6. Jenna
JENNA
H e’s fielding angry calls from his brother about the latest scandal when I pull up in front of the RDC office tower and start gathering my things, which are strewn around the car.
McCarthy’s glowering as Salinger’s voice cuts through the sound system.
“You’re going to fucking sit up in your office and go over that fucking plan she has, so help me—”
McCarthy hangs up on him.
“Where are you going?” he says, grabbing my arm. “You have a plan to go over.”
“Go yell at your interns.” I throw him off. “I can’t deal with you right now. I have a funeral I have to go to.”
There’s an unreadable expression on his face.
“Anyone… important?”
“Just my fiancé. ”
“Oh, the one who doesn’t put out? What a horrible loss for humanity. I’ll have my assistant send flowers and a cheese basket with confetti.”
“No, sorry, my ex-fiancé.”
“Wait, he died?” McCarthy almost laughs a genuine laugh, his eyes widening.
I rub my arm.
“The violent stalker that I just talked to that you’re willfully pretending isn’t a problem? Guess I’ll call off my hit men.”
“No! And don’t call any hit men. Andreas is fine. Everything is fine. It’s a misunderstanding.” I wave my arms. “This is my other ex-fiancé. He… Well, if you must know, he was the first boy I ever loved.”
McCarthy makes a disgusted noise. “I hope you never fall in love with me. I’d have to stick my head in an oven because it would mean I clearly failed at life.”
“It’s complicated. Brock was a complete dick, sure—”
“Of course he was.”
“—but he’s dead now. Woo…” I shake a fist, my chin trembling.
Instead of asking me if I’m okay, making some sort of blandly sympathetic statement, or saying anything a normal person would say, McCarthy’s eyes drift from my mouth, down my too-tight repurposed club dress from my early twenties, then back up to meet my eyes.
“So that’s why you’re not wearing any underwear. You’re going to piss on his grave.”
“You—” I sputter. “I do not leave the house without underwear.”
I don’t look at him as I rummage around the back seat for the gel pens that spilled out of my bag.
McCarthy makes a thoughtful noise .
I whirl around, banging my hand on the door, and grab the hem of my dress to clamp it down. I am wearing underwear. It’s a thong. Which is underwear. Partially.
“Are you one of those girls who only sleeps with guys once she’s in a committed relationship that leads to marriage?”
“I believe in true love.”
“Three fiancés. I mean, yeah, obviously. What’s more true love than that?”
“Are you one of those guys who just has sex for no reason?” I shoot back.
“Oh…”
I want to punch him for that patronizing, knowing tone.
“ What ?”
“Nothing. Never mind. You’re clearly not in a good place right now.” A smirk twitches on his mouth.
“Say it.”
He runs his thumb over his bottom lip.
“You’re one of those girls who’s never actually had an orgasm.
You know, the ‘close your eyes and think of England’ type.
Sex is a means to the happy family you never had.
You believe that once you hold that baby, you’ll be able to tell yourself, ‘See, everything was worth it.’ Except it’s not.
Not really. Because nothing actually changed, especially not you. ”
God, I’ve never hated anyone the way I hate McCarthy in that moment.
I grab my dog and stuff him in the pink quilted tote bag. “Get out of my way. I can’t miss the bus.”
“You don’t want to drive?” He jingles the keys at me.
I pause, suspicious. “You want me to take the car?”
“I’m certainly not riding the bus. ”
His eyebrows rise as the horror of recognition dawns on my face.
“ No. ”
I sit in the front seat of the car outside of the church, blinking furiously.
As much as I hate that McCarthy has weaseled his way into the drama of my life just so he can scrounge for ammunition to lob at me, at least it is a distraction from the fact that Brock is dead.
He was my first love, the man I wanted to be buried next to and raise a family with.
He also completely broke my heart and ruined my life, and now he’s just… gone.
And I am sad about it. Seriously. How pathetic is it I’m here about to cry at my shitty ex’s funeral?
Maybe that was why Nathan was so cold with me. Maybe I’m not as in love with him as I had been with Brock.
“I’m a terrible girlfriend.” A sob escapes me.
“Agreed. Dragging your fiancé to your college sweetheart’s funeral isn’t a good look.” McCarthy opens the door, scooping up Truman, who twists because he wanted to get down and attack that leaf !
I twist the cool crystal charms on my Stanley cup, my heels unsteady on the cracked asphalt as McCarthy continues in that casually condescending tone.
“I’m curious to see this famous doting fiancé number three. Will the third time be the charm? Is it true love? Or just a stop on the train ride to loner cat lady?”
The tears spill out. “He’s not coming.” I whimper then slam the car door .
