16. Without Me, Its Just Eral
Chapter sixteen
Without Me, It's Just Eral
I t was Clinton’s fault I pissed my dad off.
I was all for taking accountability. At least, until I was the one who had to actually take accountability. But I wasn’t just shifting blame onto him so I didn’t have to admit I was the one who fucked up.
“What part of you do not need to say anything confused you?” my dad hissed after Pia Martelle set a withering look on me before snorting and telling my dad he had to try harder next time.
“How was I supposed to know that would offend her?” I asked.
“It does not matter.” He glanced to the side to make sure no one was listening, his lips pressed in a flat line that held in what was probably a mountain of rage. “Had you listened to me, Eleanor, it would have been a non-issue.”
“I forgot.”
“You forgot .” He almost scoffed, but settled for shaking his head so it wouldn’t draw attention. “I told it to you not thirty seconds before we—”
“And it’s a funeral! That’s what you’re supposed to say at funerals!”
“Max,” Kimberlee said. “She was trying to be sympathetic.”
My dad’s jaw clenched and he drew a breath in through his nose, then exhaled.
“It’s fine,” I said. “I’ll go home and then you don’t have to worry about—”
“No,” he said. “You will stay until the end of the wake so that if there is another opportunity to make a good impression on Pia Martelle, you can take it.”
I bit back my response, which was a multi-part retort including such gems as “Do you seriously think there’s a way to make a good impression when you’re literally trying to gain her as an investor at her life partner’s funeral ?” and “How am I supposed to make a good impression on someone who thinks ‘I’m sorry for your loss’ is the finance industry’s code for ‘Hey hun butterfly-emoji I know this is so random but are you tired of fighting with your current puking-emoji financial management? I’d love to have you try strong-arm-emoji hiring my dad as your moneybags-emoji hedge fund manager!’”
Instead, I mirrored the way he’d clenched his jaw and nodded, then went to track down Anne-Marie so at least I could stand near someone I knew while I waited for a break in the lineup of vultures trying to impress a multi-billionaire cosmetics mogul at a fucking funeral .
Despite her name being synonymous with “extrovert,” Anne-Marie was the perfect friend to be around when I didn’t want to talk to anyone. She flitted around the parish hall, collecting gossip like the book of condolences near the entrance was collecting signatures from all the esteemed guests. Other than nodding occasionally and shaking a hand or two when I “ had to meet So-and-So, whose father is a Some Kind Of Job With A Big Paycheque,” I could stand there, letting Anne-Marie chitter and chatter to her heart’s content.
She was standing with a group of people I didn’t recognize, so when I rejoined her and Remy, she took a moment to introduce me before going back to her conversation. I nodded mindlessly for a moment, then subtly slipped my phone out of my purse again.
Where I had another message waiting from JP.
Bastard
The silent treatment? It was a joke, babe. Unless you’re legitimately offering your asshole tonight, in which case, I’ve never been more serious in my life
Me
Maybe I would've considered it if you hadn't wormed your way out of this funeral
Bastard
You miss me that much?
Me
Of course not. But now I can’t cross “at a funeral” or “in a church” off my depraved sexual bucket list
He sent back a laughing emoji, but the bubbles showed he was still typing. I looked up, pretending I was listening to some guy with brown hair talk about… polo, maybe? Or horse racing. I wasn’t sure. Whatever it was, I nodded like I cared until my phone vibrated again.
Bastard
Well, maybe if someone had told me she’d be in town
Me
You’d have come?
Bastard
I usually like to come when you’re in town, yeah
I sawed my fingernail back and forth across the side of my thumb, staring at the messages and trying to figure out if there were more to them than the words on the screen.
Because yeah, I hadn’t talked to JP since The Blowjob Incident. That wasn’t unusual. It wasn’t like we talked very often, outside of texting each other to figure out when and where we’d be hooking up next. Or to check when the next time I’d be in Montreal was and if he’d be around. Or if we needed to share some kind of relevant gossip from Anne-Marie. Or if she told one of us an interesting piece of gossip that the other person might find hilarious. Or if there was, like, a particularly relatable meme we thought the other person needed to see.
