Why did you leave me? All those mourners standing around, eating hors d’oeuvres, shifting from foot to foot, spouting platitudes. I wanted to jump up and strike the food out of their hands and yell, “She was only twenty-three! How can you people just stand there! The whole world has changed!”

But it hasn’t, I guess. Not for them.

I saw the same look in the eyes of her mother and her father. The look of being completely lost, bereft of hope. I would have commiserated with them more, but they never really warmed up to me even when we were kids. They weren’t exactly warm people. Their living room was one of those with plastic covering the furniture. It was more of a sitting room that people weren’t allowed to sit in.

Kelsey and I spent most of our time as kids at my house, in this room. As I enter, the smell of it is stifling—the slight mustiness, the memories, the near-presence of Kelsey. The feeling that threw me out of here when I was eighteen mostly on Kelsey’s urging is still egging me to leave.

I stood there at the funeral home with her mother, playing with the napkin I was holding, trying to hide the fact that I was ripping it into tiny shreds. Her mother, clearly uncomfortable and looking everywhere but at me, said that Kelsey left me something in the will, and that I would have to attend the reading. I have no idea what it might be. I know she had some money. I wouldn’t be surprised if she left me a thousand dollars or something. Or maybe it will be like one of those soap operas and I’ll get a video of her talking. That would be spooky.

“Jordan, if you’re watching this, I’m dead now.” I shudder at the thought. But part of me is still curious as to what she might want to give me on the occasion of her death.

Whatever. A will is the last thing I want to be thinking about right now. It’s been too much, thinking of Kelsey all day, thinking of her dying, of me being left alone. I feel hopeless at facing life witho

ut her.

When she was still alive, I never faced the fact that I relied on her too much. I just put it up to being best friends. But I was always more dependent on her than she on me.

It’s too much to think about.

I reach up and undo the hook and pull down the zipper of my black dress, then strip it off. It’s funny—sometimes I have the odd feeling that I’m being watched when I undress, but not here in my old home. Must be a little quirk I have. Still, something inside me feels like putting on a show. And for Mr. King, too.

I imagine his eyes on me as I raise one foot onto my childhood bed and peel off my black pantyhose. I shimmy out of the other leg, and then slowly pull down the black thong I was wearing, not to be sexy, but to avoid panty lines. It catches between my legs and sticks for a second, probably because of the wetness that slicked my folds when Mr. King touched me.