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while keeping his eyes on me. “Howdy, stranger.”
    â€œI heard you got married,” I say. “Congratulations.”
    â€œThat’s right. Four boys now. Keep us busy.”
    â€œFour? You don’t waste time.”
    â€œKevin, Sean, Riley, and Patrick. Not a dull moment at my house.” But his eyes are saying something else. Like, there are a lot of dull moments.
    â€œWill I have the pleasure?”
    â€œThey’re home with the wife.” A pause. “I heard you
didn’t
get married.”
    â€œI like my freedom.”
    His eyes gleam. “Yeah. You always did.”
    That’s the kind of statement that needs a wide berth, especially coming from an ex.
    â€œYou ever think about me?” he says bluntly.
    â€œI try not to.”
    â€œI don’t think about you either.”
    Thomasina, who’s been following the conversation with strange delight, emits a kind of strangled bark.
    â€œHow about a dance anyway, for Ned and the good old days?” Johnny says.
    It sounds about right to me. What else do you do at an Irish funeral but dance with a guy you used to fuck to honor the departed? We move onto the tiny parquet floor in the middle of the room. Only one other couple is there, swaying slowly to the sound of “Beast of Burden.” I’m glad, actually. My body feels as if it’s been locked inside a tomb, and I need to bring it back to life. Johnny lumbers for a while, then finds a groove. His eyes are half closed, and his skin is luridly tinted in the glow of the colored bulbs strung along the wall. It feels weirdly OK to be swaying across from him. Because I know he cared about Ned. Because he’s grieving, too.
    By this time others have joined us on the floor. I dance for a long time without stopping—with Johnny, with another guy, with Noah in his adorable tie. I whirl and let the music flow through me until it washes away all the tension I’ve been carrying. Thank-yous flow from my sore heart to the Band, Led Zeppelin, and the Rolling Stones.
    The guy who introduced himself outside the church, Larry Something-or-other, is sitting at a table with a noisy group of Ned’s fishing buddies. Most of them are in blue dress shirts with loosened blue striped ties. Blue-on-blue seems to be the color combo of choice for men who would rather be wearing something else. Larry isn’t talking much. Maybe he doesn’t approve of wild Irish funeral parties. Every so often he turns his head and watches me. Doesn’t stare, just watches. Like I’m someone he’s not personally interested in but needs to keep an eye on. A kid sister, maybe. It seems pretty obvious that we’re going to speak to each other again before the evening is done.
    Thomasina and Noah have moved to a large round table in the corner, away from the music. The dark-haired guy who had been sitting next to Thomasina at the bar is there, too, hunched over, leaning close to Noah, hands gesticulating in front of Noah’s impassive face. I get a not-right feeling from it, pull up a chair, join their tête-à-tête.
    â€œYou gotta upgrade,” the guy is saying. “These smartphones are so much better. You got a girlfriend yet, heh? You can text her all day with this thing.” He points to a cell phone between them on the table—a flat black thing with a shiny display.
    â€œI don’t have a girlfriend. I’m in fifth grade,” Noah says.
    â€œDon’t have a girlfriend? What’s with that, bro? Gotta be some hot girls where you are. Anyway, you get a girlfriend, you’ll impress the hell out of her with this thing. You go bowling or something, whatever you kids do, you keep it in your pocket, and when the time is right, you pull it out like it’s nothing much. Her eyes will pop, I’m telling you.” He turns the phone on, starts tapping through the touch screens. “Look: You got a computer, a phone, a camera,