Chapter 2 The Luncheon
2
The Luncheon
Sam used to leave reminders in my calendar when we were dating. He called them “Messages from the Future.” It was part of the life philosophy he promoted on his motivational Instagram platform—the inspirational messages captioning photos of his sharp jawline admiring sunsets on Kilimanjaro.
If I casually mentioned wanting something, it became a message. They were written from the point of view of my future self, saying things like, “You started training for the marathon today, and now you’re killing it!” or “I’m so grateful you bought a ticket to Croatia today, because you’re there right now and it’s breathtaking.”
You could never daydream with Sam. Everything was achievable. Everything was within reach. Money, time, and prior commitments were never an excuse for not living your best life. He never understood why I didn’t like the messages. To him, each message from the future was a statement of potential. To me, they were a reminder of how I was falling short.
He must’ve loaded a bunch of countdowns for the Patagonia trip when I agreed to go. After the breakup, I got a “100 days” reminder, but it wasn’t nearly as alarming when they were just notes from a man who’d friend-zoned me, as opposed to this eerily timed post-death dispatch.
“Sorry about your seat belt pillow,” Mara says from the driver’s seat of her Jeep. She points her chin at my unadorned belt strap. “They threw it away when I got the car detailed.”
I stare out the window into the boat club parking lot with my forehead pressed to the glass. “It’s fine.” And it is. I only really needed a pillow strapped to my seat belt during my mastectomy and reconstruction. Since then, it’s just been too cozy to chuck.
Six years ago, when my mom was diagnosed with Stage 2 breast cancer, the rest of my family got tested for the brCA1 genetic mutation. My sister, Emma, was negative. I drew the short pink straw.
With my genetics, I have an 85 percent chance of having breast cancer during my lifetime. It’s a noncommittal, likely, eventually, diagnosis. That 15 percent is like glimpsing an oasis in a desert—there’s some reason to hope, but you’re probably going to be drinking sand. My doctor couldn’t say anything for sure other than I’m likely, eventually doomed. Or I was.
About a year and a half ago, I bit the bullet and got a preventative double mastectomy, removing my breast tissue, nipples, sensation—the whole deal. Six months later, I underwent breast reconstruction and am now less likely to develop breast cancer than women without the mutation.
After a slew of awkward one-night stands and failed first dates, I started dating Sam. Sam always felt less like a boyfriend and more like a higher plane to aspire to, someone who could transform me through proximity—and the occasional motivational calendar notification—into someone worthy of having escaped a likely, eventually death sentence. A person worthy of the cheat code I’d used.
Mara taps my arm from the driver’s seat. “It’s one afternoon, Al. And it’s almost over. We just need to get through the luncheon and then you can deal with all of these feelings in the privacy of your therapist’s office,” she tells me, assuming I’m lost in thought over the current deception.
I brush off her suggestion with a weak wave, because I stopped seeing Denise months ago. “Thanks for driving me today.”
“It’s less for your benefit and more for the safety of the greater Twin Cities metropolitan area. I can’t remember the last time you drove yourself somewhere.” She peers over her sleek sunglasses, which are either pricey designer frames or only look expensive because that is the power of Mara Montgomery-Kline. “I’m not certain you still know how.”
This is a lie. Not the part about my masterminding my life around walkability, public transit, and any other measures to avoid driving my beat-up Subaru across town, but the part about her presence being for anyone’s benefit other than mine. But since Mara feels deep discomfort acknowledging that she possesses the capacity for feelings beyond “ruthlessly ambitious” and “hungry,” I let it slide.
I flip the visor and rub smeared mascara from my under eyes with my ring finger. “Okay. Play something fun before we go in. Give us a lift.”
“I think belting it out in the parking lot of your boyfriend’s wake is going to send the wrong message.” She turns toward me, clasping my hands in hers like she would a jittery candidate’s before a debate. “You can handle this. We can handle this. Let’s roll!”
