Page 28 of Play Dirty
“Something more important than this?” I see pity in his gaze as he adjusts the collar of his button-down. Why did he pity me? He’s the one who has a father like George Morelli.
Not me.
Not that my father is any better, but at least he pretends to be.
“She’s already gone, Shiloh. Our father being here will not bring her back, darling.” The bitter truth spills from those sinful lips, and I force myself to look away and bite back the words I want to say. The rage that boils within me.
And instead, I walk towards the front, beside Mrs. Morelli as she cries silently to herself. I stay hovering behind my best friend’s grieving mother until everyone says their final words to June, and dreadingly wait to finally say mine. Too bad Tatiana couldn’t make it to say goodbye.
My hand grips the hard, firm object inside my purse as I walk towards the dusty pink casket. Slowly, I pull out the alienromance that she was still in the middle of reading, the one with the big blue aliens. I smile at the thought with a single tear slipping down my face.
She lies there, almost looking as if she’s sleeping. The stillness within her is haunting. Her brown waves fall over her collarbone in perfect, loose curls. No makeup. No foundation.
They honored her in the end.
It was June, but it wasn’t.
She looked like her.
But the coldness wasn’t hers.
The stillness wasn’t either.
Placing the book beneath her cold hands, I bite down on my lower lip until the coppery tang of blood fills my mouth and tears blur my vision. “You might need this, you hate leaving books unfinished,” I whisper before pulling away, letting my gloved hand rest above hers. The funeral continues without a hitch, my eyes scan the countless faces as they weep and talk about how inspirational she was.
How much they loved her. The ones who pretended to love her, leaving out the part that I had to threaten them to include her when I found her eating in the bathroom stalls. By the time the rain picks up and the sky has gone a darker shade of grey, I still remain. Watching the fresh pile of dirt resting above her, the urge to dig down and pull her out is overwhelming; everything feels like too much.
Just as the pressure inside me becomes unbearable, I feel a warmth enveloping me, the familiar scent of night breezeand weed.
Nico
“You can lean on me, she would have wanted that.” My voice is hoarse from not using it. I wasn’t going to come and offer her any comfort, but all I could picture was June frowning. Urging me to be nice. To be kind.
To help her best friend.
Even in death, her kindness and the person she was continue to guide me. I’m a shell of a man, and she tried to breathe life back into me. Albeit pointless, she still tried. Plus, I can’t shake the need to be here, to offer a small mercy. The same one Shiloh offered me all those years back, without even realizing it.
She relaxes into my shoulder, the touch too intimate.
Too invasive.
The kind of touch that makes me want to crawl out of my skin, but I let it happen.
Let herhappen.
Maybe this is the only kind of comfort either of us will ever receive.
And I like it.
The feel of her.
Shiloh’s body is warm, tense, and feels as if she’s holding back the need to dig her friend back up or maybe cry. I wouldn’t blame her, I’d offer her my tears if I had any left. But all that’s left is guilt. It's a nagging reminder that once again I've failed to protect someone I care about. There's so much I regret, but for a moment, I push it down. I force myself to focus on the small mound of dirt and the white orchids resting above it, and not the weight of her on my side.
June is really gone.
The only person who gave to me without expecting anything but respect, and even that, I couldn’t give. And even in death, she creates a shield between us, except this time she’s not separating us– but uniting us into something tragic.
Into something sculpted out of grief and forged in hate. A minuscule smile escapes my lips, the irony of it all. Here, the man who hates touch is welcoming her. Out of all the people, I welcome her touch, allowing her to lean her head on my shoulder as if she didn’t look at me like I murdered her friend.
