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on the floor below me, book open on his lap, one arm thrown over the cushion behind him, and his fingers heavy on my thigh. How he’d read something interesting and turn to tell me, his smile cockeyed and bright, my world full of him all the way out to the edges.
    When he looks in my direction, I catch his gaze and hold it, and it’s my yearning that propels me across the floor toward him. It’s the click of our connection, as powerful as ever, magnetic even from across a room. It’s my hope that maybe I can say something, maybe—
    But a couple gets there ahead of me, the woman touching West’s elbow and sharing condolences. A beautiful woman with black hair, older than me by a decade, perfectly made up. I envy her poise and her boobs and her fuchsia wrap dress, but mostly I envy that she’s touching West and I’m not.
    I look away.
    Right into the open coffin.
    I don’t know whose idea that was. I’d assumed it would be closed, because hello, gunshot wound? But I guess they just pack the holes full of whatever and slap a suit on the body, because there’s West’s dad, laid out like …
    He looks so much like West.
    It’s creepy how much he looks like West.
    Like West, dead.
    I’m not tricked, I’m not stupid, but my heart is, apparently, and my body’s in a galloping panic, sweating and hot, tears in my eyes.
    Look away
.
    The woman is hugging West. Up on her toes, pressing her breasts into his chest. It’s a little too much hug, you know? With hips in it, and hips aren’t supposed to touch when you hug at a funeral.
    Look away
.
    Separated from them by a few feet, there’s a man talking to West’s mom. Older, distinguished gray hair, great suit. Michelle is crying again, although it’s dignified funeral crying. He’s offering her a hankie, and the hug is still going on to his right. His mouth looks like mine must—tugged downat the corners, as if he’s wishing the hug would die a painful death.
    As though he’d like to tear the hug off them, throw it on the ground, step on it.
    Look away
.
    Coffin again. I burp, taste vomit, wobble a little on my heels, and stagger, prompting me to reach out to steady myself.
    White satin lining, cool against my skin.
    I remember reading that funeral homes charge the grieving a fortune for stuff like satin linings and urns to put the ashes in, and you don’t get any choice because it’s not like they’ll let you turn up with a reusable Ziploc tote and say
Fill ’er up
.
    Everything costs money. West’s grandma is living on Social Security and her dead husband’s medical benefits from a union job he had with the railroad. If she didn’t own her house outright, she wouldn’t be able to get by. As it is, Michelle’s been giving her money for groceries.
    Michelle “borrows” about five hundred bucks a month from West, sometimes more. She’s not working since Wyatt got killed. This dusty pink carpet, the tasteful hush, the rows of side tables full of flowers—West is paying for it. Paying to embalm the man whose fists crashed into his face.
    I look at the corpse again, because that’s all he is now, a corpse. I stare at his face until I can see the makeup—mascara on his lashes, creamy foundation, blush.
    Not West. Just some asshole who donated the sperm.
    I’m glad he’s dead.
    The man who’s been talking to West’s mom touches his wife’s elbow and leans down to say something in her ear. She lets go of West finally, smiling, nodding.
    They say their goodbyes and move away.
    West glances at me. Cuts to the coffin. Mumbles, “Stay with my mom.”
    He walks away.
    Damn him.
    Damn him for lying to me, damn him for not talking to me, and damn him for pretending there was ever someone else.
    There was just West, here, convincing himself he could never come back to me. That there wouldn’t ever be a way for us to be together again.
    West deciding I’d be better off if he let me go.
    What’s she look like?
I’d asked him.
Does she make you laugh? Do