Finding Mr. Brightside Read Online Free

she delegated the decision to someone else. I tell her I would’ve done the same thing. “People are probably thinking I’m a bad wife for letting him be seen like this,” she whispers from our spot at the end of the mourning line. Those people aren’t worth our time, but on this day, when Mom is being forced to pretend like everyone doesn’t know about Dad and Sharon Flynn, the thought of their judgment is un-fucking-acceptable to me.
    I walk over to the casket and politely ask a few respects-payers to stand back. Then I start trying to close the casket. I hear the various gasps and utters of “Oh my God,” but I don’t care; I’m problem-solving, protecting my mom. My dad, too, in a way. And yet the casket isn’t really cooperating. I grab a different handle and pull down harder. The stupid … padded … lid … won’t budge. No one looks interested in helping me out; most have backed away. The struggle continues until the funeral director shows up and Mom leads me away to regroup. She’s not mad at me, very rarely is. We find a room to hide in and proceed to let it all hang out. We cry about Dad’s face and how we’ll never see the real him again. We get angry about his betrayal. We wish he would’ve been less one-thing-to-the-next, more open to enjoying himself with us, not just others outside our family. Then we start laughing at how the funeral director looked like he wanted to arrest me. Then we go back to crying because here we are, laughing at my dad’s funeral, what’s wrong with us? Mom says we’re reminding her of “that one Mary Tyler Moore episode with the clown funeral” and I go “Oh, yeaaah” even though I have no idea what she’s talking about. “If I tell you something about your dad, Abe … will you promise not to think any less of me?” I promise, and she whispers, “Sometimes I wonder if I ever really knew him.” I tell her that makes complete sense to me, he was a hard guy to read. Then my mom’s sister Jane barges in with a bottle of vodka and dares us to have an extra-stiff drink with her, which we do.
    When I wake up, Juliette is gone. But it feels like she’s here. There’s also a chance I’m still sleeping.

 
    5
    Juliette
    W HY AM I STILL HERE ?
    My throwing a blanket over Abram’s admittedly decent body was the type of random act of kindness I’ll look back on someday, a tear in my eye, and think, Remember that one time I cared? From the hallway, I watch as Abram flips around on his side so he’s facing the back of the couch, blanket not quite covering him, his sweatpants drooping even further and revealing more than just a hint of butt-naked butt. It looks pretty much like what one would expect, if one were inclined to have such expectations: white, two cheeks, firm. And what about that bizarrely pleasant scent—a mix of shampoo, salt, and this morning’s cologne—I picked up while sitting underneath him on a big pile of unswept dog hair? What about how I wouldn’t mind smelling an encore?
    I walk forward toward Abram, allowing myself one more close-up of his cute face. It really does look like a younger version of his father’s, and yet I’m still not hating his guts. What would it be like to lean down and press my lips against his? I bet it’s warm there, near his breath. Might be nice not to be freezing for once in my life. Maybe kissing Abram would turn out to be the best thing I ever forced myself to do for no apparent reason.
    Something’s wrong with me.
    I decide to give myself the grand tour of his house and reflect later, eventually ending up in the master bedroom. There’s an iPad on the dresser; I touch the Home button and a paused game of Candy Crush appears. The bed Abram’s father should’ve had enough self-control to sleep in more often is empty and unmade. Suzy Morgan has allowed a photo of their wedding day to remain on a stand beside the TV—bad choice. On the other side, a Zumba Blu-ray box sits unopened atop a good two