In between muttering curses at the funeral home’s abysmal Wi-Fi, I consider if hiding in a supply closet to work during my brother’s wake makes me a terrible sister.
“Well, you didn’t want a funeral anyway, did you?” I whisper to the shelves of cleaning products, as if Josh is a ghost, invisibly sitting next to the bottles of lemon-scented floor polish. “You wanted us to rent a booze cruise and smash piñatas with your face on them.”
My brother couldn’t stand somberness. He was the funny one. A natural comedian who could take the darkest moment and make a joke that would have you laughing while the world around you was a shit show.
Like right now. If only he was here.
But if Josh was here, then there’d be no need for an over-the-top mourning ritual he never asked for.
If there is an afterlife where he’s floating around, Josh is dying all over again, but this time from laughter, watching me sit on a half-empty box of toilet paper rolls as I try to put out a digital fire at work, all while wearing itchy tights I scratched so hard that I tore a hole in the left ass cheek.
“You’re welcome,” I say to my laptop as my updated report finally sends, not sure if I’m talking to my boss on the other side of the country or to the specter of my brother. Probably both.
And just when I’m sure I’ve gotten away with my sneaky errand and can rejoin the crowd of mourners filling the building, the closet door opens.
I squeak in surprise at the sudden intrusion and lean back, which is a mistake because that puts my butt on the empty half of the box. The cardboard lid collapses inward, taking me with it. I fold at the waist, laptop smashing against my chest, pantyhose-covered legs shooting straight up in the air.
This day got worse. I didn’t think that was possible.
“Shit. Maddie.” A deep voice says my name with too much familiarity. “Are you okay?”
No. No, I am not okay.
There is an endless list of reasons why I am the furthest possible thing from okay.
Top of the list: my brother, the person I love—loved—most in the world, is gone only three months before his thirtieth birthday.
But the reason I’m not okay in this particular moment is because the person asking after my well-being is the man who did an impressively thorough job of breaking my heart.
Dominic Perry.
Josh’s best friend, and someone I was hoping to avoid for the rest of my life.
But that’s hard to do when the man steps in close, reaching out his hands to help me unwedge myself from my bath tissue prison.
And of course, he looks like a heartthrob in shining armor as he comes to my aid. Dom has been devastatingly handsome ever since his face caught up with the long slope of his nose. Chiseled jaw, warm brown eyes that trick naive nerdy girls into trusting him, and black hair that swoops in an infuriatingly perfect wave over his pale forehead and around ears that stick out just far enough to be charming.
Today, he’s dressed in a black suit that hugs his body.
Shouldn’t funeral suits be ill-fitting? My theory is grief is supposed to make your clothes sag and bunch in all the wrong places. That’s the excuse I’m using for the blockish, weirdly clinging dress I found in the back of my closet.
“I’m lovely. Seriously. Living the dream down here.” I attempt to lift myself with the sheer strength of my embarrassment.
Doesn’t work. All I manage to do is flip my hair into my face, reminding me that I spent all morning heating and spraying it to get my brown strands to curl half as well as Dom’s do naturally. But I could comb super glue into the shoulder-length mass and still end the day with only a half-hearted wave left.
“Here.” Strong hands grasp my elbows and pull me to stand with ease.
When I have my feet under me, I shove my hair out of my eyes and shuffle to the side, away from his broad chest and the scent of some mystery cologne that has me thinking of frosty cedar-filled forests where men in flannel go to chop wood just for the hell of it.
I could sell tickets to a place like that. Retire at the ripe age of twenty-six.
Breathing through my mouth, I search for the black heels I kicked off the moment I was alone, because they pinch my toes the way grief shoes should.
“What are you doing in here?” Dom asks, his voice a raspy rumble that gives me chills.
“Plotting world domination, obviously. Josh was supposed to handle the foreign policy, but now he’s left me with double the workload. Rude of him. I plan on filing a complaint.”
Did I mention inappropriately timed humor runs in the family?
