18. Colt
18
colt
13 years and eight months since Paris.
Nine months since Maggie ignored me at Mak and Tony’s wedding.
1 Year and six days without a text from Maggie.
Nine days since Gemma died.
I’m so done with whispers and gentle pats on the back. I paste on my fake smile again for people in an endless line of condolences.
“Thank you for coming,” I say robotically, as I’ve done for the last six months and more so in the last week.
I look up as someone hands me a beer. Hayden claps me on the back. “Your ass looks fat in those navy pants.” I laugh, kind of. I’d like to laugh, but I’m not sure how appropriate it would be. I don’t know who I’m supposed to be in this scene. On paper, I’m the grieving husband. In reality, we barely had a marriage, and at the end we weren’t even a parenting team. I’m sorry the mother of my children is gone. That’s the only part of this I’m grieving.
“Where’s Liz?” I ask, trying to get away from my own head.
“She’s with your girls. They’re taking turns holding baby Danny. They needed a break from all the condolences from strangers.” We only knew about Gemma’s illness for six months and now she’s gone.
“Christ.” He puts his hand on my shoulder.
“Claire, Mak, and Liz have got the girls. And to keep your mom and dad at bay. Tony and Dax are running interference with the posh political set. Robbie and Law are entertaining the school moms, neighborhood dads, and charity co-chairs with sports, and celebrity stories.”
I sip my beer and look at him. “What’s your job?”
“You.”
I bite my lip and put my hand on his upper arm.
“Thanks, man.”
“You’ll get no condolences from me, but I do have a car gassed up for an escape if you need it. I will however, for Sloane and Daisy, never say another disparaging word about Gemma.”
I exhale. “It is considered tacky to speak ill of the dead.”
Hayden laughs a little, and so do I.
“What do I do now?” And I break whatever levity was created. My voice threads it back to the current state of guilt and grief.
“What you’ve always done for everyone, you keep their world together or build them a new one. After all the stuff with my shoulder and you know… all that stuff… you were the one who told me to move to Philly. That Ma and I should start over. You’re the one who bought me drawing pencils to help with rehab. You gave me the keys to build a new world. Go find out what yours might look like and give them something else.”
I slam the rest of my beer and survey the room of perceived important strangers. People who call themselves our friends, women with hats the cost of a kid’s education, sycophants, press, political figures, and private school royalty.
Gemma would have loved her funeral. I fucking hate it.