“What was the selling price?”
“They ranged from two hundred to two thousand dollars.”
He gasped. “Are you kidding me? People paid two thousand dollars to look at a dead body?!”
I ran my hands through my hair. “Plus tax.”
“I’m worried about the future generations.”
“Don’t worry, the generation before you worried about you, too, and it’s obvious you’re a bright, charming personality,” I mocked.
He almost smiled, I thought.
And it was almost beautiful.
“You know what, I should have known you didn’t write that eulogy based on how it ended. That was a huge clue that it wasn’t written by you.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “I actually did write that eulogy.”
I laughed. “No, you didn’t.”
He didn’t laugh. “You’re right, I didn’t. How did you know?”
“Well…you write horror and thriller stories. I’ve read every single one since I was eighteen, and they never ever end happy.”
“That’s not true,” he argued.
I nodded. “It is. The monsters always win. I started reading your books after I lost one of my best friends, and the darkness of them kind of brought me a bit of relief. Knowing there were other kinds of hurts out in the world helped me with my own pain. Oddly enough, your books brought me peace.”
“I’m sure one ended happily.”
“Not a single one.” I shrugged. “It’s okay. They are all still masterpieces, just not as positive as the eulogy was tonight.” I paused and giggled again. “A positive eulogy. That was probably the most awkward sentence I’ve ever said.”
We were silent again, and Graham went back to the banging of the sealed door every few minutes. After each failed attempt, he’d heavily sigh with disappointment.
“I’m sorry about your father,” I told him once more, watching how tense he seemed. It’d been a long day for him, and I hated how clear it was that he wanted to be alone and I was the one standing in his way. He was literally caged with a stranger on the day of his father’s funeral.
“It’s okay. People die.”
“Oh no, I’m not sorry about his death. I’m one of those who believe that death is just the beginning of another adventure. What I mean is, I’m sorry that for you, he wasn’t the man he was to the rest of the world.”
He took a moment, appearing to consider saying something, but then he chose silence.
“You don’t express your feelings very often, do you?” I asked.
“And you express yours too often,” he replied.
“Did you write one at all?”
“A eulogy? No. Did you post one outside? Was it yours I read?”
I laughed. “No, but I did write one during the service.” I went digging into my purse and pulled out my small piece of paper. “It’s not as beautiful as yours was—yours being a stretch of a word—but it’s words.”
He held his hand out toward me, and I placed the paper in his hold, our fingers lig
htly brushing against one another.
Fangirl freak-out in three, two…