Arguably, hiding myself in a closet is in everyone’s best interest. These strangers want to watch me cry prettily. (But is that even physically possible? Who can have saltwater leaking out of their eyes and not look like a flushed, snotty mess?) No one came to this depression parade to hear my morbid sarcasm about my dead brother.
This whole funeral was my mother’s requirement. Cecilia Sanderson needed the pomp and circumstance of tradition to mourn the son she never spent much time loving while he was alive. Some of the throng outside this closet are Josh’s friends, but most people are here because of her and the articles she’s been writing and posts she’s been curating about her son’s inspiring yearlong battle against cancer. His death tripled her followers.
Somehow, I’ve ended up alone in a closet with the only person I want to avoid more than my selfie-obsessed mother.
“Noted,” Dom says, taking my ridiculous statement in stride. He looms over me. “I was looking for—”
“For some toilet paper?” I cut him off. “You found the right place. Don’t be ashamed. I hear grief often causes diarrhea. I’ll let everyone know you’re indisposed.” Taunting him is the best way to distract myself from how my body reacts to his proximity. Going hot, then cold, then tingly and tight.
Like getting a disease. Dom is infectious.
He’s also immune to me and my verbal barbs.
“Thanks for that,” he deadpans, then his voice softens. “How are you doing?” Dom crosses his arms as he stares down at me. I can see his chin tilt and feel the weight of his eyes on my face. There’s an air of demand in his posture, as if he expects me to answer with a thorough outline of my emotional state.
Dominic Perry is used to taking control of a situation.
This room—which was too tiny before he shoved his way in—now feels like his more than mine. The space is claustrophobic enough for my fingers to stretch for my inhaler. I shimmy around him, needing out. Needing to breathe air that’s not infused with his essence.
“Spectacular. Like I’m the only survivor at the end of a slasher movie.” In an effort to ignore the overpowering man, I check my laptop, making sure nothing got damaged on my short trip into the toilet paper box. Everything seems in working order. I close the computer, slip it into the padded pocket of my bag, and sling the strap over my shoulder as I reach the door.
All the while, Dom turns with me, tracking my every movement.
“I know it’s been a while, but I’m here for you.” His voice rasps over my nerves, leaving me raw and my fingers cold as they grasp the doorknob. “You can talk to me.”
Been a while.
That’s one way to refer to the night we spent together, and the day after where he…
Don’t think about that.
I might finally start crying if I do. And if any tears come out of my eyes today, they better be for Josh and not some asshole who regretted me.
“That’s so sweet of you, but I’m good.” I shove out of the suffocating closet. “Got a few other one-night stands I like to call for deep, emotional conversations. You’re low on the list.”
Leaving him, I stalk down the hallway, toward the sounds of a gathering I do not want to join. But uncomfortable chatter with strangers is better than spending another minute in an enclosed space with bad memories personified.
If anyone at my day job heard the way I just spoke to Dom, they’d think I got bit by a bitchy zombie. But I don’t care. No way in hell or any other dimension will I ever be vulnerable for that man again.
Younger Maddie had a different mindset.
There was a time I would’ve done anything to claim the smallest sliver of Dominic Perry’s attention. He was the star of all my teenage fantasies. The guy I imagined would someday see me as more than his best friend’s kid sister.
When I was nineteen, my dream came true.
But it quickly turned into a nightmare that sent me packing, escaping to the other side of the country just so I never had to see his handsome, heartbreaking face again.
Avoiding the thick crowd of unfamiliar attendees, I slow at a table covered in framed photos of my brother. There’s so many. A few are of him and me. But a lot are of Josh with friends. Josh in beautiful locations. Josh on adventures. Josh traveling. Always smiling.
Always leaving.
The table is like a fun-house mirror of all the times he went so far and I didn’t see him for so long.
I left, too. The absences weren’t all his fault.
Now I’ll never see him again.
“Maddie.”
Dom followed me, and I hate how good my name sounds in his rumbling voice.