“What was that?” McCarthy holds a hand up to his ear. “I’m in weapons R and D. My hearing’s shot from all those taxpayer-funded bombs. Speak up.”
Moving that massive body, he stops me from walking past him. I shrink as he stares at my disheveled appearance and teary face.
“Nathan can’t come. He has to work.” I try to rush past him to the funeral home.
“He has to work,” McCarthy says, slamming a hand on the car, trapping me. “Is he a surgeon? A teacher? An EMT?”
“He’s in finance.”
“Finance, huh?” McCarthy makes a big show of crossing his arms and tapping his chin. “And he has to work.”
“He’s very busy earning a living to support us and our future family.” I sniffle and am finally able to rush past him.
“Cupcake.” Long legs close the distance between us. “The markets close at four o’clock p.m. Eastern Standard Time. He ain’t working. If I—one of the world’s richest, most powerful men; let’s just be honest here—can attend this funeral, Nathan can too.”
McCarthy turns to match my steps. After a moment, he nudges me with his shoulder.
“Stop it.” I’m trying to mop up my face without smearing my makeup too much.
“You know why he’s not here?”
“Go wait in the car if you can’t behave.”
“Guess why your beloved fiancé’s not here.” McCarthy has that shit-eating grin on his face that makes me want to punch him.
“Why?” I force out the word .
“Because…” McCarthy’s bottom lip catches on sharp teeth. “He’s banging a coworker. Right now. He’s balls deep in—”
I knock the heavy bottom of the Stanley cup into his rock-hard abs, sending all the charms jangling.
“Nathan is not cheating on me. He loves me. He would never. And how dare you say otherwise.”
“Hm.” McCarthy gives me a look of patronizing pity. “Do you think there will be food at this funeral?”
“I don’t care. I just need a drink.”
Inside the funeral home, which is located in a restored Victorian building, the lights are dim, and the atmosphere is subdued. A photo of Brock, the action shot that he used on his YouTube channel banner and in all his branding, is displayed prominently.
McCarthy ignores the greeters and Brock’s grieving mother and heads to the table laden with wine, a cheese platter, and cookies.
I’m too sick to even think about food. Wringing my hands, I slowly approach Brock’s mother.
For someone whose son just died, she doesn’t look all that sad…
I immediately scold myself, Mom’s voice echoing in my head: It’s not up to you to dictate how a person grieves.
She’s probably in shock. I don’t know how I’d react if my child died.
Brock’s mom seems a little taken aback to see me.
“You… came, Jennifer.” She frowns.
“Of course.” I grab her hand. “I know Brock and I didn’t leave off on the best of terms, but I wanted to come pay my respects. ”
“I see.” She pulls her hand away. “He’s—” She motions to the casket flanked by flowers. “He’s there.”
My phone buzzes. I check it in case it’s Nathan telling me he’s changed his mind and is on his way.
It’s not.
Hannah: Ask for the probate lawyer’s contact info so you can get back the money Brock stole.
Jenna: I can’t do that to his mom at her son’s funeral.
Hannah: Fuck him and his mom. She gave you pre-loved lingerie after making you spend all that money on gifts for Brock’s whole family.
Hannah: Did his granny make those wedding cookies? Bring some back for me. *drooling face emoji*
One of Brock’s sisters has discovered my handsome billionaire client and is flirting heavily with him.
“Geez,” I mumble. “I mean, really trying not to judge here, but trying to pick up a guy at your own brother’s funeral is a choice .”
McCarthy sees me watching. Not breaking eye contact, he leans down to whisper something in the pretty redhead’s ear.
Fake redhead. I know that color. I’ve bought that color.
Setting my bag down in a folding chair, I stand in front of the casket.
One of Brock’s cohosts for his YouTube show sees me and nods. He almost looks elated to see me.
Weird.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” I say softly .
He nods. “Yeah, it was a shock.” He nods again, tapping his camera. He can’t seriously be filming his best friend’s corpse for YouTube content, can he?
I’m going to say what I have to say, then I am having a glass of wine. McCarthy can just sit on the steps while I sober up enough to drive.
I force myself to take a step then another step…
Then I’m at the coffin.
I squeeze my eyes shut. More tears leak out.
I look down at Brock.
He’s pale. His face is coated with makeup from the funeral parlor. I suppose they were trying to make him look alive.
“You…”
My eyes search his closed ones.
“You… I don’t even know what to say. It’s too late.
” I feel deflated—all the anger, the way he would gaslight me, the way he’d yell at me if he thought I was looking at other men.
The way I had given all of myself, all the best parts of me, to him, because I thought he loved me. Now it means nothing.