Unlimited Party was a good fifteen minutes away, in a larger strip mall, but at least the Uber driver was quiet. He was listening to a murder mystery podcast—it made me think of Rose. It was one she was obsessed with. She’d seen the ladies live at Comic-Con more than once. I missed her.
What’re you up to? New York still there without me? I texted.
Work must’ve been slow because Rose responded immediately. Somehow. The apartment is SO creepy there alone tho. I miss you.
I’ll be home by the end of the week, I replied quickly.
Take your time! How’s everything back home?
Oh, I guess I hadn’t updated her. So I did. About how finding one thousand wildflowers was somehow a lot harder than it appeared. About how I somehow booked Elvis to sing at my father’s funeral and needed to write Dad’s obituary. About the mysterious letter Dad left for his funeral. And now how I was heading toward Unlimited Party because—well—Dad had beat us to the kazoos and streamers, apparently.
I read down the receipt with a growing despondency. Half of the things were smudged out because sometime between 2001 and today, it had gotten wet. Did he think we were going to throw a frat party instead of a funeral?
Probably, in all honesty.
Your Dad always sounded rad, Rose texted. Then there were dots; she was writing. Then nothing. Then dots again. Finally—Are you doing okay? You know with . . . everything.
Everything. I wished I could tell her about Ben. I wanted to. About the strange, muddled feelings in my chest. I was mourning, but I was blushing. I was so fucking sad, and yet there were moments when the tide would go back out and I wasn’t drowning anymore in it—and they were all moments, I realized, with Ben.
Because of Ben.
He took my mind away from my sadness, when all I wanted to do was burrow myself in that sadness, make a nest of it, live there clinging to what was left of my dad.
Even though Dad would’ve rather me fall in love than fall into a depression.
I’m fine, I texted back, and thanked my driver for the ride as I got out of his Honda.
The cashier at Unlimited Party looked bored as he played a game of solitaire on his phone. I came up to him and handed him the receipt, and gave him a tight smile. “Um, I’d like to pick this up, please.”
My phone vibrated. Rose again? I ignored it.
He asked, dumbfounded, looking at what he had pulled up on his screen. “Uh, are you—are you sure?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Well, because it says here—”
My phone vibrated again. That usually wasn’t Rose’s MO. “Excuse me for a moment?” I asked, and turned around to read the text.
It was from my sister.
COME TO THE FREEZERBOX NOW!!!!
Then, a minute later: PLEASE!!!
When Alice used please, it was an emergency.
“Okay, new plan. Yes to whatever you were going to ask”—I mean, Dad had already bought the stuff, so whatever he had bought I couldn’t exactly say no to—“and deliver it to the Days Gone Funeral Home?”
“Uh . . . we can deliver the items on Thursday?” the poor cashier suggested.
“Perfect! Thank you!” I waved as I left the store and hailed another Uber. The same guy in the same Honda pulled up to the curb, and I got in. “Oh, this is a great episode,” I said, and he nodded in agreement. The drive back to town was another fifteen minutes, and by then it had started to rain.
The front path was slippery, and I almost bit it hard as I hurried up to the front porch. Carver cracked the front door open as I righted myself again. “That step’s slippery,” he warned.