Page 2 of The Bodyguard

Or led to a better result.

But I wasn’t a sane person at the moment. I was a person who’d slept in her closet.

By the time I made it to the office that afternoon—just as the work day was ending—my hair was half-brushed, my shirt was half tucked in, and my funeral pantsuit still had a program with my mom’s high school graduation photo on the cover folded up in the jacket pocket.

I guess it’s weird to head in to work the day after your mom’s funeral.

I’d researched it, and the most common bereavement leave from work was three days—though Glenn was making me take five. Other things I’d researched as my sleepless night wore on: “how to sell your parents’ house,” “fun things to do in Toledo” (a surprisingly long list), and “how to beat insomnia.”

All to say: I wasn’t supposed to be here.

That’s why I hesitated at Glenn’s office door. And that’s how I wound up accidentally eavesdropping—and overhearing Robby and Glenn talking about me.

“Hannah’s going to shit an actual brick when you tell her” was the first thing I heard. Robby’s voice.

“Maybe I’ll make you tell her.” That was Glenn.

“Maybe you want to rethink it entirely.”

“There’s nothing to rethink.”

And that was enough. I pushed open the door. “What are you rethinking entirely? Who’s going to tell me what? Why exactly am I going to shit a brick?”

Later, I’d glimpse myself in the mirror and get a specific visual for what the two of them saw in that moment as they turned toward my voice—and let’s just say it involved bloodshot eyes, half my shirt collar crumpled under my jacket lapel, and a significant amount of tear-smeared eye makeup left over from the day before.

Alarming. But Glenn wasn’t easily alarmed. “What are you doing here?” he said. “Get out.”

He also wasn’t a coddler.

I staked my territory in the doorway with a power stance. “I need to talk to Robby.”

“You can do that outside of work.”

He wasn’t wrong. We were practically living together. When we weren’t working, that is. Which was most of the time.

But what was I supposed to do? Go stand in the parking lot?

“Five minutes,” I bargained.

“Nope,” Glenn said. “Go home.”

“I need to get out of my house,” I said. “I need something to do.”

But Glenn didn’t care. “Your mother just died,” he said. “Go be with your family.”

“She was my family,” I said, careful to keep my voice steady.

“Exactly,” Glenn said, like I’d made his point for him. “You need to grieve.”

“I don’t know how to do that,” I said.

“Nobody does,” Glenn said. “You want a manual?”

I gave him a look. “If you’ve got one.”

“Your manual is: Get out of here.”

But I shook my head. “I know you think I need to”—I hesitated for a second, not exactly sure what he thought I needed to do—“sit around and think about my mom, or whatever.… But, honestly, I’m fine.” Then I added, and this wasn’t untrue: “We weren’t even that close.”