So it wasn’t that often. But this time, I hadn’t messaged him to let him know I’d be in town that weekend. And that was only because I might’ve been able to drive back to Ottawa as soon as the funeral was over and not have to spend another night here.
It wasn’t because I was avoiding him after the Blowjob Incident or something.
Probably.
Maybe I was. Maybe things were weird now. Not that they should be. I mean, yeah, I felt a little guilty for asking JP to be my date for the Diamond Gala, but he’d agreed to it. And I’d promised him something in exchange for it, too.
That was all it was. I’d asked a favour. He’d agreed to it. So things shouldn’t be weird.
But if they were…
I mean, maybe it would be better if I didn’t see JP this time around. Then at least I wouldn’t be risking my date for the following weekend. Now that my dad was insisting I stay to the end of the wake, it was unlikely I’d have time to drive back to Ottawa because he’d want to go for dinner or something too. But that was okay. Maybe I didn’t really need to get laid and—
The thought startled me so much that I nearly laughed out loud. Me? Choose not to get laid?
Who the fuck even was I?!
And that was it, wasn’t it? Who the hell was this person standing here, overthinking to the point of potentially choosing to not get laid when getting laid was my whole thing because some guy I was fucking might be weird about things?
It had to be Clinton’s fault for throwing me off the way he had. Because this wasn’t me. And if I wasn’t weird about things, JP wouldn’t be weird about it, either. JP was just being JP, a snarky asshole who liked getting under my skin as much as he liked getting under my clothes.
Me
Is that on the table?
Bastard
That seems a little TMI, but if you must know, no. I usually use a tissue or clean up after myself if you’re not around to swallow it
Me
Not your cum, perv. I’m going for a “jog” tonight to that place nearby with the empty parking lot. What time will you be there?
Bastard
What if I already have plans?
Me
What plans?
Bastard
I might have a date.
I rolled my eyes. He was so full of shit. Dating wasn’t a requirement for getting laid. I couldn’t speak for JP, but for myself, I didn’t date at all, even casually.
I wasn’t looking for people to spend time with.
I was looking for people to fuck.
And I knew damn well that was what JP wanted, too.
Me
Who’d want to date you?
Bastard
If you’re jealous, you can just say that, babe
Me
Why would I be jealous of Alexhandra?
Or are you switching it up tonight and going with Palmela?
I assumed he saw the message right away, but before I could even see if he’d read it, a hand clamped down on my arm and I nearly dropped my phone.
“—remember Nellie Belanger!” Anne-Marie said excitedly.
I blinked, looking up at the woman standing in front of me. Like many of the other people in the room, she was wearing black, but her outfit was more like a standard funeral outfit. She was wearing a modest dress with three-quarter length sleeves and black boots with a low heel. Even though she had distinctive auburn hair and blue eyes, it took me a moment to figure out why she looked familiar.
“Oh!” I said when I recognized her. “Ms. Travers!”
“Nellie! What a surprise!”
There was an awkward moment where I wasn’t sure how to greet her. When it came to former elementary school teachers, I didn’t know if I was supposed to shake her hand or go in for a hug or put my hands up to protect my face because technically she could slap me without repercussion now that I wasn’t eleven years old anymore.
But Ms. Travers extended her hand for a handshake, despite the look of discomfort in her eyes.
“You still know who I am?” I asked, hoping I might be a repressed memory.
“Somehow I have a hard time forgetting students who burn my eyebrows off.”
I tried not to wince, but it was hopeless. “I honestly didn’t see the foil on my lunch that day. But I am still sorry about it, even if it was a mistake.”
“The time you coloured all the desktops with permanent marker, on the other hand?”
My face went warm. “Yeah, that was pretty bad.”
“Not as bad as the acrylic paint-splosion,” she said pointedly.
I grimaced. “It was, um, a rough year for me. But I am sorry, Ms. Travers.”
“Right,” Ms. Travers said.
There was a beat of discomfort before Anne-Marie graciously disrupted it. “Well, Nellie is still mischievous as ever, but she has gotten a touch more mature. I imagine you did not see each other, but Nellie did the Illumi-Nite run this year.”
