Chasing Stardust

1 Ashes to Ashes

Ashes to Ashes

There should be a law against having a funeral on a beautiful summer day.

How can the world keep spinning as if Mom didn’t die?

Roses bloom. Bees pollinate. Mrs. McHugh’s scruffy schnauzer pees on every stationary object in the park across the street.

And none of it matters because Mom’s still gone.

Life isn’t fair.

Hugging her silver urn to my chest, I plop down on the old church’s crumbling front steps and blink into the bright midday sun.

Somehow, I made it through the entire service without shedding a tear.

I simply couldn’t bear having the whole town watch me fall apart like a carnival attraction.

It took every ounce of self-control, but not one tissue was sacrificed on my behalf today.

My older sister, Jeanie, walks up beside me, her blue eyes puffy and rimmed in red. At least one of us isn’t afraid to cry. A twinge of guilt threatens to slip through my carefully constructed defenses, but then I catch a whiff of stale weed under her flowery perfume. Not crying. High.

Part of me wishes I had a little of her reckless spirit.

Then she opens her mouth, and I change my mind. We’re nothing alike and never will be. “Douchebag still a no-show?”

“He’ll be here.” No sooner are the words out of my mouth than my confidence wavers. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s broken a promise, and it probably won’t be the last.

“Yeah, whatever. I’ll believe it when I see it.

” Jeanie cranes her neck, searching the distance for something .

.. or someone . “Why are you still seeing him anyway? You can’t possibly have anything in common with that Neanderthal.

And please don’t tell me you think he’s been pining for you every night while he’s off at college. Trust me, that asshole is getting—”

I cut her off with a searing glare, but it doesn’t slow her down in the least.

She sighs. “Dating the star quarterback might’ve made sense when you were in high school. That’s what cheerleaders do. That’s what Mom did.” Her eyes soften. “But you’re not in high school anymore.”

“Harsh,” I mutter. “Even for you.” I refuse to admit that her thinly veiled accusation hit its mark. Jeanie has no clue what my life’s been like for the past two years. She wasn’t here.

When Mom got sick, Damian became the bridge between my old life and my new reality.

When I was with Damian, I didn’t worry about Mom’s next chemo appointment or which prescriptions needed to be filled.

For those few stolen hours each day, I got to be the old carefree Zoey.

God knows he isn’t perfect, but he brought me some measure of comfort when I needed it most, chasing away the bone-deep loneliness and paralyzing fear—at least for a little while—and I’m not sure I’m ready to give that up just yet.

“Come on, Zo. You know Mom only went down that path because it was the opposite of—”

“Don’t. Mom’s not here to defend her choices anymore.” The last thing I want today, of all days, is to have a conversation about what Mom did or didn’t do before we came along. Or why I’ve always been so damn determined to follow her example.

She raises one shoulder in surrender—likely the only apology I’ll get from her.

“Why do you even care?”

She shrugs for real this time. “I guess I don’t.”

“Then, for Christ’s sake, drop it. It’s not as if Damian’s the only no-show.” The implication hangs in the air like a feather caught in an updraft, picking up subtext as it floats around, unanswered.

Her spine stiffens, her eyes narrowing. “You can’t compare G-Lo to your boyfriend .”

“You’re absolutely right. So where is Grandma Lola?” I refuse to call Mom’s eccentric mother G-Lo . She isn’t a rapper. She’s a crazy old hippie, still living in the carefree sex, drugs, and rock and roll lifestyle of her past.

Jeanie slips out of her black pumps and hangs them from two fingers. “You’re the only one who expected her to show up.”

Stunned, I stare into my sister’s glassy eyes. “Let me get this straight. Damian, who you despise, by the way, has somehow offended you by not being here, but you’re fine with our grandmother skipping her own daughter’s funeral?”

She brushes her hair out of her face and shifts her gaze to the street. “Even Mom knew G-Lo would blow off her funeral.”

Jeanie doesn’t get it. My virtually nonexistent friends, my inconsiderate boyfriend, the whole damn town for that matter ... none of them make the slightest difference to me, but our grandmother should be here. “That doesn’t explain where the hell she’s been for the past two years.”

“Give it a rest, Zoey. She’s a free spirit.” She shrugs, her porcelain skin glistening with a light sheen of sweat. “That’s just G-Lo.”

