I rush down from the platform, forgoing the steps altogether in my haste to escape. With tears streaming, I race down the aisle and through the parlor doors into the parking lot. The service isn’t finished, but I can’t bear to spend another second inside of the chapel.
The humidity outside is thick, as if the loss coating my insides is so great that even the air feels weighted with it. I wrap my arms tightly around my middle as I suck in a greedy lungful of air, trying with all my might to exhale even a fraction of my pain.
It’s no use, though.
My cries turn to heaving sobs as I break down in the middle of the funeral home parking lot, for God and everyone who might happen by to see. Uncaring of the show I may be putting on, I purge myself of the anger, sadness, uncertainty, and fear until all that’s left is a heaping pile of sorrowful resentment.
I’m so caught up in my grief that when a strong hand comes down on my shoulder, I nearly fall over.
“Seraphine.”
Mateo Reyes.
As it always has, the way my name rolls off of his tongue sends a little jolt of inappropriate excitement through me. As a friend of my father and sixteen years my senior, he’s well off-limits. Regardless, my heart never got the memo and always beats a little harder anytime he’s near.
“Turn around.” The barest amount of pressure to my shoulder accompanies the command, and I pivot to face him, inwardly cringing at the picture I must paint after breaking down so thoroughly.
I try to keep my eyes low, but Mateo’s not having it. “Look at me,” he says, skimming the knuckle of his index finger down the line of my jaw to lift my gaze to his. “Keep your chin up, mariposita. He wouldn’t like to see your tears.”
“Then maybe he should be here.” I sound like a little snot, but I can’t bring myself to care. Because I mean it—if my dad didn’t want my tears, maybe he shouldn’t have killed himself.
He gives me a long look, his deep chocolate eyes twinkling with the kind of knowledge that only comes with experience and age. “Death hurts. Like a motherfucker. You can either let the pain cripple you or you can own it.” He skims his knuckles back up my jaw and whispers, “Te esperan dias mejores.” He drags his eyes over me once more before abruptly turning and walking away.
My eyes stay glued to him as he retreats back into the funeral home, all the while wondering what made him come after me and what the hell he just said.* * *The morning after Dad’s funeral dawns bright and sunny. The birds are chirping, and there’s not a cloud in the sky. The temperature is perfectly mild, and there’s a nice breeze in the air.
It’s the perfect fall day, and it makes me want to rage. To kick, scream, and cry. To destroy all of the good and pretty things, to raze it all to the ground until nothing but charred ash remains.
I want the earth around me to match my pain, not to torment me with its beauty. I want the sky to weep right along with me.
However, the universe does not share my grief, and while I’m a little self-destructive, I have no plans to destroy anything other than Dad’s leftover beer in the fridge.
My cell rings right as I pop the top on the can. “Hey, Myles,” I say before gulping back a sip.
“Hey, girl. How are you?”
I take another healthy swallow before replying. “Tired. Sad. Angry. All of the above.” I should probably try to be a little more professional, but I’m hoping she’s calling as a friend right now, instead of as my boss. And if not, here’s to hoping she’ll give me a little grace, under the circumstances.
“I’m truly sorry for your loss, Seraphine. Your daddy was a good man, and those who knew him will miss him thoroughly.”
“Yeah.” I croak out the single word as my sadness lodges in my throat.
“Anyway, I was calling to tell you, if you need to take some time off, we understand.”
“No!” I spit the word out in a panic. The thought of sitting here, staring at our home without him in it, is too much to bear. “I’ll be there Tuesday when we open.”
“Are you sure?”
I chug back the rest of the can and open another. “Mmhmm,” I mumble around a mouthful of the hoppy liquid.
“Okay. Well, I’ll see you Tuesday then.” She sounds unsure, but luckily, she doesn’t call me on it. Probably because, like me, she was raised by a single parent, too. In her case, it was her grandmother after her mama abandoned her. Either way, I’m thankful she doesn’t question me.