JACK
“You’re not wearing a suit,” Cash says flatly as I arrive in front of the church. “Fuck.” He looks down at his dress pants and pulls at his tie. “If I knew I could have worn jeans, I wouldn’t have put this on.” He sweeps his hands down his body, clearly uncomfortable in his suit.
“It’s a kid getting water dumped on his head.” I throw my cigarette on the sidewalk and crush it with the tip of my shoe. “I gotta wear a suit for that?”
“Apparently not.” He looks distressed.
Daphne, a good friend from our Mogo days, appears from the entrance of the church and descends the steps. She’s dressed up with her hair braided on one side and left loose on the other in long dark curls. It’s been a while since I’ve seen her. When I heard recently about her brother, Aiden’s, death, I didn’t know ho