But we can’t handle this, and things quickly fall apart at the luncheon.
From the moment we enter the hall—all wood paneling and nautical stripes as far as the eye can see—the event is already in minor crisis. Since the caterer failed to mark the gluten-free brunch options, I volunteer to identify and label them for Mrs.Lewis, in hopes of both hiding in the kitchen and busying myself.
Unfortunately, this gesture only serves to amplify my position as “grieving partner” rather than achieve my primary goal of evaporating into thin air. In the industrial kitchen, the waiters swap pitying looks in my direction. The bartender leads me in a quick healing meditation for grief, which involves placing both hands between my breasts. I participate, hoping it will end the interaction faster, but this is a miscalculation.
Sam’s family and friends find me, offering their condolences in a mini receiving line between stainless steel prep tables. Most of these mourners fall into one of two categories: strangers I’m confident I’ve never met but who claim to remember me specifically, or vaguely familiar people I’ll never place, no matter how intensely I stare at them.
“This is…uncomfortable,” Mara murmurs when we’re finally alone. Her curly penmanship on the “gluten-free” labels is impeccable, and it only fuels my fury.
“I know,” I snap. I press my pen too hard, and the f in free bleeds across the index card. “But if I stand out there with all of Sam’s loved ones for one more second, my skin will walk off without me and serve appetizers.”
She scrunches her nose. “That’s an unsettling image.”
We both look up as the scrape of the metal door announces another entrance into the kitchen.
A young server juggling three coffee carafes tilts her navy-polo-clad torso into the kitchen. “We need a tray of GF French toast. The celiacs are getting restless.” She tips her head in the direction of the crowded room filled with a shockingly high number of gluten-intolerant mourners. Something about the way she treats us—not like characters in a tragic romance but as two women standing between her and a fat tip—recenters me. She bounces the open door on her hip impatiently.
Mara fills her arms with a metal pan of sugar-dusted slices. “I’ll take care of this. You continue hiding behind the chafing dishes.”
“I prefer the term strategic avoidance, ” I call out after her. Using her body as a doorstop, our server friend lets Mara through the doorway, but before she too can make her way into the dining room, I watch her eyes clock an intruder into my sanctuary of stainless steel and bulk bins of mini French vanilla creamers.
“Alison!” Mrs.Lewis’s voice precedes her, sparkling and sweet, and for a moment, I expect to see the woman I met on the Fourth of July. Vibrant and fizzy, she was wearing a hot pink and teal kaftan and pushing a signature cocktail she had created for the event.
Today, she’s unrecognizable. Her eyes are the same blue as Sam’s, but flat and red rimmed with dried tears. There’s no color in her cheeks, and she looks beyond exhausted, like her bones are too heavy to carry with her. She drags a man through the kitchen door behind her.
“There you are. I’ve been looking everywhere. Have you met Sam’s best friend, Adam? Adam, this is Sam’s girlfriend, Alison.” She gestures to the man behind her, whose gaze is glued to the floor.
Adam’s strange expression during the service flashes in my brain, and I seriously consider whether I can run away before his eyes rise to meet mine. But I’m too late.
When he looks up, I’m surprised by his appearance. I figured the North Shore Grump would have a tall, broad frame fit for a northern cryptid, but on that body, I’d imagined a face to match his bland, curt personality: a man as off-putting as his text persona.
What I did not imagine? That Adam Berg would be that particular brand of approachably handsome that compels you to lean in closer with his every blink and half smile. Or he would be if his ruggedly handsome features weren’t frozen in a scowl.
Still, there’s something undeniably gentle about his dark brown eyes, even now, when they’re as unfocused as Mrs.Lewis’s.
For a moment, I feel safe, until something in his face flickers and those seemingly harmless eyes skewer me with a look that sets me so off-balance, I nearly announce, I’m Sam’s current girlfriend, like the world’s worst undercover cop.