“Dominic.” I pitch my voice low, mocking his deep delivery. There’s no need to turn and face him when he casts a heavy gloom around me like I’ve stepped into the shadow of a mountain. “I told you, I’m peachy. Go pretend to care about someone else.”
“I’m the executor of Josh’s will.”
The words take a moment to register. Mainly because I don’t know what an executor is.
“What?” Unable to fight the urge, I glare up at the unfortunately tall bane of my existence.
“He named me executor,” Dom repeats, and I still don’t know what that means, which infuriates me. “There are items he wanted given to family”—he waves at me like maybe I forgot Josh was my blood—“and close friends. Since we’re all here, I reserved a small room for everyone to meet. I’ll distribute everything.”
“Wait,” I snap. “Wait wait wait.” My hands wave in the air as I try to shut him up before he says more things that piss me off. “That’s supposed to be, like, a lawyer’s job.”
Dom watches me, expression revealing nothing. “Executors don’t have to be lawyers. You can assign anyone.”
From his tone, I get a silent—judgmental—question. You don’t have all your affairs perfectly in order for the day that you die, Maddie?
No, I don’t. Because I’m a normal fucking twenty-six-year-old.
“And Josh chose…you.”
My brother chose Dominic Perry, Mr. Responsible Asshole, for this special postdeath job over me.
His sister.
Are you kidding me, Josh?
We weren’t some estranged siblings that barely knew each other. We were close. We talked on the phone every week, even if he was on the opposite side of the world from me. We had enough inside jokes to fill a small-town public library.
When Josh told me about his diagnosis, he cried, and I cried, and we hugged and lied to each other that he would kick cancer’s ass.
But when he needed a fancy official executor, Josh chose Dom.
I glare at the cluster of Joshes framed on the table, imagining my brother laughing at my frustration.
“I have something for you. From him.” Dom steps back as he says the words, knowing the siren song he’s singing to me.
Something from Josh. Even if my brother left it in the care of the man I hate most in the world, I must have the mystery item. I’m tempted to snarl Give it! and make grabby hands, but I have some sense of pride.
Just a little bit.
“Fine,” I snap. “I’ll come to your special executor room.”
The man nods and leads the way. At least this gets me far from the crush of strangers again.
Although, if I’m going to a room with family, that must mean—
“Madeline!” My mother’s voice sounds the moment I step through the doorway. “Oh, Madeline. There you are.” She strolls up to me, looking red-carpet ready in her all-black suit and heels. In an effortless move, she scoops me up into a hug. Almost as if she’s been doing it my whole life.
She hasn’t. I can count the times Cecilia Sanderson hugged me on my fingers and still have a few left over.
“Mom.” After an awkward pat on her back, I let my arms drop.
She sets me down and smooths her hands over my hair. “Here, we need to remember moments like this.”
Before I realize what she’s doing, Mom has her phone up, my head clutched against her breast, and the camera clicking. There’s no time to say this is a day I hope I forget through an overindulgence in gin tonight.
Mom releases me so suddenly that I stumble back a step. Not that she notices, too focused on her screen, working on some social post or another about the grieving mother and the surviving daughter she loves oh so much.
A firm press on my lower back steadies me. Glancing to the side, I realize Dom has braced me, but before I can hiss at him, he steps away and strides past without a word.
“Black is not your color,” Cecilia murmurs, distracting me.
Would you believe that’s only mildly hurtful compared to other comments she’s doled out over the course of my life?
“Thanks, Mom. Appreciate the feedback.” I could put in the effort to say, Hey, Mom, maybe don’t insult your daughter when she’s only wearing black to mourn her dead brother.
But then I would get an eye roll followed by the claim that I’m being dramatic, which would then lead to a useless back-and-forth that would change nothing about the way she talks to me. If Josh dying wasn’t enough to have Cecilia reevaluating how she treats her remaining kid, what hope do I have?
Another woman strolls up to us, sipping from a martini glass. I welcome her appearance only because I now know there is a bar somewhere.
