Page 104 of The New Couple in 5B

“Can’t ring up like a normal person?”

She raises an eyebrow at me, a thing she could always do that I never could. Her smirk presses a dimple into her cheek. “Would you have let me in?”

“Of course,” I say. “No. I don’t know.”

“Well, here we are. What did you see?”

I shake my head, still shivering, heart still pounding. “Nothing.”

“Rosie.”

It’s no use—something about her gaze, her voice, her knowledge of all the parts of me I seek to bury. The dam bursts.

I tell her. Everything.

When I’m done, she just offers a knowing nod as if none of it is surprising. “Rosie, let me help,” she says. I don’t see what she can do, but then she opens her arms and I walk to her. Everything about her evokes my childhood, which brings comfort and pain in equal measure.

We return to the service just as the main eulogy begins. I look around the room for the ghost of Willa Winter, but she’s gone.

You’re in danger.

Her words knock around my head.

The man at the podium was featured prominently on Xavier’s Instagram feed—traveling together, at dinners, parties. Standing in the back, we listen as he paints a picture of Xavier—a life-loving world traveler, a compassionate and devoted friend, a foodie, a bit of a party animal, a hero in his work as an EMT, a careful and dedicated health professional, committed to doing his job well. He wanted to serve. To help people in need. And when the life of the EMT became too much and burnout set in, he changed fields.

“What he loved most about his job is that he could save people from pain. That he made it so that doctors could save lives while their patients slept. Some people, in this life, are pain givers. Xavier only ever wanted to ease suffering.”

Sarah stares around at the ornate church, the towering, vaulted ceiling with its elaborate fresco, the gleaming wooden pews, the marble floors. She must be comparing it to my father’s church, the run-down old barn open to the sky. My father never called himself a Christian or a Catholic.Religion was created for man by man. Call yourself what you want. Pray to Jesus or Buddha or Allah or whoever. But God’s only name is Love, he used to say.The sky is our fresco. The stars, our angels, looking down.

I remember believing that when I was small. That each point of light in the night sky was a soul watching over us here on Earth. In school I learned the truth, that the stars were large incandescent bodies like the sun, living and dying, exploding and imploding light-years away. That was the moment I began questioning the things my father taught me. I hated him for lying to me about the world. About myself.

The mass continues and the mourners take Communion.

I see Abi standing off to the side, erect beside a pillar. He wears a simple black suit, is elegant with his dark hair slicked back. He looks every bit the sentry. Our eyes meet, and he holds my gaze, gives me a slight nod. Who is he? What is he hiding? What did Xavier want to tell me?

I say a silent goodbye to Xavier. Then I grab Sarah by the hand.

“Come on,” I whisper, and pull her outside.

We hustle the few blocks home and I let us in the front door with my key.

No Abi.

No George.

Everyone else is at the funeral.

“This is veryworldly,” she says when we’re inside, her voice tight.

Worldly. That’s straight from my father’s lips. To be worldly means to be concerned more with life on earth than you are with matters of the spirit. Wealth, travel, entertainment, indulgence of the senses. It’s not a compliment.

She goes on. “This whole place. The city, the building, it’s a monument to man, to ego.”

“You sound like Dad.” I dig deep for patience, remember what Dr. Black said about how she’s still in my father’s thrall, living inside his lies. But searching for compassion, I find only more anger. Annoyance.

“What are you doing?” she asks.

I’ve slipped behind the doorman station. I have one more key from the ring Ivan left us to try.