Page 39 of Drum Me Away
It was certainly not a moment I’d ever been proud of, and I’d lost count of the number of times I wished I could reset that day, start over, handle it differently.
I’d been sharing an awful lot with Lucas over the past few days. More than I’d ever shared with anyone. And it wasn’t as terrible as I’d always feared.
He wasn’t making excuses and trying to get away from me. He wasn’t telling me to button it up and quit emoting—yes, my mother had said those exact words to me when I had been too young to fully understand what she meant. And no, I hadn’t missed the irony that only a few days ago she’d been looking for me to express emotion over my grandmother’s death.
I had no idea how my sisters managed to stay sane. I figured I had it easy by clocking out and refusing to try anymore.
“What do you want to do?” Lucas asked as we neared the rental vehicle. “Shop here or head into Seattle?”
I didn’t have any friends—my sister notwithstanding—in this town, but I hadn’t made any other enemies beyond Regina. High school had been rough, the bullying had been intense at first, but I was nothing if not an expert at pretending things didn’t bother me, and once the other kids figured out they couldn’t get a rise out of me, they left me alone.
I wasn’t important to them.
Which meant if any of them were still around, they probably wouldn’t recognize me. The me who used to live here.
There was a bridal shop that claimed a two-story building that looked as if it were ready to be the backdrop for the next Old West gunfight, and that was where I took Lucas to find clothes appropriate for my grandmother’s funeral.
“You don’t think this is a little too dressy?” he asked as we crossed the threshold into the cheerful space. Mannequins wearing wedding dresses in ten different styles lined up in front of the huge window overlooking the street. A sign at the base of the stairs indicated the suits were on the upper level. More mannequins sporting bridesmaids’ dresses, mother-of-the-bride dresses, cocktail dresses, and any other formal occasion outfit one might need were scattered throughout the open floor plan area. Another sign let us know that no dress size was out of the question, and there was a seamstress on duty.
“Nope,” I said, scanning and dismissing practically everything I saw. I hated that I was going to do it, but I knew dressing conservatively was the smartest way to get through this funeral without fighting with my mother. That and not speaking to her.
“Are congratulations in order?” came a deep voice that was at odds with the tall person walking toward us, dressed in delicate pink silk and lace, wearing a blond wig and chandelier earrings I suspected were dripping with real diamonds. This person, who I assumed worked here, was elegant and feminine, with an Adam’s apple and wide shoulders that implied they might not have been born with girl parts.
“You do make a gorgeous couple,” the shopkeeper said, stopping before us and smiling widely. “I love the incognito look. Or is it Hangover Wednesday?”
I chuckled and slipped off my sunglasses, hooking them onto my baseball cap. The shopkeeper eyed me, clearly trying to place me.
“No bags under the eyes. Fresh, dewy skin. So not Hangover Wednesday. Does this mean I am in the presence of someone famous? Do I get to help plan a secret wedding?”
Funny, a month ago, if someone had suggested Lucas and I were to get married—in jest or not—I might have had a damn panic attack over the idea.
But connecting with Lucas, opening up to him, had relaxed me. Don’t get me wrong; I wasn’t remotely ready to consider the long-term ramifications of what we’d done last night, let alone be open to discussing wedding plans, but at least I wasn’t running in the other direction at the mere mention.
Baby steps, right?
“Unfortunately, we’re here for a far less happy occasion,” I said, skirting the hint at our famous status. “We both need something to wear to a funeral. And the viewing.”
“Oh, I’m so terribly sorry,” the shopkeeper said, frowning and blinking rapidly like they might start crying on our behalf. And then they daintily offered a man-sized hand for me to shake. “Roxanne. I own this joint.” Roxanne waved at our surroundings.
“Pronoun is she?” I asked, sliding my hand into Roxanne’s.
“Yes,” she said, smiling widely. “Thank you for asking.”
I nodded. “I’m Faith. And this is Lucas.”
Roxanne shook Lucas’s hand, cocking her head and studying him. Taking my cue, he slipped his sunglasses off his face and hooked them into the neckline of his shirt.
“I know I’ve seen you two somewhere. Are you going to make me guess? Or will you put me out of my misery?” Roxanne demanded, batting thick, fake lashes and adding a heavy pout to the look.
“Are you going to tell anyone you saw us?” I shot back.
“I only ask that you tag the shop if you post anything on your socials about the fabulous outfits I’m going to sell you.”
I laughed, even though there was no way in hell I’d ever post about my grandmother’s funeral. “Deal.” I glanced at Lucas, who nodded. “We’re in a band.”
Roxanne snapped her fingers. “Darkheaven,” she yelped and then clapped her hands. “I adore that ballad from your second album. ‘Last Night.’ So romantic.” She clasped her hands to her breast and closed her eyes. “So many fabulous memories with that song in the background.”
She pinned Lucas with a narrow gaze. “Please tell me that song is about your relationship.”
