Page 64 of Story of My Life
“Right there with you, girl,” she agreed.
“What if I can’t write a love story because of how mine ended? What if I’m too out of touch with the dating world to write a realistic rom-com?” I asked. What if I wasn’t good enough anymore?
Zoey’s laugh was humorless. “Haze, we read rom-coms to escape the depressing reality of the state of our love lives. Either we’re single and looking for ‘the one’ but drowning in a feeding frenzy of swipes, hope-crushing hookups, and outright lies.Orwe’re in a long-term relationship that’s gotten staler than that sleeve of saltines we found under the kitchen sink. We don’t need realistic.”
I scoffed. “Geez, and you callmedepressing.”
She turned me toward the mirror again. “But at least we’re two badass babes who take no shit and look good doing it.”
I brushed my hands over my suit jacket and blew out a breath. “Okay. Let’s go win over Story Lake so I can write a book and save our careers.”
“This can’t be right,”Zoey said as we watched townsfolk file into Pushing Up Daisies, a funeral home on Walnut Street. Their signage promised they put thefunin funeral.
“This is the address Darius gave me,” I insisted, hugging my emotional support notebook to my chest.
She shook her head. “He was clearly messing with you and is sending you in to crash someone’s funeral.”
“At least I’m wearing black. Come on. Let’s check it out.”
We entered through the double doors where a woman with braids down to her waist and an oversize daffodil-yellow suit appeared to be directing foot traffic. “Welcome to Pushing Up Daisies. Are you here for the council meeting or the Stewart visitation?”
“The council meeting,” I said quickly.
“Wonderful. You’ll be in the Sunset Room. We just ask that you take a quick trip through the Garden Gathering Room and express your condolences to Mr. Stewart’s family. He was a hundred and four, and it’s been a low-traffic event, if you know what I mean.”
“Oh, uh. We didn’t actually know Mr. Stewart. In fact we’re new in town as of yesterday,” I explained.
“Ah, well, in that case, I must insist. I think seeing the woman who allegedly ran down a town mascot and welcome sign in one shot pay her respects will go a long way toward repairing your reputation,” she said, her sympathetic smile now looking a hint more mercenary. “Besides, there are cookies after the urn.”
“Happy to pay our respects,” Zoey said, taking my arm and dragging me toward the dimly lit Garden Gathering Room.
“I don’t want to go to a funeral,” I whisper whined.
“And I didn’t want to come to When Wild Animals Attackville, but I did,” she said firmly. “Look at it as the first stop of your apology tour.”
We entered the Garden Gathering Room through the open folding divider doors. It looked as if we weren’t the only town meeting attendees who had been roped into visiting. There was a short line of people dressed for anything but a funeral lined up and yelling their condolences to the three ancient-looking adults seated on folding chairs in front of what looked like a large pickle jar.
“Please tell me that’s not Mr. Stewart in the pickle jar,” Zoey hissed.
“Let’s get this over with.” I linked my arm through hers and directed us to the front of the room.
“Real sorry to hear about Mr. Stewart,” hollered a man in jeans and a flannel almost as old as the family he was yelling at.
“What’s that you say?” barked the woman on the end in a long-term-relationship-with-menthols rasp. She cupped her ear and squinted at him through pearly pink glasses.
“REAL SORRY,” the man shouted again.
“When’s dinner?” demanded the withered, wrinkled man next to her. He was wearing a suit that looked like it had been made in the 1940s.
“I told you we’ll eat after,” the gentleman on his right bellowed, smacking the other with his cane.
“After what?”
The line moved quickly, most likely because the family barely understood a word any of the visitors said.
“Just try not to say anything stupid,” Zoey whispered to me as we approached the aged trio.
“Hi, I’m Hazel, and this is my friend Zoey. We just wanted to tell you how sorry we are about Mr. Stewart,” I said as loudly as I dared.
