Page 27 of Play Dirty
I sit with that feeling for a while, absentmindedly chewing on the sticks until I’m sick of the sweetness. Sick of the pain, sick of the crying. Until my eyes burn before growing heavy and taking me into sleep’s embrace.
“I miss you,” I whisper into the dark.
Days later, and it still doesn’t feel real.
Rather, I didn’t want it to feel real, but the emptiness in the dorm is a constant reminder, and the ache in my chest tells me it’s real. Today is the funeral, our last outing…
Today is the last time I’ll see my sunshine, yet the skies are grey as if mourning the angel this place destroyed. I look out the window of the SUV, resting my head against the cool glass as I watch the rain fall down against it. The drive to the cemetery is short. The roads are full of fog and puddles. The ocean's angry waves are crashing into the rocky coast. This was June’s favorite type of weather—the kind that allowed her to slip into sweats and read one of her romance books. She loves the rain.
Loved.
It’s going to be hard to get used to using the past tense and June in the same sentence. I don’t think I will ever get used to it. From the corner of my eye, I can see Alfred’s worried glance through the rearview mirror, but I smile. A small crooked smile, just to let him know I see him and that I’m okay. The car comes to a stop. We are late. Thankfully, no one notices. Everybody is too wrapped up in grief to care.
“We are here.” He says solemnly before stepping out of the car.
The door swings open, and Alfred lets me out quickly, placing the umbrella over my head as I step out. Swiftly, I scan the area, my head darting in each direction. A sinking feeling comes over me when I realize he’s not here.
Nico isn’t among the guests.
Her boyfriend…not here.
Why do I care?
“Is everything okay, Ms. Shiloh?” Alfred asks with aconcerned smile on his face— he looks sad, eyes rimmed red as if he also mourned the girl who would sit in the back seat. The very same girl he saw growing up alongside me. I offer him a small smile, tilting my chin slowly. “It is.”
But that’s a lie.
One, I will have to continue to say, for as long as I live. There’s nothing okay about me– not before this and certainly not after. I stick my hand outside the protection of the umbrella, feeling the cool drops gather in my palm.
June.
My phone goes off in my hand, bile rises up my throat, choking me with my own venom as I look at the screen. Another fucking blog.
The Pulse Blog
Once June’s funeral is over and done with, I need to figure out who could be behind this blog. Scanning the cemetery, I take mentalnotes of the guests. Trying to see if somehow I can see something out of place.
Anyone who could be connected to the blog…
Everyone looks solemn.
That’s all I see, feigned and genuine sadness bleeding together in a wave of frowns. What I can confirm is that June’s father really didn’t come. Mrs. Morelli is all alone. It shouldn’t shock me, June’s father is a piece of work and a workaholic, but is he really not here to lay his daughter to rest? I shove the phone into my small Louis Vuitton clutch, blinking away the tears, the disgust, and hold my head up high for her. Making my way to her casket, my knees wobble, and my throat constricts. From behind my sunglasses, I can see the group of classmates by the front, drama nerds, we call them. They look just as distraught as I am, especially the girl with the black hair and shades. More somber faces, grieving the loss of one of their own. And beside them, feigning grief so convincingly, are the same girls who bullied her. The girls I sit with to have Sunday dinner, the girls I call sisters because of the sorority. The same ones that belittled her behind my back.
They’re shedding crocodile tears, but what really has my gears grinding fiercely together is Allison, holding the hand of June, taking a fucking selfie. Tissue paper perfectly placed to capture a tear that was never shed, the fury takes over, and I storm towards her. Snatching her phone from her hand. “Get the fuck out of here.”
Allison’s hazel eyes widened, “Oh dear, you must be so–” My hand strikes her, connecting hard with her cheek. The words die in her mouth, but before either of us can continue, a firm hand wraps around my fragile one.
Peter Morelli, June’s older brother. “Enough. Allison, thank you for coming. Please leave.”
Allison’s eyes flutter in disbelief, and her mouth opens to speak, before Peter’s dismissive hand shoots up—silencing her and walking away with me in tow. “Please. Let me go.”
He stops, looking over his shoulder, and his eyes soften. “I am.” He lets me go and gives us a sliver of space, running a hand over his perfectly combed brown hair. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?” I let out a shaky breath, rubbing my wrist, feeling the eyes on me. “I should be the one apologizing.”
I don’t bother to look his way; I don’t want to see the grief written on his features that are so similar to hers. They could pass as twins, except he’s more masculine and older. Still, I can’t face him today. The realization hits me like a train, or more accurately, a confirmation. Their father really didn’t show up for June, not even for her fucking funeral. “Mr. Morelli isn’t here?”
Peter clears his throat. “He had something come up.”