“No,” I finally respond. “We haven’t met. I’m Alison.” Grateful my brain’s produced the right words in the correct order, I extend my hand toward Adam.
He moves with a slight start, as if he nearly forgot what a handshake is. He takes my hand in his, and I finally understand why people compare hands to paws. His hands aren’t especially hairy, but they’re rough and big, at least twice the size of mine. When he gives me that same look of unease he did in the church, I brace myself.
“I’ve seen pictures of you with Sam,” he says simply, and I let out an inward sigh of relief. His tone reveals nothing aside from moderate embarrassment to have recognized me off of Instagram alone. Though a discomfort with social media would be in stark contrast to Sam—who once referred to making dinner together as a “collab”—I grab hold of this explanation like it’s a buoy in choppy waters.
Still, I can’t release the tight knot that formed at the base of my shoulders the moment he gave me that look in the church. That look . It told me that if anyone was going to see through this whole farce, it was Adam Berg.
“He told me so much about you when he was planning his visit for Oktoberfest,” I say, filling the pause when he doesn’t. I’m incapable of letting anyone twist in silent discomfort. I inherited my mother’s compulsion to make others feel at ease.
“I thought he did visit for Oktoberfest,” Mrs.Lewis interjects. Adam grips my palm tighter, examining me with a keen gaze.
I extract my hand. “Yes. Of course.”
Adam’s hard jaw ticks as they both wait for my explanation. Less than one hour after agreeing to play “the girlfriend,” I’ve already stepped into a conversational minefield.
Mara bursts through the door. “We need two more trays, and I’m covering for Taylor while she takes her fifteen.” She sees us and stops short.
“Got it.” A young server with floppy hair and ear gauges dutifully loops around her and grabs another tray of French toast.
“The service has been really great,” Adam tells Mara, handing her the second dish from the prep table.
Oh god. He thinks she works here, which isn’t an absurd presumption considering we’re hiding with the kitchen staff.
Mara pauses, no doubt deciding how to play this. “Thanks,” she replies. Her eyes question me, but at my subtle head shake, she traitorously escapes through the screeching door.
Adam’s and Mrs.Lewis’s eyes dart back to me. I clear my throat.
Why did I let Mara leave? I should’ve tied our ankles together with kitchen twine, ensuring her supportive cooperation with walking, talking, and other basic behaviors expected of a grief-stricken girlfriend until we could mount an escape.
Relief rattles up my ribs at another scrape of the metal door, but it’s only Sam’s father trudging purposefully across the tile floor, not Benedict Mara or even a well-timed rodent to clear the room.
“Walter says if we sell before January, we can avoid further tax complications,” Dr.Richard Lewis tells his wife, holding his lit phone in the palm of his hand.
“You were on the phone with Walter now ? During our…” Mrs.Lewis abandons the sentence, the thought too painful to complete. Her voice is a lid on a boiling pot.
Undeterred, his left forefinger presses against the silvery hair at his temple as he continues, “One of Sam’s friends is a Realtor, and he was saying if we list it by December first, we might have everything settled before the Cookie Party.”
“The Cookie Party?” she repeats, sounding as if she’s never heard of either cookies or parties.
Her hands smooth her black dress. It looks expensive but not perfectly tailored. She probably bought it for this occasion. The image of her wandering the Ridgedale Center Nordstrom with a slow gait and vacant blue eyes slices my abdomen like a shard of glass.
She recovers and trills, “Richard, we’re not discussing this,” through a pasted-on smile.
“Judy, we have to discuss this. You won’t go in his apartment, and I can schedule the movers, but if we want to arrange for them to pack Sam’s belongings—”
“ Strangers are not touching our son’s things.” Her voice is sharp. It seems to catch her husband off guard; he jumps the tiniest bit before pulling his round tortoiseshell glasses off his nose and wiping them with the bottom of his suit jacket.
