Page 3

I’M THERE FOR YOU, BABE

Luke

The rays of sun shining through the stained-glass windows of the funeral home feel like a sick joke. It’s too bright, too warm. I pull at the collar of my shirt, trying to get some relief from the stifling brightness of it all.

It should be raining. In the movies, it’s always raining on days like this.

Black town cars pull up to the cemetery as dark gray storm clouds cry above, the sky mourning the loss right along with people on the ground.

The wind blows, black umbrellas are swept away, and no one can see your tears as the rain provides the perfect hiding place.

But not today. There’s no rain, no storm clouds, not even a hint of the fog that makes this city famous .

It’s sunny and seventy-five degrees at this death parlor outside of San Francisco. If my sister were here, she’d be laughing at the irony.

I close my eyes, coughing back a laugh of my own.

Because Gigi is here. She’s right in front of me; I’m looking at her.

I can see her gray pallor, her closed eyes.

I can see the makeup used to cover the bruises and gashes from the accident.

I can see her arms folded over her chest and the San Francisco Redwoods jersey she made me promise to bury her in if she left this earth before me.

I told her I would, because I didn’t think I’d ever have to.

Big sisters don’t die. They’re definitely not supposed to die before their younger brothers.

But Gigi did die.

She died.

She stopped living.

My sister, the invincible superhero who saved me from our parents, practically raised me on her own, saw me through college and the draft and my years in the NFL, is gone.

One drunk asshole stumbled out of a bar and behind the wheel of his car and now my sister–the only home I’ve ever known–is gone forever.

Tears brim my eyes as I snort. How stupid. How can Gigi be gone when I’m fucking looking at her with my own two eyes ?

No, fuck. That’s not Gigi. I tell myself. It’s the body that she lived in, but she’s not there anymore. It’s just decaying skin and embalming fluid and glue to keep her mouth and eyelids shut. I try to remind myself of that, but the reminder becomes too much.

Why did I tell the funeral home that we’d have an open-casket? Did I tell them, or did someone else make the decision while I’ve been wading through this state of hopeless grieving?

Humans shouldn’t have to look at other dead humans. It can’t be good for the psyche. It’s certainly not good for me.

Gigi’s here, but she’s not here. I’m looking at her body, but it’s no longer her. My brain can’t process it all.

And so I laugh.

I stand in front of my sister’s open casket, and I laugh.

Tears fall from my eyes, snot drips from my nose and I crack up, laughing until I can’t breathe over top of Gigi’s body.

Even though I’m surrounded by people—a room full of guests who are here to pay their respects–I lose every ounce of my self-control.

I laugh and laugh and laugh because everything our parents tried to teach us as kids—everything I always thought to be false but couldn’t quite put my finger on why—has just been definitively proven as bullshit.

There is no god. No god would take my sister from me, from her daughters. It’s too ridiculous.

“This is ridiculous. Isn’t it, Gigi? It’s the most ridiculous fucking thing I’ve ever heard,” I say to my sister, gripping the edge of her fucking coffin as I laugh and sob.

My knuckles go white as I start to shake with the force of whatever sick emotions are plaguing me.

My bad knee seizes, pain shooting up through my groin and down through my toes.

My leg buckles, giving out beneath me. Time slows down as I feel myself slip, and with the grip I have on this wooden death prison, it is without a doubt coming down with me.

Because it’s not bad enough that Gigi is dead.

It’s not bad enough that I’ve completely lost my shit.

I’ve also lost control of my body, and now this entire room is going to see me go to the ground and take my sister’s corpse with me.

I’m just thankful the girls aren’t here to see me send their mom flying.

I don’t need them having ghost-mom haunting their nightmares on top of everything else.

Just as I accept my fate and give in to the pull of gravity, a large hand wraps around my waist and steadies me.

“I’ve got you, Luke. I’ve got you,” my best friend, Dean, whispers near my ear. His grip on my waist tightens as he pulls me in, allowing me to take the weight off of my bum knee and rely on him to keep me steady.

Dean is always there to keep me steady. Since the day I met him, he’s been like a limb I didn’t realize I was missing. I sag into his hold like a limp noodle, relying on him to be my support, and he doesn’t disappoint.

Dean never disappoints.

