AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Is everything okay?” he asks, his gaze piercing right through me as I swallow hard and nod, hoping he won’t see through the lie. A bitter taste settles on my tongue as we stare one another down for a moment, neither of us willing to just say the words on our minds.
Finally, he shrugs his shoulders. “If you say so.” With that, he turns to go, the bell chiming once more as he leaves me alone in the quiet of my flower shop.
Running my hands up my chilled arms from elbows to shoulders, I scan the comforting sights of this place I’ve worked so hard to build up since May had to stop working so many hours. But now the space feels tainted, overrun by a ghost of a past love I thought would leave me alone for good.
I’m glad his future doesn’t include me. I don’t think I could survive another round of the whiplash he gives me every time we see one another.
As I take a moment to collect myself, I refuse to acknowledge or name the emotions boiling within me. They don’t deserve recognition. Or maybe he doesn’t. I’m not sure which, but I’m mad. Big mad.
With an exhale and a whole lot of determination crowding my mind, I set my jaw and focus on the sunflowers. No matter what games he wants to play, I’m too busy to take part in them. After all, he can’t ruin my life if I don’t let him.
Chapter Three
Fredrick
I open the door to the church, wondering if I’m about to burst into flame. The heavy church doors groan as I pull them open, and it echoes quietly through the room. But not quietly enough to escape notice.
Banishing my wry smile that’s inappropriate for any funeral, much less my father’s, I watch a sea of faces turn to look in my direction. Heads quickly duck together as an outbreak of whispers rush through the congregation. Disapproving eyes dart my direction, but I don’t give a damn.
My mother, clad in black clothing and heavy sorrow, turns to look at me. Together, we glance at the spot beside her, both of us aware that’s where I should be, rather, where I should have been before the funeral started. When I stay frozen in place, she lowers her head to her palm as if too embarrassed to even watch as the pastor stares at me.
I lean against the doorway, gesturing my index finger in a circular motion to indicate he should keep talking as the gray skies pretend to echo the mournfulness of the day. Colored light filters down on me from the stained-glass windows above, and I relax in the cold light and air rushing past me into the room, disturbing candles and Bible pages.
Bibles. Church. A pastor. My father was never religious, but maybe that bastard had decided to find a way to slip into heaven with some backdoor loophole. He sure as hell didn’t earn his way in.
The pastor begins talking once more and I tune out the words, opting instead to survey the crowd. The pews are packed shoulder to shoulder with only a few empty spaces. There are too many people paying respects to a man who’d cared for so few in his lifetime.
Internally, I wonder what the real reason for all these people showing up is. My gaze skims over the floral arrangement, the careful handiwork and eye for detail unmistakable. I wonder how much they paid Lila for flowers that seem too bright for such a somber occasion. From across the church, I can almost smell her shop on them, hear her voice as she dropped them off and paid her respects, see her eyes filled with pity for our so-called loss. I mean, my mother certainly must feel she’s lost the only thing that she ever loved, besides herself.
“His presence was like a steady tree under which his loved ones found shelter, his love the roots that held them firm no matter how fiercely the winds of life blew.” The pastor seems almost choked, and I want to choke for a very different reason.
Those words did not describe my father.
“He was a man of few words, but each one he spoke took hold like a seed destined to grow into wisdom within those whose lives he touched. He taught his only son the value of hard work, not through lectures, but through calluses on his hands and sweat on his brow.” The pastor glances directly at me as he speaks, and I want to squirm.
Why were they blatantly telling lies? The only thing my dear old dad taught me was never to rely on anyone, because the people who are supposed to love you will let you down. He didn’t give me seeds of wisdom that grew into trees, that jerk gave me PTSD and poor coping mechanisms.
The pastor turns his attention to my mother, who smiles through her tears as she studies the casket my father rests in. “He showed everyone the meaning of commitment, not just in the vows he shared with his wonderful, devoted wife, but in the countless ways he put his family first.”
I want to walk out. Just leave and let them keep up this fantasy they’d conjured up. As the service drags on, I laugh to myself. This is proof positive I can be as awful as I want in this life - they’ll still say nice things about me after I die.
There was nothing warm or loving about my father or my mother. I spent holidays alone while they traveled the globe, visiting vacation destinations without the burden of their son bothering them. But they’d sent me postcards, so I should be grateful, as if that didn’t leave an echo of indifference about how little they cared. I was supposed to be grateful, always.
So, when the pastor continues to paint a picture of a generous, loving father and husband, my mind wants to scream out that it’s all bullshit.
Memories claw their way up my throat, threatening to spring forth in front of all these strangers, and I swallow hard to keep them trapped where they belong. Down deep where I never have to face them. But those memories aren’t the only ghosts haunting me today.
No, every time I blink I see the hurt in Lila’s eyes. Pain I’d caused her. I told her I’m engaged to be married, and the betrayal that flickered in her eyes told me her feelings for me weren’t gone. Maybe she can hide them down deep like I do with memories, but they are still in there. But as I think about her sky-blue eyes clouded by pain, I shift at the discomfort the thoughts bring.
“Beloved by everyone who knew him,” the pastor says. As his steady, sure voice ripples across the crowd, my teeth grind together almost painfully. No, he wasn’t beloved by everyone. I didn’t love the man. Not ever.
And why would I love him? I grew up in a house that was too big, with parents who were never there. They left money on the counter and a list of numbers to call if things went south. But things never went poorly, not really. I learned to fend for myself, to not need anyone. That's what happens when you're raised by yourself and no one else.
So now, knowing that I should feel something now that he’s gone... all I can think about is the man who cared more about his golf score than my report cards.
How do you mourn someone you never really knew, someone that was never there?
And when they mention love... isn’t that just a word in the dictionary somewhere between lie and loss?
