I let out a strangled-sounding yes. He shifted his weight onto his side, and we both watched as his fingers crept under the gold fabric. He traced the damp cleft between my legs, my bathing suit falling to the side with the movement. He pressed his finger gently inside, and then looked up at me, his face filled with amazement.
“Are we doing this?” he said quietly, and I didn’t know if he meant what was happening right now or some bigger question about us, but either way my answer was the same.
“Yeah, we’re doing this.”
13
Now
Chantal is deeply committed to Sunday brunch. Right now she will almost certainly be in her favorite booth at her favorite restaurant, splitting the paper with her fiancé. She will take Arts first and he will have Opinions, and then they’ll switch. They will have their coffees, and her eggs Benny will be on its way. I would be disturbing her ritual. She’s barely verbal, let alone ready to deal with my crisis, until she’s had at least two cups of caffeine. At least that’s what I tell myself as I quickly write a message to her, delete it, and then put the phone on the bed beside me. Again. I shake my head at myself. Fifth time’s the charm, right? I pick up the stupid thing and type out another text, punch send, and then throw the phone down. I sit and wait—for one minute, then five—and when no reply comes, curse myself for sending it in the first place and shuffle off to the bathroom.
I run the shower until it steams up the mirror, then step under the hot spray and put my head against the tile, letting the anxious stream of thoughts billow around me like mustard gas. What the fuck is wrong with me? What kind of a person takes advantage of their former （newly single!） boyfriend on the day of his mother’s funeral? Sam is never going to let me stay in his life. And why should he? I’m a shitty, selfish person who is clearly incapable of being his friend.
I don’t register that I’m crying until I feel my shoulders shaking. Disgusted with my own self-pity, I push off the wall, scrub myself roughly with soap, wash my hair, and dry off.
I arrive at the church ten minutes early, and the lot is already full with dusty pickup trucks and well-used sedans. A young man is directing cars to park in the adjoining field. I leave the car at the end of a haphazard row, and walk toward the church, the heels of my black pumps digging into the grass, making me look as off-kilter as I feel.
Sam is standing in a small cluster of people in front of the church steps. I stop short at the sight of Taylor beside him, legs as long as a giraffe’s, hair as golden as a sunbeam. Even though Sam and Charlie had mentioned she was coming, I somehow didn’t expect to see her. I feel like the wind has been knocked out of me. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to steady myself. When I open them, Charlie is looking at me from across the parking lot. He raises his hand, and the whole group turns my way.
As I move closer, I immediately recognize the thin, middle-aged man as Julien. There’s an elderly couple who must be Charlie and Sam’s grandparents on their dad’s side. Sue’s parents aren’t around anymore. There’s another couple, who I think are Sue’s brother and sister-in-law from Ottawa. I take a deep breath and paste a warm smile on my face, though my stomach is roiling.
“Everyone, this is Percy Fraser,” says Charlie as I join them. “You probably remember her. She and her parents had the cottage next door when we were kids.” I greet the family with hugs and condolences, pretending that this is a funeral like any other and that I don’t feel Sam watching me intensely.
“You look well, Percy,” Julien says, giving me a loose hug. I rub his upper arms with both hands as he pulls away. His eyes are red and he smells like stale cigarette smoke.
I turn to Sam and Taylor last. He shut down so quickly this morning after what happened, because of course he did. Who wants to open up the you left me brokenhearted conversation the morning of their mother’s funeral? I’m afraid to meet his eyes now, afraid of what I’ll find there. Regret? Anger? Hurt?
So I fix my gaze on Taylor instead. Her hand is resting on Sam’s shoulder, in a way that screams mine. Sam may have ended things with her, but she is clearly not done with him. In reply, I glue on a serene smile that says, I didn’t just make your ex-boyfriend come in his pants, and keep it there, though bile is rising up my throat. She’s stunning in a tailored black jumpsuit, her hair in a glossy low ponytail. My black sheath dress feels drab in comparison. She’s wearing very little makeup and no jewelry and somehow manages to look intentionally minimal. If I walked around wearing only mascara and lip gloss, I’d just look tired. As it is, I spent five minutes alone applying several layers of concealer around my puffy eyes and red nose.