“Hi, Aunt Florence,” I greet her. She’s not actually my aunt. Florence is Cecilia’s mother, my grandmother, and the woman who technically raised me, though there wasn’t a lot of child-rearing going on at the time. Mainly, she made rules, and if she caught Josh or me not following them, we got locked out of the house until we shouted enough apologies through the window to earn reentry.
“Madeline. How is Seattle?” Florence narrows her eyes, studying my face. “I know it’s rainy, but do you ever go out in the sun? You’ll never find a man with you looking so washed out.”
Shot number two for the day. Three if we count Dom finding me floundering in a box of paper products.
“You know, I think we do get some sun. I’ll have to look into that. Wouldn’t want people thinking I’m the corpse.” No point in arguing that they’re both as pale as me and that we have the kind of skin that burns rather than tans—when I go outside, I wear hats and a thick coat of sunscreen.
She grimaces at my comparison.
Luckily, when I glance past my two blood relatives, I discover a collection of welcome faces. I dodge around my mother, straight into the embrace of the woman I wish had given birth to me.
“Maddie! Oh, Maddie. I’m sorry.” Emilia Perry, Dom’s mom, pulls me in for a tight hug. This embrace has every bit of generous caring that my mother’s lacked. “I can’t even…I don’t know what to say.” She holds me close, her arms strong, body soft, ink-colored hair smelling of vanilla.
“That’s okay.” I’m not normally a hugger, but I hold Emilia close, feeling a pressure behind my eyes, but no corresponding wetness.
What’s wrong with me? Why haven’t I cried?
It’s been a week since the doctors pronounced Josh as dead, but I haven’t shed a tear.
Maybe I’m as cold as my mother and grandmother. I always thought I was different from them. That I broke away from their mold.
But maybe I’ve been fooling myself.
“Oh goodness. Look at me.” Emilia releases her hold and tugs a tissue from her pocket to dab her cheeks. “Mr. Perry wanted to be here, but he was called in for an emergency surgery. He sends his love.”
Nathanial Perry works as a neurologist at the local hospital, while Emilia is the outreach director for a green-energy nonprofit. Or at least, that’s what they used to do. It’s been a while since we talked.
“Anything you need,” she continues. “Just say the word. Josh was family. You’re family.”
Am I?
An ache in my chest has me rubbing my sternum.
“Thank you,” I murmur.
“You’re like family,” a cheerful voice clarifies, and I glance over to meet a set of playful brown eyes in a face that looks similar to—but not exactly the same as—the man I hate. “Keep in mind that we’re not actually related. So…like…dating wouldn’t be weird. You know?” The guy gives me a wide, devastating grin.
Adam Perry. Standing next to his equally handsome twin brother, Carter. Dom’s younger siblings—who I remember last as two scrawny thirteen-year-olds—tower over me and their mother, both looking like they belong on an Olympic swim team next to the likes of Michael Phelps.
“Last time I saw you, you couldn’t drive,” I remind him.
“Yeah, but I’m all grown-up now. I can take you anywhere you wanna go.” He waggles his eyebrows, and Carter snorts.
“Are you hitting on me at my brother’s funeral?”
Adam’s flirty smirk falls away. “Oh shit. Sorry. That was insensitive.”
“No. It’s okay.” I reach out and pat his chest. The guy put on a lot of muscle in the last seven years. “You were doing great. Keep going.”
His face lights up like the time I gave him all the Kit Kats from my Halloween candy haul. “Really? Okay. You remember that purple bikini you wore—”
“No.” The word, spoken in a deep, unrelenting voice, cuts off Adam’s flattery.
I almost forgot Dom was in the room. Okay…that’s a lie. But when he wasn’t talking, I found it easier to pretend.
Adam pouts, staring over my shoulder. “What? I was going to compliment Maddie.”
“Not like that,” Dom growls from behind me, and I suppress a shudder, hating that every cell in my being wants to turn and examine the expression on his face.
I keep my attention on Adam.
“I want to hear the compliment,” I say. Would be nice to get a confidence boost after the mom and grandma treatment.
