Chapter 2
1089 Words
ALICE
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The first of the guests had just started to leave when Mark’s Tesla screeched into the cemetery.
“Finally,” he muttered, rolling down the window just enough for me to catch the tail end of his investor call. “—no, the funeral’s *over*, thank Christ. Ali? *Get in.*”
Tiffany’s grip on my arm tightened. “Tell Pretty Boy to f**k off. We’re getting shitfaced at Jonah’s repast.”
But Mark was already honking—three sharp bursts that sent mourners scowling. I gave Tiffany a look that said 'If I don't go with him now, he might do something that would end up with my heel lodged down his throat here'
She muttered something about his head size and a guillotine before squeezing my hand once, an indication that she was okay with me leaving.
“*Ali*,” Mark snapped. “We’ve got venue tours in *twenty minutes*.”
I turned around and caught sight of Jeremy approaching in my peripheral.
No. I couldn't do this
Not now.
I slid into the passenger seat, the leather stinging my thighs through my dress. The last thing I saw, before we peeled away: Jeremy standing ten steps a way from where I'd stood by Tiffany, following us with his eyes.
---
**Two Weeks Later**
My mother’s parlor smelled like jasmine and disappointment.
“Peonies are *traditional*,” she said for the third time, stabbing her iPad with a manicured finger. “Mark’s mother sent *Pinterest boards*.”
I traced the rim of my teacup. The same one I'd imagine throwing against Mark's head, or better yet, mine so I could end this misery once and for all.
“Ali. *Focus.*” My mother sighed. “The florist needs your final—”
“Whatever’s cheapest.”
Silence. Then, softly: “You don’t *want* peonies?”
I thought of the ones I’d vaguely remembered scattered around at Jonah’s funeral and how well they represented him.
“They remind me of funerals.”
My mother’s lips thinned. “Well. Perhaps that’s *appropriate*.”
---
Work was no better.
“We are displeased to inform you...” i read from my screen. To be fair, I didn't know why i was surprised, this had happened 4 times over now. I sighed to myself as I opened up a draft for another application to another new company.
It wasn'tthat i didn't have a job. I did—multiple. Virtual assistant, ghost writer, customer care...Any remote job you could name, had it all under the belt as a result of ten years staying home. But the problem was, a freelancer could only do and earn so much. I wanted an actual on-site job.
So far I'd applied to publishing companies, hospitals, tech companies and banks, with the skills I'd accrued already from freelancing. No luck so far.
The rejection emails piled up like tombstones:
*Thank you for your interest…*
*Unfortunately…*
*We’ve chosen a candidate more aligned…*
I deleted them all, but the words lingered. *Unqualified. Unprepared. Unwanted.* Even the hospital rejected me—*“Overqualified,”* they’d said. As if saving lives required less skill than fetching Mark’s dry cleaning
I caught sight of my left hand hovering over the keyboard, stared at the ring finger and the gem resting on it.
The diamond weighed me down like a shackle.
---
Mark’s texts were relentless:
**Cake tasting—4 PM
Suit fitting—don’t be late
Your mom says no to black tablecloths**
I muted him for the third time that week.
Tiffany’s name flashed instead. **Emergency. My place. Now.**
I knew Tiffany well enough to know that this wouldn't be anything BUT what she said it was. So i thought about what it could be throughout the drive to her house. I sincerely hoped she wasn't about to tell me she'd seen Jonah’s ghost.
Instead of the scene id made up in my head which included a torn down apartment and a roughed up Tiffany, i found her knee-deep in Jonah’s old records, a whiskey bottle dangling from her fingers.
“*Finally*.” She kicked a box toward me. “Open it.”
I narrowed my eyes at her then settled next to her and did as she said
Inside: a demo tape labeled *CRESCENDO (ROUGH MIX)* in Jeremy’s messy scrawl.
“His label’s doing a tribute album.” Tiffany’s grin was all teeth. “And *guess* who Jonah’s mom wants singing?” she slurred.
The cassette smelled like dust and teenage heartbreak.
“No.”
“*Yes.*” She pressed play.
The first chords crackled through the speakers—our song, raw and unfinished. Jeremy’s voice in the background: *“Ali, wait, the bridge needs—”*
Then mine, laughing: *“Just *play* it, Goode.”*
The tape hissed, Jeremy’s voice bleeding through the static: *“Ali, wait—”*
I pressed pause, my finger hovering over the button. Ten years ago, that tone would’ve made me laugh. Now, it felt like a hand reaching through time, clawing at the walls I’d built. I wondered if he still bit his lip when he composed, if his hands still shook after a perfect take.
Tiffany kicked my shin. *“Stop intellectualizing your trauma and *feel* something.”*
I ripped the tape out “I’m *engaged*.”
“And he’s *married*.” Tiffany snatched it back. “Which means you’re *both* miserable. Perfect duet partners.”
I suspected this was the whiskey speaking, she couldn't really want me to do this.
---
That night, Mark’s hands wandered over my hips in bed.
“The planner says we’re behind on vows.” His breath was warm against my neck. “I drafted *my* half already.”
I stared at the ceiling. “Let me guess: *‘I vow to optimize our love for maximum ROI.’*”
He froze. “What’s gotten into you?”
Sometimes, I tried to hide how much disdain I had for Mark, and for this...transaction—I refuse to call this a marriage, because I'd have chopped my fingers off than sooner say "yes" to his poorly delivered "marry me" request.
The ghost of a laugh echoed in my chest. If only Tiffany could listen to this conversation.
“Nothing.” I rolled over. “Just tired.”
Mark huffed. “Well, sleep. We’ve got dress fittings at eight.”
But all I dreamed of was a boy at a funeral, stepping forward—then stopping.
---
- Writer
