Page 55 of Resisting the Temptation (Broken Shelves #3)

Emma

I fucking hate funerals. I think it’s morbid having the embalmed body of a loved one sitting at the front of the chapel while people talk about their life.

Mormon funerals inevitably end up being a lesson about the gospel. It’s never truly centered around the person we’re here to celebrate and mourn and more about what the gospel says will happen in the afterlife.

Elli’s dad uses his speech to call all of the family members who have strayed to come back to church because if we don’t, we’ll never see Grandpa again. He talks about how Grandpa never wavered in his faith and never strayed from the path, and his only wish was for his posterity to do the same.

Elli and I lock eyes when he says that, and even though she subtly rolls her eyes, I know it hurts her because it hurts me, and it’s not my dad saying it .

It hurts that, while we’re grieving a man who was so important in our lives, we have to be poked and prodded about our choices. They use our grief to try to guilt us into coming back to a church we no longer believe in. A church that—in mine and my cousins’ cases—has done more harm than good.

I tried to convince Ben to stay at the hotel. I told him I’d be fine alone for the funeral.

But as I realize again that my family will offer no comfort, I’m glad he’s here to subtly brush against my thigh letting me know he’s here for me.

When it’s time to sing with my cousins, I try not to let my eyes stray to Ben. But he becomes my anchor when the emotions of the music wash over me.

When I sit back down, he pulls a travel size pack of tissues out of his suit jacket and hands it over before gently squeezing my thigh and letting his hand linger. He leans in and whispers, “You sounded great up there.”

His words only make the tears flow harder.

I’m sure my mother will have something negative to say about my performance. She can never just tell me I did a good job. She always has to pick apart every aspect of everything I do and tell me exactly what I did wrong.

But not Ben.

After my chat with my cousins last night, I know I need to tell Ben how I feel and see how he feels about me, but the conversation feels too heavy right now with the funeral.

Plus, he may not want to be around me anymore after he meets the rest of my family.

I wouldn’t blame him.

My mom’s reasoning for having a family dinner only a few hours after the funeral luncheon is beyond me.

Ben and I opted for skipping the luncheon because I needed some time away from the sad, judgmental gazes of my extended family before being tossed into the lion’s den of my immediate family.

I also need to get out of these tights before I lose my mind.

I hate tights. But they cover the tattoos my dress doesn’t cover, so I opted for being uncomfortably squeezed into scratchy fabric that feels like sausage casings over everyone being “offended” over the artwork on my legs.

As soon as we step through the hotel room door, I kick off my shoes and literally rip the tights off my legs. I pull off the long-sleeve, black skater dress—one I haven’t worn in forever but keep for occasions like today—to find Ben looking at me with a smirk.

“You could’ve asked me for help, Dulzura. ”

My cheeks flush at the image of Ben ripping the tights off of my body.

“Sorry, I was overstimulated. I felt like they were squeezing me to death.”

“You don’t have to apologize. If I had to wear those things, I wouldn’t last ten seconds let alone the four hours you’ve been enduring them. Are you going to wear the dress to dinner at your parents?”

I shake my head. “Absolutely not. I’ll end up punching someone if I have to be uncomfortable for another minute.” I pull out some loose, denim-colored cargo pants and a long sleeve rib knit shirt and hold it up for Ben. “I still have to hide my tattoos, but at least I’ll be comfortable.”

Ben shakes his head as he pulls his tie loose and unbuttons his shirt. “I still don’t understand why you have to cover up your tattoos. Or why you had to switch your nose ring for a stud.”

I sigh as I redress. “Because my mom is offended by my body art. She scoffs and warbles about how much money I’ve wasted, how tattoos are for criminals, and tells me I look like a bull with my nose ring—even though it’s not a septum piercing.

She’s repeatedly asked why I would subject myself to the pain of the needle, but she doesn’t actually care to understand the answer. ”

Ben’s changed in the time it takes me to spill my guts, so he sits next to me on the bed and quietly asks, “What’s the answer?”

His espresso colored eyes are so soft and gentle when they lock with mine.

“I used to… harm myself when I was younger. Nothing as extreme as cutting, but I would scratch myself or bang my head on a wall or a table. I didn’t realize until I got my first tattoo I was trying to feel something other than the anxiety of simply being alive.

The buzz of the needle hurts, obviously, but it helps me focus on the sting of pain in that area instead of the pain of… everything else happening in my brain.”

Ben frowns. “I don’t understand how your parents never noticed anything was going on with you.”

“They did notice—well, my mom did. I would have fits of anxiety over small things and then swing into depression, telling my mom I didn’t want to be alive anymore.

She would get mad and threaten to take me to a mental hospital but never actually followed through even though I probably would have benefited from it.

I’ve been in and out of therapy since I was four years old.

The only time it seemed to actually help was when I didn’t go to a church approved therapist after high school. ”

“ Jesus. What kind of mom gets mad at their child about that?”

I could tell him how all throughout junior high and high school, whenever I told my mom I was feeling down, she’d tell me it was because I didn’t read my scriptures or pray enough.

She would tell me I wasn’t faithful, and only the faithful are happy.

She would tell me to go reflect on what The Lord wanted me to do because if I wasn’t doing it, I was probably just feeling guilty.

I could tell him how my mom was a big advocate for mental health in the ward. She even went as far as getting my therapist at the time—who was an old high school friend of hers—to come to the relief society activities.

But as much as she put on a show for the ward, when it came to her own daughter, my mental health issues became a nuisance. A bother. It worked to her advantage when she wanted to play the victim of the mentally ill daughter but at home? I was too emotional.

I was too needy.

I was too unreasonable.

I was too much.

But I don’t tell him any of it because we’re about to go to their house, and I don’t need to give Ben more of a reason to want to fight them. I’m sure there will be reason enough without me bringing my childhood trauma into the mix.

Instead, I simply say, “The kind who doesn’t want people to judge her.”

I check the time on my phone, groaning when I see it’s time to leave.

“Ready to dive into the lion’s den?” I ask as I slip on my shoes.

“Let’s do this.” Ben holds his hand out, and I take it, immediately feeling like I can handle what’s to come with Ben at my side.