The driver didn’t speak to me again. He guided the car expertly through New York City traffic. As we drove past Central Park, I couldn’t help but look out over the wintery expanse and sigh. Just when I thought I was done with the city, there was always something magical that pulled me in when I least expected it.
I’d expected the car to take me somewhere, anywhere, to change. Instead, the driver parked in front of St. Paul’s Chapel. I gasped as I realized that Mitchell’s funeral was inside. The chapel was grander than any church I’d ever seen before, and I felt awkward as I lugged my suitcase away from the sleek car and through the front doors.
Mom was waiting for me, in a severe black dress that made her look twenty years older. Her eyes were still rimmed with red, but she looked a hell of a lot more composed than she had when I’d last seen her. She pulled me into an awkward hug. I didn’t want to release the grip on my suitcase, but Mom didn’t seem to notice I was carrying luggage and for a moment, we stood there uncomfortably with our arms wrapped around each other.
“Belle, I’m so glad you’re here,” Mom whispered into my neck. She was wearing so much perfume that it almost choked me. “I didn’t know…I didn’t know what to do without you.”
The sound of her voice stung me. “I’m sorry, Mom,” I told her. We pulled away but Mom kept a firm grip on my hands, clutching and squeezing my fingers painfully hard. “I know this is really hard for you.”
Mom nodded. “It is,” she said softly. “But I know you’ll help me through it, Belle.”
I swallowed nervously. “Am I late?”
Mom shook her head. She glanced around – there were tons of people, all clad in black, shuffling from one end of the vestibule to the other.
“Mitchell was so loved,” Mom said. A tear dripped down her cheek and she wiped it hastily away. “He was just such a wonderful man.”
“I’m sorry,” I said again, feeling lame. As the sound of music began to play, Mom linked her arm with mine and we walked down the aisle of the church together. People were staring – for a moment, I thought it was because I was still carrying a suitcase – but Mom kept her head up and her chin lifted as she walked resolutely towards the front pews.
And that’s when I saw him.
Jackson Rhodes,
my stepbrother.
He was seated at the front of the chapel, in a dark Calvin Klein suit. His blonde hair was a little longer than I remembered – he’d pushed it back from his forehead in a glossy pompadour – but his grey eyes were just as chilly. When he saw Mom, he smirked.
“Hello, Anne,” Jackson said in a slow drawl. “So pleased you could make it.”
Mom’s cheeks pinked but she didn’t say anything. Just as I was about to snarl something back at Jackson, Mom grabbed my elbow.
“Belle, behave yourself,” Mom hissed into my ear. “This is a place of God!”
Jackson kept his eyes glued to my body. “Hey, Sis,” he said smugly. “How’re you?”
I fought the urge to smack his smug, gorgeous face. “I’m fine,” I said curtly. “I’m sorry about your father, Jackson.”
For a moment, the icy look in Jackson’s eyes wavered. But seconds later, his cruel smirk was back on his face.
I wondered if he ever smiled.
Just as Jackson opened his mouth, the priest stepped up to the pulpit. I glared at Jackson and smirked, as if to say: “I see you can’t exactly sass me back now!”
Jackson glared right back.
Mom squeezed my hand and tugged me down into the pew. As the priest began to speak of Mitchell’s life, Mom began to sob. I knew at that moment that I had to forget about Jackson – I was there for Mom, and she was my priority.
--
After the funeral, Mom and I took a cab to the reception. It was being held at a restaurant a few blocks away. I didn’t think I was hungry, but at the mention of food, my stomach started cramping and twisting. By the time the cab pulled up, I was starving.
A group of Mitchell’s female friends spotted Mom and pulled her into a tight hug. Before I could say anything, they’d tugged her away to the side of the room and encircled her with sympathy. I stood there, feeling awkward. He was only my stepfather, I wanted to say each time that someone wished me sympathy. And I barely knew him.
A black car pulled up in front of the restaurant and Jackson climbed out of the backseat. He wasn’t smirking anymore – his eyes were narrowed into tiny slits and his mouth was set in a thin line. I watched him brush past the crowds of women and disappear inside.
This is my chance, I thought. I hated the idea of apologizing to him, but I knew it was what Mom would want. And I had to admit, I felt terrible for Jackson. His father had just died – I knew it must be a horrible feeling.
“Jackson,” I called loudly, following him down a narrow hall. “Jackson, I wanna talk to you for a minute.”