“Did you?” Ms. Travers asked, looking both surprised and impressed.
“She did.” Anne-Marie turned to me. “Ms. Travers is heavily involved in the HueManity Foundation as well. We would not have half the success we do without her.”
“It’s a great organization,” I said.
Ms. Travers waved a hand nonchalantly. “It’s an important cause and frankly, a bit selfish on my part. The more resources there are for neurodiverse students, the better it is for us teachers. But you know—” She tilted her head thoughtfully. “If you are looking to be more involved, Nellie, I know HueManity could use the support. We are always looking for ADHD mentors and I think it would be a, ah, valuable experience for you to work with some of the younger students.”
“Oh, um… thanks,” I said uncertainly. “But I’m not living in Montreal anymore.”
Anne-Marie looked confused. “And I thought the mentors generally shared a diagnosis with the students they work with, do they not?”
Ms. Travers glanced at me. “Oh. Yes. And you… don’t.”
I shook my head. “Nope.”
She forced a laugh. “Of course. Well, you can’t blame me for being confused. You were a… a real handful. But I guess you were just like that.”
I gritted my teeth together. “I guess so.”
Ms. Travers excused herself a few moments later. I smiled politely at her, then made to follow Anne-Marie as she flitted to another person so I could excuse myself without her knowing.
But for once, luck was on my side.
“Anne-Marie! I need to speak with you.” The curvy redhead Anne-Marie had been talking to before—Michele, I think—stormed up with a fiery look on her face.
“Have you discovered something new?” Anne-Marie asked, but Michele’s face darkened even more.
“Privately,” she muttered, then took Anne-Marie’s hand and tugged her away. “Come to the washroom with me.”
Which was fucking perfect. I looked at Remy.
“While she’s busy, I’m gonna go pee,” I said.
He nodded uncomfortably and I turned, going in the opposite direction Michele and Anne-Marie had gone, despite knowing they were going to the bathroom.
Because the key to surviving any social event, at least for me, was to know where the least convenient bathrooms for the venue were. Those bathrooms were the best hiding places. They were out of the way enough that I could escape people for a bit, but if anyone did stumble across me, I had a legitimate excuse to be there.
Even if the actual reason was that I needed a fucking minute.
Because yeah, I’d been a little shit in Ms. Travers’ class.
But looking back, she hadn’t even had to put up with it for very long, since that was the same year my parents got divorced and my mom pulled me out of school to move to Toronto partway through the year.
That didn’t make it any less embarrassing to remember, though. Especially since it almost sounded like she thought… well, I wasn’t sure. Maybe she thought there was some other reason I’d been such a bad kid in her class.
Sighing, I used the bathroom, since I was there anyway, then went to wash my hands, intending to waste time on my phone after. But while I was at the sink, the door banged open and a loud voice echoed through the room.
“I can’t take it anymore!”
“I know it’s hard, but it’s just an afternoon and—”
“It’s bullshit , Princess! You know this is why I didn’t want to come to this sham of a funeral for a guy who was too—”
And then they saw me standing at the sink and stopped in their tracks.
Funnily enough, I knew who it was. Claire, the woman with the awful laugh who’d been wearing a tuxedo at the Harmonies for Hope benefit and who’d laughed about Sydney’s fake name, was staring at me with a semi-alarmed expression on her face.
She wasn’t wearing a tux this time. Instead, she was rocking a black jumpsuit that was entirely out of place given its chic minimalism, with tapered legs, flouncy sleeves, and a deep V-neck that showed off one of my absolute weaknesses when it came to women.
Not cleavage. I mean, cleavage was great, obviously. But Claire had small-ish breasts with a wide, shallow valley between them. I don’t know what it was about women with chests like that—maybe because of the subtlety of the gentle curves or the inviting expanse of skin or because it meant they probably weren’t wearing a bra—but god damn did it do it for me.
Behind her, her fiancée—whose name I couldn’t remember for the life of me—was biting her lip. She was wearing a short-sleeved black wrap dress and opaque tights along with a concerned frown that knitted her eyebrows together.
