love them, and don’t ma’am me. You know better than that. Why don’t you go find Cyrus for me? I need to talk to him after I get done grilling Eli. And Stone, remember, what’s said in my house, stays in my house.”
He beelines it out of the kitchen into the thick crowd in the hallway. Once Stone’s gone on the hunt for Olivia’s husband, she returns to hammering her son. There’s no question of kicking us out—Olivia has always talked openly in front of me and Chevy because she considers us her flesh and blood, too. “She’s my granddaughter. I want the chance to meet her. Talk with her. Get to know her. Meg will never allow that if she knows I’m alive.”
“As I said, once she calms down, I’ll bring her to the house. I don’t like the idea of her being here.” He drops his voice. “It’s too wide-open. Too many eyes.”
“A few minutes here won’t hurt,” pleads Olivia. “A half hour tops. If you leave, you’ll have to tell her father. He’ll tell Meg I’m alive and then I’ll lose my chance.”
“You’re telling me what you want and I’m telling you what I can give you.” Eli rummages through the two-liters, continually picking up the Sprites only to come up empty each time. “Damn leeches drank everything dry.”
He goes to pull his wallet out of his back pocket and his face turns an unusual shade of crimson. “Chevy.”
My best friend tosses Eli’s wallet back.
“Do it again and I’ll nail you to the wall, got it?” threatens Eli.
“It’s compulsive.” Never met a guy that can pick any pocket clean like Chevy. “Besides, I always give it back.”
Eli checks his wallet and when he’s certain everything’s inside he yanks out a couple dollars. “Oz, there’s a vending machine across the street. Go get Emily a Sprite. After that, help Cyrus keep this place contained. If they aren’t associated with the Reign of Terror, throw their asses out. With Emily here and the shit going on with the Riot, I want this placed locked down.”
“Dammit, Eli!” This gains everyone’s attention. A lull falls over the once boisterous conversations in the hallway. Olivia hasn’t raised her voice like that in months.
She continues in a whisper. “She’s my granddaughter. My granddaughter.”
Olivia thumps her fist against her chest each time she says granddaughter. Both Chevy and I shoot to our feet, but it’s Eli that catches her before she sways too far.
My heart beats wildly and my throat constricts. I don’t understand what the hell is happening inside me, but I know what’s happening inside Olivia. She’s dying and there’s nothing any of us can do to stop it.
Eli hugs his mother. “We’ll go in after we get you something to eat.”
I move because it hurts too bad to stay still. “I’ll get her the Sprite.” Though I don’t know why. It’s Emily’s fault that Olivia is upset. I wish Emily had remained the illegitimate daughter that disappeared and never returned.
THE OFFICE OF a funeral director resembles those of normal people: file cabinets, a desk, a rolly chair, paperwork, a computer, pictures of kids and families. No jars of blood, no dead people or dead people parts. Small consolation.
I’m ticked. Extremely ticked. Like a-tick-interrupted-from-a-meal ticked.
She’s alive. My freaking non-grandmother is still alive, and she scared the hell out of me.
Completely spent, I sit in the chair, hold my phone and wait impatiently for it to vibrate. I left Mom a message, and someone went to find Dad. I want to go home.
My legs have the strength of mashed potatoes. I’m cold and clammy, and my stomach churns like I vomited. That’s because I did, in the viewing room, and I discovered that yellow bile does not blend well with red velvet industrial carpeting. My crowning achievement in overreaction.
Through the large window facing the hallway, I can see the crowd hasn’t dispersed. Instead, the mass of bodies has increased since my moment of glory. Almost everyone gawks at me—laughing. My mom said Eli’s family was psychotic, but this...this is...
The door squeaks open and the guy who caught me and kept me from falling to the floor enters the room with a can of Sprite. He’s rocked out in those loose jeans, a studded black belt and a black T-shirt. “Olivia says it’s not officially a party until somebody pukes.”
“Glad I added to the fun.”
He perches on the edge of the folding chair across from me and offers the Sprite. “Eli told me to get you this.”
I keep my hands planted in my lap. Nothing today has gone right and I’m not a hundred percent sure I’m done puking.
“It’s Sprite, not crack,” he says.
“Thank you.” I accept the soda and set it on the desk. “Are you my cousin?”
He doesn’t resemble me or Eli with his blue eyes and grown-out black hair. The type of hair that’s not overly long, but long enough that girls would be drawn to him because it’s the correct length for seductive rebellion. The ends lick the collar of his shirt and hide his ears. He has the type of hair Blake Harris was suspended from school over. But that’s not where my eyes linger. What captivates me is the way the sleeves of his T-shirt cling to his muscles. He’s ripped in a very awesome way.
“No blood relation,” he answers.
Good, because he has that alternative-music-band hotness and thinking someone I’m related to is sexy could send me into another meltdown.
“Will you do all of us a favor?” he asks.
I shrug, not exactly in the mood for conversation.
“Play nice with Olivia, then leave.”
“Excuse me? Play nice? With her? She freaked me out.”
He leans back in the chair and sprawls his legs out in a way that makes him appear larger than life and leaves me feeling claustrophobic. “Look, I know you’re going all prodigal daughter, but this ain’t the time or place. This is Olivia’s party and you’re ruining it.”
“Prodigal what?”
“Daughter. Bible. The long-lost son returning home.”
I stare at him, not sure what to say.
He gives a short laugh. “I heard that about your mom. Gave up God and family.”
No one speaks badly about my mom. “I heard you’re all crazy. And guess what? It’s true.”
“Why? Because Olivia’s enjoying her life?”
“Because she plays make-believe in a coffin and all of you are okay with it.”
“Better than screaming like a two-year-old and puking our guts out.”
I