His foggy eyes stare at his lenses. “I’m sorry, JuJu,” he says, and suddenly I’m back on their deck holding Sam’s hand while Dr.Lewis calls out to his wife from behind the grill. From the sad, sweet look in her eyes, I suspect Mrs.Lewis is there too. “I know you don’t want to, but…it’s something we need to deal with,” he says, but the word we sounds startlingly similar to I .
Adam stuffs his hands in his pockets as the image in front of us comes into sharp focus, kitchen noise clattering all around us. Neither parent can bear their son’s sudden death. While Mrs.Lewis is collapsing beneath its crushing weight, Dr.Lewis is hoping to outrun it, as if checking off lists and calling accountants from now until eternity will be enough to evade the grief chasing him down.
My gut twists imagining what it would feel like to suffer an unfathomable loss, only to be left with nothing besides the business of death—burials, estate sales, and everything else required to ease your son from the world.
I look into their weary blue eyes. Sam’s eyes. What must it be like to look into the mirror and see your son’s eyes, knowing you’ll never see his again? It isn’t natural to grieve for your child. The unfairness of it presses into my lungs so hard I need a gulp of air.
Only, when I open my mouth to breathe—before I’ve even had a second to consider what a colossally bad idea this is—I hear myself volunteer, “I can do it.”
“You’ll go through Sam’s things for us?” The smallest glimmer of light shines through Mrs.Lewis’s expression. “You’ll pack his things and get his condo ready to sell?” Her hopeful expression presses on the pleasure center in my brain that lights up when I’m doing something right even when it hurts a little.
“Of course.” I stretch the words into so many syllables, desperate for a bystander to jump in and stop this. “Whatever you need me to do, I can do it.”
Mrs.Lewis claps her hands together. “That would be wonderful, Alison. I’m so grateful. I’ve always admired how dependable you are. I’m always telling Sam how perfect you are for him.” She slips into the present tense again. I can’t correct her. Rather than comment, I stare at the mysterious stain on the wall behind her head.
Adam clears his throat. “She doesn’t need to…I can handle it, Judy. It’s fine.”
I glance at him sidelong. “Don’t you live two hours away?”
“There are weekends.” He manages not to sound like an irredeemable asshole when he explains the concept of calendars to me, which is an absolute feat. “And I’m sure there’s some small house projects to do if they need it sold by the end of the year. You won’t want to do that.” His words are technically directed at me, but his attention has barely left the Lewises.
Every so often I’ve caught him chancing glances at me like I’m a piece of food in someone’s teeth. He’s nice enough not to stare but can’t help but anxiously track my movements. His subtle awareness makes my skin tight.
I don’t like the idea of packing up my ex-boyfriend’s apartment, but I like the idea of ceding the task to the North Shore Grump even less.
“I love small house projects.” I narrow my eyes. I’m obviously lying but that’s beside the point. “Small house projects are my favorite.”
“Adam, I thought you were too busy to take on side work,” Dr.Lewis says.
Adam bristles. “This isn’t side work . I’ll make time for Sam.”
I don’t like how we’re talking about Sam, as if he’s only in the next room and not permanently displaced to our memories.
Mrs.Lewis spins her silver pendant necklace with her fingers. “It should really be Alison, Adam. She’ll know what’s special for us.”
She looks to me to reinforce this assumption, which only makes my insides fold in on themselves.
“We can both do it,” I manage.
Mrs.Lewis beams, her husband nods—crossing an item off of his mental to-do list—and Adam pinches the bridge of his nose like I’ve sentenced him to one weekend trapped inside a freight elevator.
Why am I like this?
Because Sam’s gone and all this family wants is for their son to have had a girlfriend willing to shoulder one small piece of the burden bearing down on them.
Being the woman they need right now is the least I can do. It won’t make up for the loss of their son, but it might make this moment more tolerable. I can’t disappoint this family, today of all days.
And whether Adam wants to believe it or not, I can help him too.
“Adam and I will handle everything.”