But then I saw the van.
Parked around the corner of the building was a white truck with a satellite jobby on top, so there was no mistaking the fact that it was a news van. I should have expected it, but I couldn’t believe the press was staking out the place on such a personal day. I was busy shooting scathing death-looks in its general direction, so I didn’t notice the photographer approaching my car until he was already at my window with a clacking camera poised between us.
Seriously, dude?
I opened the car door into his hip, but he continued snapping away, asking a barrage of stupid, nosy questions. “Are you family? Are you Trip Wiley’s girlfriend? Hey, over here! C’mon, lemme just get one shot! Who are you?”
I put my pocketbook in front of my face and shuffled toward the front door to the funeral home. I stopped with my fingers on the handle, just long enough to shoot back from behind my purse, “You should be ashamed of yourself! His father just died, asshole! Get a real job.”
Okay, not necessarily graceful, but my God. What a bunch of bloodsuckers.
Since my plan to wait it out had been thwarted, I had no choice but to head inside. The overwhelming smell of funeral flowers immediately smacked me in the face. It was too fragrant, and it made me feel even more nauseated than before. The lobby was quiet, save for some soft music playing. It was not new age or classical. It was doo-wop. I smiled to myself, quite sure that Trip had been the one to arrange for the unconventional selection of fifties tunes to be played in honor of his father. Very nice.
The director made his way out of a door located just off the lobby. He had mastered the sympathetic smile after so many years, and aimed one at me now. “Wilmington?” he asked unnecessarily. Malachi’s is a large home, but there would be no other deceased laid out that day. Terrence Chester Wilmington II was a very successful hotelier, with a chain of establishments dotted across the country. Aside from family and friends, there would be many business associates coming to pay their respects. But right then, I knew I would probably only find his immediate family and the occasional straggler like me.
Before I could make my way into the viewing room, I encountered Sandy Carron, Trip’s publicist, whom I had met briefly four-and-a-half years prior. It seemed like a lifetime ago when I’d interviewed Trip for my job at the time. I also registered that the last time Sandy and I spoke, she’d basically told me to go fornicate myself. But we both put that aside for the time being. There were more important things to deal with at the moment.
I wondered if I should reintroduce myself to her, but she came right over and hugged me hello. “Layla. Thank God you’re here. Trip’s been waiting for you.”
Trip’s been waiting for me?
I tried not to sound too startled, and asked, “Is he okay?”
It truly was the only thing I wanted to know. The only thing I could allow myself to care about right then.
Sandy pulled back, swiping a tear from her eye. “I wish I could tell you yes, but….”
Shit. The poor guy was a mess. He always had a tumultuous relationship with his father; a lifelong love/hate situation going on. I couldn’t even imagine what he must have been feeling.
“Hey, umm… am I intruding? I wasn’t planning on getting here so early, but I was accosted by a damned photographer.” Sandy rolled her eyes in understanding as I added, “I feel kind of awkward about being here right now. Maybe I should come back later.”
I started to hitch my purse higher onto my shoulder, but hadn’t even turned on my heel before Sandy grabbed my wrist. “No. Please stay. It would mean so much to him.”
I tried not to read too deeply into her statement. Surely, she was just trying to make me feel comfortable.
Sandy led me to a set of doors at the back of the nearly empty room. It was unnaturally quiet, save for the non-sequitur doo-wop playing softly in the background. My eyes grazed the rows of empty chairs until they landed on the two women sitting in the front. Even from the back of her head, I was pretty sure I recognized Trip’s sister Claudia, and next to her was Mrs. Wilmington, whom I would have known anywhere.
And kneeling in front of his father’s casket, shoulders slumped and defeated, I saw Trip.
My heart wrenched at his beaten posture, the pain evident in his grieving form. This was not the invincible hero people saw on the movie screens. This was a fragmented human being. This was my old friend Trip; the boy I had loved and the man who had broken my heart.
He stood and swiped a hand through his hair as he turned away from his father’s body. His eyes made contact with mine, and there was about one split second of hesitation before something insane just… happened.