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“He went out of town for a while.”
“Fine, we’ll go with that.” She lets it drop. “Speaking of out of town, when are you coming home?”
“I haven’t figured that out yet.”
“I’m glad you’re alright. Took you long enough to call.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“The flowers Rowan sent were nice.”
“What?” I know she didn’t sign the sympathy card. I was right there beside her as she ordered them.
“Don’t worry, nobody but your mom and I figured it out.”
“How?”
She sniffles. “Your mom knows we talk about everything. She told me she spoke to you and Rowan on the phone and that Rowan wanted to send flowers. They were the only orange ones, and they had no sender info. It had you written all over it. Tell Rowan hers was the most impressive arrangement there and Gino’s parents thought they were beautiful. His mom said, ‘Whoever sent these must have really cared about G.’”
I’m crying all over again. It’s a wound that’s not going to heal, only become more bearable with time. The hiss of anger at Rowan is a little louder in this moment. I can distinguish it from the rest of my resentment. My girlfriend shot my friend and he’s gone. No more fall foliage for him.
I glance across the suite at Rowan, lounging on the bed, reading The Book of Unusual Knowledge. She grabbed it from her bag so she’d stop obsessively checking the time on the bedside clock. She knows the funeral reception hours are between ten and two. She did care about Gino—didn’t know him from Adam, couldn’t have even told you his name—but she valued his personhood, his life, nonetheless. And she’ll hate herself for the rest of hers for taking his. She is not her father. I love her because she is not her father. I wipe the tears from my cheeks. “I’ll let her know. Thanks. Are you going to the cemetery tomorrow?”
“No. It’s too much for me.”
“I get it. The finale.” It’s a lot.
“Right.”
We say our goodbyes and hang up. I join Rowan on the bed. We’ve established a routine that I’m loving: I rest my temple on her shoulder, she automatically slings her arm around me, coaxes me closer to her and rubs my skin with her thumb. Amazing how quickly couple-y habits develop between two people who are right for each other.
“Gino’s parents appreciated your flowers,” I mumble into her clavicle.
She closes the book. “I’m glad. But it’s not sitting right with me that you and Teague are both gonna miss your chance to say goodbye to your friend. And it doesn’t feel right not to pay my respects, either.”
“We can’t go.” She can’t go.
“Juliet Calloway, we can do anything. It would be stupid for Rowan Monaghan to show her face there, but… that incognito idea I had for your graduation? Let’s test it.”
My heart drops. Thus far, loving her has been an introduction to anxiety, which is how I know it’s real. “That cemetery will be the least ‘safe space’ on the planet for you. All of my dad’s henchmen will be there.”
“I’m aware.”
“You talk to me about how surprising my morals are when yours are even more so.”
“I’m responsible for this funeral, Jules. It’s not morality, it’s penance.”
I cannot dispute that. If I tried to, I would lose. There’s nothing to do but capitulate. And I would very much like to go. “We can’t show up together. There’s going to be too much attention on me and my family.”
“I already figured that.”
“Get up.” I roll off the mattress.
She places the book on the bedside table. “Why?”
“We’re going shopping so you can play dress up.”
“I don’t think I’ve played dress up before. Probably gonna be shitty at it.”
