Page 3 of Everywhere You Look

“Don’t be an idiot, Luke. I didn’t spend my youth driving you to away games and catching your crappy Hail Mary passes in the park when I should’ve been out meeting women just for fun. Of course, I love football. But look at me, I’m five-foot-two. If these girls are built anything like me, I’d rather them be on a soccer field or something. You might be content with a life of having your brains scrambled by three-hundred-pound linebackers, but I don’t want that for my daughters. That doesn’t mean I’m not your biggest fan. In fact, when I kick the bucket, I want you to promise to have me buried in your jersey.”

“So, if mom and dad were right and we end up burning in hell for being gay, at least you’ll be burning in style.”

“Exactly. Stylish and representing my favorite person when I’m chilling with Satan.”

We laugh and I nudge my sister’s shoulder with mine.

“As perfect as that afterlife sounds, Gi, maybe try not to die?”

She lays her head on my shoulder, resting as her gaze bounces back and forth between the two babies in our arms.

“I’ll do my best, Lukey. I’ll do my best.”

2

I’M THERE FOR YOU, BABE

Luke

The rays of sun shining through the stained-glass windows of the funeral home feel like a sick joke. It’s too bright, too warm. I pull at the collar of my shirt, trying to get some relief from the stifling brightness of it all.

It should be raining. In the movies, it’s always raining on days like this. Black town cars pull up to the cemetery as dark gray storm clouds cry above, the sky mourning the loss right along with people on the ground. The wind blows, black umbrellas are swept away, and no one can see your tears as the rain provides the perfect hiding place.

But not today. There’s no rain, no storm clouds, not even a hint of the fog that makes this city famous.

It’s sunny and seventy-five degrees at this death parlor outside of San Francisco. If my sister were here, she’d be laughing at the irony.

I close my eyes, coughing back a laugh of my own. Because Gigi is here. She’s right in front of me; I’m looking at her. I can see her gray pallor, her closed eyes. I can see the makeup used to cover the bruises and gashes from the accident. I can see her arms folded over her chest and the San Francisco Redwoods jersey she made me promise to bury her in if she left this earth before me. I told her I would, because I didn’t think I’d ever have to. Big sisters don’t die. They’re definitely not supposed to die before their younger brothers.

But Gigi did die.

She died.

She stopped living.

My sister, the invincible superhero who saved me from our parents, practically raised me on her own, saw me through college and the draft and my years in the NFL, is gone. One drunk asshole stumbled out of a bar and behind the wheel of his car and now my sister–the only home I’ve ever known–is gone forever.

Tears brim my eyes as I snort. How stupid. How can Gigi be gone when I’m fucking looking at her with my own two eyes?

No, fuck. That’s not Gigi.I tell myself. It’s the body that she lived in, but she’s not there anymore. It’s just decaying skin and embalming fluid and glue to keep her mouth and eyelids shut. I try to remind myself of that, but the reminder becomes too much.

Why did I tell the funeral home that we’d have an open-casket? Did I tell them, or did someone else make the decision while I’ve been wading through this state of hopeless grieving?

Humans shouldn’t have to look at other dead humans. It can’t be good for the psyche. It’s certainly not good for me.

Gigi’s here, but she’s not here. I’m looking at her body, but it’s no longer her. My brain can’t process it all.

And so I laugh.

I stand in front of my sister’s open casket, and I laugh. Tears fall from my eyes, snot drips from my nose and I crack up, laughing until I can’t breathe over top of Gigi’s body. Even though I’m surrounded by people—a room full of guests who are here to pay their respects–I lose every ounce of my self-control. I laugh and laugh and laugh because everything our parents tried to teach us as kids—everything I always thought to be false but couldn’t quite put my finger on why—has just been definitively proven as bullshit. There is no god. No god would take mysister from me, from her daughters. It’s too ridiculous.

“This is ridiculous. Isn’t it, Gigi? It’s the most ridiculous fucking thing I’ve ever heard,” I say to my sister, gripping the edge of herfuckingcoffin as I laugh and sob. My knuckles go white as I start to shake with the force of whatever sick emotions are plaguing me. My bad knee seizes, pain shooting up through my groin and down through my toes. My leg buckles, giving out beneath me. Time slows down as I feel myself slip, and with the grip I have on this wooden death prison, it is without a doubt coming down with me.

Because it’s not bad enough that Gigi is dead. It’s not bad enough that I’ve completely lost my shit. I’ve also lost control of my body, and now this entire room is going to see me go to the ground and take my sister’s corpse with me. I’m just thankful the girls aren’t here to see me send their mom flying. I don’t need them having ghost-mom haunting their nightmares on top of everything else.

Just as I accept my fate and give in to the pull of gravity, a large hand wraps around my waist and steadies me.

“I’ve got you, Luke. I’ve got you,” my best friend, Dean, whispers near my ear. His grip on my waist tightens as he pulls me in, allowing me to take theweight off of my bum knee and rely on him to keep me steady.

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