Page 13 of Play Nice

Woof, she responded. Maybe he just wants you to think he’s cool.

I replied with a broken heart emoji.

The drive from Jersey to Connecticut was about two and a half hours. Tommy insisted we leave early in case of traffic, which we didn’t encounter, probably because we left so early. We arrived forty-five minutes before the start of the service, so we found a spot in town to get coffee and muffins. Now we sit at a small corner table, eavesdropping on the locals and waiting for our too-hot coffee to cool enough that it won’t burn our tongues.

“How are you feeling?” he asks me as I decapitate my cinnamon muffin, streusel crumbling everywhere.

“I’m not going to cry, if that’s what you’re worried about,” I say.

“I’m not worried about that. It’s okay to show emotion,” he says. “To be sad.”

“I know. I don’t cry when I’m sad. I only cry when I want something.” I wink at him as I take a bite of my muffin. It’s a little stale.

“Leda doesn’t cry either,” he says, frowning.

“She did when we were kids, but only in private. She’s too proud.”

His frown deepens, the corners of his mouth practically dripping off his face. He pushes his glasses up his nose. “I’m glad we’re doing this. I wish Leda were here. And Daphne. I think it’s the right thing.”

“Thank you, Tommy. I appreciate you saying that. And for coming with me.” I wipe my muffin fingers on a napkin and raise my coffee cup to him. I take a cautious sip. “Ooh. Good coffee. Thank God.”

“Leda got me a Nespresso for my birthday,” he says, then proceeds to tell me all about it with such enthusiasm that I’m tempted to record him so I can watch this whenever I want to experience joy again. After he finishes waxing poetic about the process of frothing milk, I excuse myself to go to the bathroom.

I stare at myself in the mirror, brush muffin crumbs off my prized thrifted black Prada minidress. Of everything I packed, it seemed the most appropriate for the occasion, with a modest neckline and flared hem. It wasn’t worth the fuss to badger Leda to ask Aunt Helen about the dress code for the funeral, or to reach out to Helen myself, and while I’m skeptical it’ll be a traditional black attire affair, I figured better safe than sorry. Black Prada dress, black Prada loafers, sheer black stockings, my black cashmere cardigan with the mismatched gold buttons that I got at the Brooklyn Flea for ten bucks, sewed on myself. Black velvet headband. Small, chunky gold hoops, my lucky dice studs, my white gold snake charm necklace that I’ve become inexplicably, incredibly attached to sometime in the last few days.

My reflection betrays what I’m feeling—nothing. No nerves, no sadness. Maybe that will change once we get there, to the place where the service is being held, or maybe it never will. Maybe there’s no right way to mourn someone who hasn’t been in my life for eighteen years.

Of my sisters, I look the most like her. The olive complexion, big dark eyes. The same bone structure, the high cheekbones. The thick arched brows. The long curly hair, inky black. My nose and lips aren’t hers, but they come from her side. That’s why she loved me most, I think. I bear no resemblance to Dad. She could look at me and see none of him. Not have to be reminded of the man who hurt her.

I turn away from the mirror, turn on the faucet, examine my hands as I lather and rinse them clean. I tear off a paper towel and use it to touch the knob, open the door.

When I return to the table, Tommy isn’t there. He’s by the door, waiting.

“Ready?” he asks.

“As I’ll ever be.”

—

“Is this a funeral home or does someone live here?” I ask as we pull up to a stunning gray-and-white Victorian, the grandest on the street. It looks like a giant dollhouse. The kind of house someone would assume is haunted. Though, according to my mother, any house can be haunted, not just the old pretty ones. A demon will move into a split-level on a cul-de-sac. I mean, in this market, mortgage rates being what they are, I’m sure they take what they can get.

“Don’t park on the driveway, we’ll get boxed in,” I tell Tommy. “Park on the street.”

Thus begins the ordeal of finding a spot, of Tommy attempting to parallel park.

“How’d I do?” he asks, craning his neck.

“You’re good,” I say, even though he’s crooked. I unbuckle my seat belt. “Good enough, Tommy.”

“Let me straighten out,” he insists.

It’s another fifteen minutes before we’re finally out of the car and walking up the pathway toward the house. There’s a sign that hangs from the porch, and I expect it to say, “Insert Name Here Family Funeral Home,” or whatever, but it reads, Welcome Spirits.

My chest tightens, heart pounds, and I regret the coffee, the caffeine an enemy inside my body, inducing a jitteriness that I wish I could be rid of. I shake out my limbs, pull my hair to one side, and hold it up off my neck.

“Cashmere was the wrong call,” I say. “Why is it this hot in Connecticut?”

“It’s normal to be a little nervous, Clio,” Tommy says, offering a hand to help me up the front steps.