Easy for her to say. Jeanie wasn’t the one sacrificing her freedom to take care of a sick mother for two years. She didn’t have to smile and pretend Mom didn’t look more horrifying every day.

“And you’re right,” she says. “I don’t like your boyfriend.

I especially hate how he’ll make the two-hour drive from campus every weekend for a booty call but can’t—or won’t—carve out a few hours to show up for you today.

That’s seriously messed up. Even that pencil dick, Rick Hansen, showed up for me.

We went out three times last summer. I barely recognized him with his clothes on.

But he showed up.” She flicks her gaze toward me.

“I thought maybe a few of your high school friends would come, but I guess two years is a long time.”

The two years since graduation feel like an eternity.

Before Mom got sick, there was no question I would head off to college like my sister before me.

But with Jeanie already gone, I couldn’t exactly leave Mom to fight cancer alone.

And I couldn’t blame my friends for scattering to the wind, leaving me behind to forge their own futures while I watched mine wither and die.

And I wasn’t exactly blameless. They weren’t the ones who changed, I was.

They tried to include me in their lives .

.. for a while. But I didn’t give a damn about current fashion trends or the latest world events when my entire life was crumbling around me.

Maintaining friendships with people I no longer had a single thing in common with anymore was exhausting. So I stopped trying.

Oblivious to the tempest swirling inside me, Jeanie rattles on. “But Damian is your boyfriend . Two-hour drive or not, he has no excuse for ditching you today.”

I bite my tongue to keep from telling her that he’s home for the summer and only five minutes away.

That the “booty calls” are as much for me as him.

Where the hell did she think I’d find someone else my age when I spent all my time in hospice with Mom?

How else was I supposed to distract myself from the soul-crushing sadness?

And God knows I needed that distraction.

Under the circumstances, putting up with his control issues and toxic masculinity for a few hours every weekend seemed like a small price to pay.

Jeanie drops onto the step beside me, scooting me over with her narrow hips. “Wanna know what I think?”

I count my heartbeats to keep from fleeing our excruciating conversation. “Not particularly.”

“I think you only started dating him because you thought he was the kind of boy Mom would’ve picked.”

My jaw drops, my head whipping in her direction. The words you’re wrong stick in my throat. I close my mouth, going back to counting heartbeats, half convinced she’s working through a playbook filled with every one of my insecurities.

“He’ll be here,” I whisper, no longer believing my own lie.

“Not that it matters anymore. The funeral’s over.

Everyone’s already gone. Wait all day for all I care, but I’m going home.

Reverend Tom and the ladies’ church league are probably sitting in the driveway with another month’s worth of crappy casseroles as we speak.

Better be nice to me if you want me to save you any. ” Jeanie snickers.

When I don’t respond, she hops up with a huff as if I’ve insulted her.

And maybe I have. Somewhere during the past couple of years, I outgrew her.

Jeanie may be two years older, but she acts as if she’s twenty-two going on eighteen, and after all the time I spent caring for our sick mother, I feel as if I’m twenty going on forty.

“You don’t laugh, you don’t cry ... you really need to drop the robot act, Zo. Mom died. It’s okay to show some freaking emotion.” Her hands tremble as she reaches for Mom’s ashes, and my fragile hold on those emotions slips for half a second.

“What are you doing?” I tighten my grasp on the urn, fighting the urge to set my tears free. I can’t cry now. If I do, I may never stop.

She arches an eyebrow, slowly enunciating each word as if I don’t speak her language. “Taking Mom’s ashes?”

“No. You’re not.” I squint up at her, burning my retinas in the process. Sunlight streams through her icy-blond hair, making it glow like a halo behind her. An involuntary snort slips out of me. Horns would be more like it. “Not unless you’ve changed your mind about her last wishes ...”

“No.” Losing her own battle with tears, Jeanie blows out a breath, deflating along with it. “We’re doing it, so get used to the idea.”

Head pounding, I curl my fingers into a fist, sinking my freshly manicured nails into my palm, welcoming the sting. We’ve already had this argument more times than I can count, but if she wants to go at it again, I’m in.

“Do you even know why she wanted us to spread her ashes along some fifty-year-old concert path?” I demand.

“Does it matter?” Jeanie locks her shimmering blue eyes on mine. “That’s what she wanted.”