Page 65 of Four Weddings and a Funeral Director
Lily
Life comes at you in weird, winding ways.
So does love. And so does death. And the intersection of all three of these was how a hearse came to be racing down the highway towards La Jolla, a generous hamper from the Chamber of Commerce wedged in the passenger footwell and ‘Born to Be Alive’ blasting on the radio in spite of Mort’s protestations.
Although somewhat half-hearted protestations, Lily had to admit.
He’d come a long way since his first dour tutting at her Bops of Lily playlist.
And so had she. Instead of running the moment that feelings started to pop up, or muting a number when thing got difficult, she was here .
Maybe Lily would be planning an event for the two of them one day.
Or maybe they’d just settle into something comfortable and kind, connected by their work and proximity and their equally terrible sense of humour.
Maybe it would end like the series finale of Six Feet Under , or maybe it would end with the extra plates repurposed from Venus’s wedding being hurled, or maybe it would end with a tender smile and a box of belongings on the other’s front steps.
Everything ended, but that was the risk.
That was the whole glorious risk: putting your whole self into something that might not work out in the end, but that meant that in the meantime you were building something new together that you couldn’t build alone.
That you were willing to put your heart and soul and Netflix password and that amazing yellow vintage couch you’d found thrifting together up as collateral.
That anyone did this at all, knowing what could go wrong, and what probably would, was testament to the sheer, wild beauty of love.
Mort’s slim fingers found Lily’s knee, giving it the gentle squeeze he always did when they were on the road together. ‘What are you grinning at over there?’
‘The fact that “Take on Me” is coming up next, and I will hit that high note or die trying.’
‘Well, if you do, I promise to give you the proper send-off.’
‘Pom-pom-bestowed poodles, confetti cannons, cake smashing, Cossack dancing, the whole nine yards?’
Mort nodded seriously. ‘The whole nine yards of sequinned fabric. Now warm up those lungs. We have a wedding to get to, and you never know who you’re going to have to fight to catch that bouquet.’
Lily made a jabbing motion with her elbow, then blew on it like she’d just unleashed multiple rounds from a revolver.
‘For you, babe, I will give my own cousin a whack in the ribs.’
‘Not the one getting married, though.’
‘No, the middle one with the snaggle tooth who used to steal my Polly Pockets.’
‘That’s my girl.’
Mort glanced down at the dashboard and frowned. Lily could see exactly what was going through his mind: 250 miles till empty , said the fuel monitor.
‘You have three-quarters of a tank,’ said Lily calmly. ‘You don’t need to top up just yet.’
‘But what if the zombies come?’ said Mort. ‘Imagine running out of gas at the end of the world.’
‘Then we’ll run,’ said Lily. ‘Hand in hand, we’ll outrun every last zombie, every last mushroom cloud, every last gang of cannibals.’
Mort swallowed, then nodded.
Lily squeezed his hand.
Mort gunned the engine, and they cruised along the endless curve of the highway, so many glorious moments behind them, and so, so many more glorious ones ahead. Weddings, funerals, and everything that came before, after and between.