“She’s dead, Dean. Gigi is dead. Four days ago we were teaching Lemmie and Mellie how to play pickleball in the park and now she’s never coming back. Isn’t that the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever fucking heard?” I cry. Dean’s lip trembles as he brushes a hand over my cheek.

“Yeah, Luke. It really fucking is.”

I lean my head on Dean’s shoulder and let him lead me to a seat while I sink into my grief.

“It was a beautiful service, Luke. Gigi would have loved it.”

I’m sitting on the giant sectional sofa in Gigi’s living room, peeling the label off the glass bottle of a non-alcoholic brew.

I would have liked to have a full-alcohol IPA, but I’ve got three little girls who now depend on me for everything.

I can’t take care of them if I allow myself to drown my sorrows in a bottle.

Besides, I already tried getting drunk once since Gigi died, but I couldn’t stomach it. Couldn’t bring myself to ingest the poison that helped take my sister from me.

The drunk driver who t-boned my sister’s Subaru on Geary Boulevard didn’t survive the crash, either. There’s no one left to hate, no one left to blame, so all I can do is blame alcohol.

I think it will be a long, long time before I’m able to enjoy a cocktail again.

I look up to see Kira, Dean’s sister and Gigi’s friend and next-door neighbor standing in front of me with a plate full of finger foods.

“You know, it feels like everyone has said that same thing to me today, and it hasn’t meant shit. But coming from you, Keeks? It actually helps.”

In her flowy black dress with the long, lacy sleeves, she’s got a real Stevie Nicks look going on.

The whole witchy vibe has a familiar look to it, and then I realize Kira is wearing the dress Gigi wore to my first NFL honors ceremony.

I kept a copy of that photo in my locker at Twin Peaks Stadium as a reminder of everything my sister sacrificed to give me the life of my dreams.

I wonder if Kira borrowed it before or after the accident. Either way, Gigi would have loved seeing her good friend in one of her outfits.

She was generous like that. My sister was always willing to give someone the shirt—or dress—off her back.

Kira gives me a soft smile as she settles onto the armrest next to me, offering her plate out to me. I shake my head. I don’t have the stomach for mini quiche. Even bacon, mushroom, and swiss quiche that I painstakingly chose for this reception when I should have been grieving.

I understand that food is comfort and that I need to thank the friends and coworkers that have taken time out of their day to pay their respects to my sister this morning, but I sort of resent that on top of everything else—losing my sister, losing my career, gaining three kids who now depend on me for everything—I’m also expected to host a reception.

I resent those damn mini quiches, too. Mini quiches never have to experience grief.

Lucky bastards.

“That’s because you know Gigi and I shared the same fucked-up sense of humor.

She would have loved all the uncomfortable awkwardness when people caught sight of the Redwoods jersey.

She also would have laughed her ass off when you tripped over the dirt pile and almost fell into the grave with the coffin.

I had to bury my face in my husband’s lapel and pretend that I was crying to hide my giggles. ”

I sigh, throwing my head back over the back of the couch and rolling my eyes at myself while Kira softly laughs.

“Yeah, Gigi would have loved to see me eat shit. She would have said I deserved it for all the times I nearly sent her to an early grave when I was a teenager,” I say, my eyes stinging as I run a hand over my face.

The crowd of mourners has thinned out, leaving only a few stragglers chatting with their coats on by the front door.

And, of course, Dean and Kira. I sigh as I look around at the too-empty, too-quiet living room.

“I should go next door and get the girls,” I say, putting my hands on my thighs to push myself up off the couch.

Lemmie, Mellie, and Ollie have spent the day next door with Kira and Dean’s parents, who were kind enough to watch them along with Kira’s daughter, Cami.

Her husband, Warren, went over to help them out a few hours ago.

“Don’t worry about it. Pops and IronDad are having the time of their lives with the twins, and Ren might throw a fit if you try to take Ollie away from him.

That British fucker has baby fever so bad.

He doesn’t care that I’ve already got one of his little parasites growing in here, he keeps trying to knock me up anyway,” she laughs, running a hand over the slight swell of her belly.

“Madre de Dios, Keeks. Stop talking about your sex life. Luke doesn’t need to hear about your husband inseminating you.

Pops just texted. They want to know if the twins can have ice cream before dinner?

” Dean appears from the kitchen, posing the ice cream question to me while slinging a cherry-patterned dish rag over his shoulder.