Chapter 17
JULES
Rose is crying. I catch her right after she gets home from Gino’s wake. They weren’t besties or anything, but they were definitely friends. And she’s delicate, unused to violence and loss. Outside of her dog getting hit by a car when we were twelve, she’s never really lost anyone or anything she loves. Both sets of her grandparents are still with us. She’s had a sheltered life. Her parents are teachers; her older sister is a teacher. She’s going to be a teacher. What a thing to have run in your family: The calmness of the American status quo. I envy her. I think that’s the main reason why I bothered with college. I didn’t have to go. I won’t have to work after graduation if I don’t want to. My dad’s wealth is dirty but well-hidden, and I could siphon off of him until he dies, then when he goes it’ll be mine. But going to college was a choice I was allowed to make, and it gave me a semblance of normalcy I never had.
“How can you not be furious at Rowan? I’m mad at her,” Rose wonders.
As much as I’ve tried to deny it, part of me is somewhat angry with her. I hear its foul hissing in the recesses of my brain. But it’s very quiet, drowned out by my anger over our circumstances, over the choices that we weren’t given, over the total lack of control we’ve had over our own lives up to this point. Kill or be killed is for ancient times, when the Neanderthals had to slaughter saber-toothed tigers to avoid becoming their lunch. That way of living is unnecessary now. Some men missed the memo.
“I can’t explain it to you. You wouldn’t understand.”
“Like how you didn’t understand when I told you getting with Rowan was a bad idea?”
“I understood. I ignored you.” Her allure was too intense not to.
“Yes, you did. Whatever… Your parents were at the funeral home, but I didn’t see Teague.”
He’s hanging on by a thread in a hospital bed. “He’s indisposed.”
“What does that mean?”
It’s a good thing she doesn’t know. It means no one besides my mom does. I don’t want to tell Rose; I don’t want her involved. And I don’t want her to hate Rowan. She’s already tiptoeing at the threshold.
“He went out of town for a while.”
“Fine, we’ll go with that.” She lets it drop. “Speaking of out of town, when are you coming home?”
“I haven’t figured that out yet.”
“I’m glad you’re alright. Took you long enough to call.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“The flowers Rowan sent were nice.”
“What?” I know she didn’t sign the sympathy card. I was right there beside her as she ordered them.
“Don’t worry, nobody but your mom and I figured it out.”
“How?”
She sniffles. “Your mom knows we talk about everything. She told me she spoke to you and Rowan on the phone and that Rowan wanted to send flowers. They were the only orange ones, and they had no sender info. It had you written all over it. Tell Rowan hers was the most impressive arrangement there and Gino’s parents thought they were beautiful. His mom said, ‘Whoever sent these must have really cared about G.’”
I’m crying all over again. It’s a wound that’s not going to heal, only become more bearable with time. The hiss of anger at Rowan is a little louder in this moment. I can distinguish it from the rest of my resentment. My girlfriend shot my friend and he’s gone. No more fall foliage for him.
I glance across the suite at Rowan, lounging on the bed, reading The Book of Unusual Knowledge. She grabbed it from her bag so she’d stop obsessively checking the time on the bedside clock. She knows the funeral reception hours are between ten and two. She did care about Gino—didn’t know him from Adam, couldn’t have even told you his name—but she valued his personhood, his life, nonetheless. And she’ll hate herself for the rest of hers for taking his. She is not her father. I love her because she is not her father. I wipe the tears from my cheeks. “I’ll let her know. Thanks. Are you going to the cemetery tomorrow?”
“No. It’s too much for me.”
“I get it. The finale.” It’s a lot.
“Right.”
We say our goodbyes and hang up. I join Rowan on the bed. We’ve established a routine that I’m loving: I rest my temple on her shoulder, she automatically slings her arm around me, coaxes me closer to her and rubs my skin with her thumb. Amazing how quickly couple-y habits develop between two people who are right for each other.
“Gino’s parents appreciated your flowers,” I mumble into her clavicle.
She closes the book. “I’m glad. But it’s not sitting right with me that you and Teague are both gonna miss your chance to say goodbye to your friend. And it doesn’t feel right not to pay my respects, either.”
“We can’t go.” She can’t go.
“Juliet Calloway, we can do anything. It would be stupid for Rowan Monaghan to show her face there, but… that incognito idea I had for your graduation? Let’s test it.”
My heart drops. Thus far, loving her has been an introduction to anxiety, which is how I know it’s real. “That cemetery will be the least ‘safe space’ on the planet for you. All of my dad’s henchmen will be there.”
“I’m aware.”
“You talk to me about how surprising my morals are when yours are even more so.”
“I’m responsible for this funeral, Jules. It’s not morality, it’s penance.”
I cannot dispute that. If I tried to, I would lose. There’s nothing to do but capitulate. And I would very much like to go. “We can’t show up together. There’s going to be too much attention on me and my family.”
“I already figured that.”
“Get up.” I roll off the mattress.
She places the book on the bedside table. “Why?”
“We’re going shopping so you can play dress up.”
“I don’t think I’ve played dress up before. Probably gonna be shitty at it.”
That’s no shocker. “There’s a first time for everything. And no worries, I’ll teach you what you need to know.”
Shopping with Rowan is not the fun movie montage that shopping with Rose and Shannon is. She’s the type of person who goes into a store with a singular focus, purchases the items she needs, and leaves as quickly as possible. And she doesn’t like crowds. Crowds conceal threats. It’s raining, so the Maine Mall in Portland is extremely crowded. I don’t let go of her hand as we stroll through it, partly because I’m embracing my role as emotional-support human, and partly because holding hands in a mall is the most fantastically ordinary thing we’ve ever done.
Bloomingdale’s is her aesthetic. The more femme part of the women’s section is not. She’s uncomfortable in every dress she tries on—this is the third. And we’ve established that she can’t manage heels. It’s a problem. As much as I adore her high-end futch style, we need to go in the complete opposite direction to make the ruse work. “Okay, babe, we can do flats, but the dress is non-negotiable.”
“Yeah.” She’s standing tall and stiff in a black asymmetrical Armani. “Maybe something more trench coaty.”
Hmm. That might be it. “A belted sheath midi.”
“I have no idea what that is, Juliet.” She shrugs and screws up her features in confusion. It’d be cute if we weren’t shopping for a funeral outfit.
“It’s… more trench coaty!”
“Great. I’m taking this thing off. What is with these puffy ass sleeves, for real? It’s tulle. It’s tulle and it’s itchy.” She unzips and lets the dress fall to the floor.
“That’s a six-hundred-dollar garment. Have some respect.”
“Fuck it, it doesn’t respect me. It’s hideous and scratchy.” She pinches it off the floor, doing her best interpretation of the bend and snap—which I’m willing to bet she knows nothing about—and places it back on its hanger.
“Should I put my clothes on and go on a hunt for a trench coat dress or what?” she asks.
“No. You don’t know what you’re looking for. Stay here, I’ll go.”
“Thank you. For going along with this. And for loving me, even though I’m a FEMA-certified disaster area.”
To think she has to thank me for loving her, as if it’s a burden. “Don’t thank me for loving you. It’s not a chore, I’m happy to do it. And don’t thank me for going along with this, either. Once we’re done here, we’re hitting up a wig shop.”
“Red and curly or nothing.” She gives me an eyebrow wiggle.
Curly auburn isn’t in any way inconspicuous, but I’ll let her think it’s an option. “We’ll see.”