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PROLOGUE
THEN
NICKY – Age 8
The box containing my mother’s body silently taunts me from the front of the room. I attempt to avoid it, continuously moving around in search of a distraction before settling into an empty row of chairs along the back wall. I pick the one at the end—the farthest corner of the room.
There’s currently enough space between me and my father that no one feels the need to engage with me, and I’m thankful to get a break from the exaggerated show of fake sympathy. None of these people actually care about me, and I’ve had just about all I can take of awkward hugs from people who want to win points with my dad by pretending to comfort me.
I continue to scan the space around me, taking in the various wreaths, bows, and twinkling lights hung about in preparation for the upcoming holidays. I didn’t know funeral homes decorated for Christmas—I guess I never really had a reason to think about it before now—and I know don’t have the best understanding of social norms, but it almost comes across as a cruel joke.
Hey, your mom’s dead! And in case you forgot, here’s a reminder she won’t be with you on Christmas morning!
I don’t know, no one else seems put off by it so maybe I’m reading it wrong. Wouldn’t be the first time.
My attempt to hide away does little to calm my nerves. I still have a clear shot of the casket—the one she’ll be buried in in just a few short hours. It’s ornate, covered in decorative floral carvings. Elegant, but it doesn’t suit her. She’d be annoyed knowing my father spent that kind of money on something she’d consider so impractical.
Money’s never been an issue for my family, but my mom was never one for flaunting it. Overall, we’ve always been a pretty down-to-earth bunch, which is ironic considering the crowd we’re currently surrounded by. I recognize several of the faces here today, seizing the opportunity to use her wake as a networking opportunity rather than a period of mourning.
When you have the kind of money my family does, you’re subjected to a certain level of moral depravity. My parents did their best to shield me from it, but business dealings alone meant we couldn’t block it out entirely. Sometimes rich people just have to interact with other rich people. And a lesson I learned early on? Most rich people are jerks. In that sense, maybe I’m the perfect fit for this world—one where nonsense such as empathy has no place.
In case you haven’t picked up on it by now, I’m not like other children. When you’re telling time by age two and independently reading Harry Potter at four, it’s a safe assumption that something’s a bit off. The summer before I started kindergarten, my parents finally had me tested and, lo and behold, my mother’s suspicions were confirmed. With a whopping 143 IQ, I am officially considered a genius.
My mother always said she knew early on I was special, but I know what she really meant.
Disconnected, withdrawn… odd.
I have feelings. I just don’t allow myself to be controlled by them. Emotions make you irrational.
Aside from riding dirt bikes—which my father’s had me on since I was three—little gets me anywhere close to what I’d consider happy. Even still, that’s simply an adrenaline rush. A surge of epinephrine and dopamine flooding my system, creating feelings of so-called excitement. A chemical reaction eliciting a desirable response.
I took to motocross pretty quickly, one of the main draws being that when you’re on the track, you aren’t relying on the efforts of others. Unlike sports like baseball or football, I don’t need to play nice with others to achieve success.
People? I can take them or leave them—preferably leave them. If I had it my way, I wouldn’t bother with them at all. But my mother refused to allow it.
Last year, my father suggested pulling me from school and hiring private tutors since I’m so much more advanced than kids my age. Mom wouldn’t even entertain the idea. She desperately wanted me to find happiness in things… to connect with others.
But she’s gone now.
My mother was too good for this world. Joy personified, she was beautiful inside and out. From Sunday morning pancakes to Taylor Swift singalongs in the laundry room, she was the glue that held us together. She loved big, hard, and unapologetically, and wanted nothing more than to grow old with my dad.
The women here are her polar opposites. They parade about, showcasing their manufactured bodies that have been tucked, tightened, and suctioned into skintight black dresses. They approach my father, who continues to stand guard at my mother’s side, their presence never registering. He remains unmoving, staring down at her as though he’s trying to will her back to life.
My father’s been on autopilot since she died. The almighty Mitch Conners—self-made business powerhouse who built his recreational vehicle empire from the ground up—reduced to nothing more than a shell of his former self.
My mom’s cancer didn’t just eat away at her. In the eight months between her diagnosis and the day she died, it consumed my father as well, destroying him piece by piece until the day she took her final breath. Small cell carcinoma killed her ten days ago, but I lost both parents that day.
Another Barbie lookalike approaches my father, her fingers gripping his arm under the guise of offering sympathy. I start to feel lightheaded, acutely aware of the sweat beading at my forehead and the nape of my neck. The low murmurs circulating the room mute entirely, leaving only the sound of my own heart pounding in my ears.
No. No. No.
This isn’t my first panic attack. They’ve been a common occurrence in my life, especially before my mother helped teach me to control them. However, this is the first one I’ve had since she died. I’m surprised I made it this long without one, and a small part of me foolishly hoped maybe I’d finally kicked them entirely. But no, unlike my mom, they’re alive and well, and this one’s gearing up to be a monster. My brain blanks out, and it’s suddenly as though everything she taught me flies out the window.
I’m gonna pass out. Bile rises in my throat as I sink further into the chair, hoping the people around me are actually as self-absorbed as I believe them to be and don’t notice.
My fingers curl around the edge of my seat in desperation as I pray to a God I’m fairly certain doesn’t even exist, silently pleading with him to take pity on me if he does. The thought of one of these leeches having a front row seat to my mental check-out only amplifies my anxiety, sending me into a rapid spiral.
Count it down for me, Nicky. I manage to pull my mother’s words to the forefront of my mind.