For a moment, they both stared at me, Claire with a wary look on her face.
“Don’t mind me,” I said, turning off the tap and grabbing a paper towel. “You can pretend like I’m not even here. Also, I fully agree with this being a sham of a funeral.”
Claire blinked, then let out a soft chuckle that didn’t have the same gratingness as the full-body laugh she’d had at Harmonies for Hope.
“So this is the hiding-out bathroom, then?” she asked.
“Depends,” I replied. “Are you hiding from someone?”
“Depends,” she echoed, heaving a sigh. Her heels clicked as she crossed the tile floor and she hauled herself up onto the counter, letting her legs dangle lazily. “Is everyone someone?”
“Depends,” I said. “Are we talking ‘everyone’ or everyone here ?”
“What’s the difference?” Claire’s fiancée asked.
“Well, if it’s everyone here, I’d say it’s a fifty-fifty split between people who think they’re someone and people who are the results of the animal testing the dead guy was involved in. So I wouldn’t count those ones as people.”
Claire’s fiancée’s mouth dropped open, her eyes going wide on her round face. She looked from me to Claire, then back at me. I panicked for a moment, wondering if I’d found the only two people at the service who actually liked Arthur Kroft, but before I could say anything, Claire started laughing.
And actually laughing, that horrible, creaking crack of a laugh that probably made the glass of the mirror behind us vibrate.
“I like you,” she said, wagging a finger at me. “You’re fun.”
“I had to bring the fun,” I said. “Otherwise we’d just have ‘eral.’”
Both of them frowned.
“Earl?” her fiancée repeated just as Claire got the joke and let out another honk of laughter.
“Because she puts the ‘fun’ in ‘funeral,’” she said, snorting on one of her crackling giggles. “You’re fucking morbid, darling.”
“Are you sure—” her fiancée started.
“It’s okay, Julie,” Claire said, waving a hand. “That was just what I needed.”
Julie, that was it. A reluctant smile spread on her lips. “Leave it to you to let a joke like that cheer you up.”
“What can I say?” Claire said, heaving another sigh before tilting her head so she could bat her eyelashes at me. “Funny, pretty, curvy girls are my weakness.”
Aside from certain situations involving certain bastards, it was pretty hard to fluster me. But that… well. I wasn’t sure if the blatant flirting she was doing directly in front of her fiancée or her boobs being my weakness were more at fault, but Claire’s words made a rush of heat crawl up my neck and into my cheeks.
“Uh… thanks,” I said.
Julie tsk’ed, though the apples of her cheeks rounded as amusement flitted across her face. “Don’t make her uncomfortable, Claire.”
“Oops,” Claire said, though it wasn’t very convincing considering she batted her eyelashes at me again. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine,” I said. “I’m not uncomfortable.”
Claire grinned. “Good. Because you have nothing to worry about. You’re a gorgeous little thing but I’m getting old.” She heaved another loud sigh. “And my roster’s getting a little full these days.”
“I mean, that tends to happen once you get engaged,” I said.
Julie and Claire exchanged an amused glance.
“And you’re not old,” I added belatedly. “You don’t look it, anyway.”
“No?” Claire said, her mouth twisting into a smile. “How old do you think I am?”
I studied her for a moment, then shrugged. “Like, thirty-ish at most.”
Julie snickered as Claire pressed a hand to her heart and fake-swooned.
I laughed. “What? How old are you?”
“Nearly thirty-seven,” she said.
I rolled my eyes. “That’s not old . One of the—I mean, this… guy I know. Who I’m friends with. He’s the same age. And he’s definitely not old.”
“I take it back,” she said. “I might have some room on that roster after all.”
“Like hell you do,” Julie said, but her eyes were sparkling good-naturedly.
We talked for a few more minutes before I excused myself, since my dad would probably lose his shit if I didn’t come back soon. It wasn’t until I got back to the parish hall that I remembered I hadn't checked my last message from JP, and that was only because my phone vibrated with another response.
Bastard
Looks like I can switch some things around and squeeze you between Palmela and Alexhandra
Let me know when you’re available