Adam’s smile returns, pairing with a too-innocent expression. “Thank you, Maddie. I was very respectfully going to say that the purple bikini”—he pauses, waiting for his older brother to cut him off again. Dom stays silent, so Adam continues, speaking fast—“had your tits looking fantastic and played a starring role in my teenage spank bank.”
“Adam!” Mrs. Perry gasps while Carter coughs into his fist and Dom lets out a snarl, his body coming into view on my left side as he charges for his brother.
But I make it there first.
I fling my arms around Adam’s neck, and the big man lifts me up in a crushing embrace.
“Thank you,” I mutter into his neck. “I needed that.”
“Anytime.” He lowers his voice to match mine. “If you need to relax, come find me. I got some pot I can share. High-quality stuff. Only the best for Maddie Sanderson.”
When he sets me on the ground, I find myself doing something I did not expect to do today.
I laugh.
The idea that Dom has tried his hardest to exert control over his wayward brothers—a task he’s had since he was nine—but one still managed to sneak weed into a funeral brings me an immense amount of joy.
“You really know how to woo a lady.” I chuckle. “Thanks for the generous offer.”
Dom scowls between the two of us, unaware of what, exactly, his little brother just whispered in my ear.
Well, isn’t he lucky to have a living brother to be pissed at. The thought reminds me of my own anger, my loss, and the reason I let Dom drag me to this room.
“You said something about executing,” I prompt him, trying not to let my fury at his role show in my voice.
Dom lingers a moment more before striding over to a table and picking up an accordion folder. He undoes the tie, keeping the flap closed as he speaks to the small gathering. “Josh’s will stated there are letters in here for everyone in this room.”
A letter. My palms sweat and my heart races and I envision my brother’s specter again, ready to chat with me postmortem. That’s all I want. More time with him.
Dom pulls out envelopes one by one, reading out the names. “Cecilia Sanderson. Florence Sanderson. Mom—looks like this is for you and Dad. Carter. Adam.”
Me me me. Say my name. Give me the letter!
“Rosaline.”
I flinch and jerk my chin to the side in time to see the woman step forward and accept her piece of my brother. With her bronze curls pinned in a high bun away from her cheeks, I have a clear view of the tears cascading from her thick-lashed eyes. Well, there’s someone who cries pretty. Rosaline even makes grief look beautiful.
I didn’t realize she was in the room, but I should’ve known.
Of course Dom’s wife would be here.
Dominic and Rosaline Perry. The picture-perfect couple, and Josh’s two best friends.
Another time, I would fall into a painful spiral of comparing myself to the gorgeous woman Dom chose over me. But today I have something more important to focus on.
My letter.
Give me my letter.
“There’s only one more,” Dom murmurs, and I can’t help an evil smirk.
Mr. Responsible Asshole got to execute the will but didn’t warrant a bonus note.
Who does Josh love the most now, huh? I bite my lip to stifle the taunt, wanting to keep from revealing the bitchy zombie in my soul to the Perry family members I like.
Dom pulls out the thickest so far, one of those legal-sized envelopes that need an extra metal clasp to keep the flap shut.
“Hand it over.” I reach for the parcel, rabid for whatever bit of Josh is contained within.
“It’s not yours.” Dom stares at the final parcel, his thick brows scrunching.
“What?” My single-word question spears through the room, sharp and cold as an icicle flung like a dagger. Everyone pauses in the act of tearing open their envelopes.
I couldn’t have heard him right.
No. No no no.
Josh loved playing games, but never cruel ones. My brother wouldn’t leave last words for everyone but me.
Dom’s eyes meet mine, his gone wide with a surprise he rarely allows on his stoic face.
What could have rattled Mr. Responsible Asshole?
“It’s ours,” he says.
Dom turns the envelope to show the devastatingly familiar penmanship. Josh wrote those letters with his own hand. He might as well have been writing a horror novel once I comprehend what the thick Sharpie scrawl says.
Maddie & Dom