Page 2 of The Woman at the Funeral (Costa Family #11)

Blair

I had no idea how someone was supposed to mourn the death of the man she’d just kicked out a few days before.

But, clearly, the way I did it was wrong according to Matt’s family.

To be fair, everything I did was wrong to them. How I dressed, the way I cooked, how I decorated and kept house, the way I’d text him asking where he was when he took off to their houses for hours without saying a word to me about where he was going.

I was “controlling,” and “manipulative,” and “a princess” simply for my wardrobe and a styled apartment and not being as rowdy and emotive as the Ferraro crew were.

And don’t get me started on the fit Ronny had thrown when she’d learned I’d hyphenated my last name.

“Langston-Ferraro, what is she, a law firm?”

It was useless to try to impress upon her that I simply wanted to maintain some part of my identity in my marriage. All she would say to that was that I had a new identity.

Matthew’s wife.

Golden boy Matthew.

Never did anything wrong in his mother’s eyes.

And also never learned to be a fully functioning adult because of her either. He didn’t know how to wash his clothes, load a dishwasher, feed himself if it didn’t include a menu, or check his own bank accounts.

I’d been married for two weeks when I learned that my mother-in-law was the only one with the log-in details to my husband’s bank account.

I’d caught snippets of conversation when he’d called her to ask for the details.

“What does she need access to your account for? Isn’t she insisting on keeping her own account?”

I had, in fact, kept my own account.

And I’d been smart enough, even in those early days, not to give Matthew direct access to them.

Did I often pay for things around the house and a lot of the bills?

Sure. Did he sometimes take my credit card and pay the tab at restaurants?

Also, yes. But something about giving him unfettered access gave me pause.

I mean, this was a man who once spent his last penny buying stuff at estate auctions, swearing out that he was going to make a fortune reselling them online.

All that venture ended with was a storage unit I’d been paying for, full of all the junk.

I was half-tempted to tell Ronny that Matthew left the storage unit’s contents to her.

Only I couldn’t bring myself to be that petty about it. Not even after the way the whole family came into the church, completely ignoring my existence, and sitting apart from me.

I’d like to say it didn’t sting.

I was used to being alone, after all.

I’d been that way for several years before Matthew came along.

But then there he was, talking about how close his family was, and my heart swelled at the idea of being able to belong to one again.

Or, really, for the first time. Only to have that hope dashed the first night he brought me over there to meet them, and I overheard Ronny telling her sister that I seemed like a “Class A Bitch.”

The sad thing was, I got it. I’d always been a little standoffish, hesitant to share too much about myself, unsure how to insert myself into a group’s dynamic.

I thought I’d been doing a good job with Matthew’s family. Apparently not. And it only got worse from then out.

Right up until the bitter end, it seemed. And beyond.

I’d resigned myself to being the odd man out at the service.

Then I felt someone slide in beside me.

At first, I thought maybe it was an old coworker who’d heard the news and came to show their love.

But, of course, that hadn’t been the case. Everyone there had stopped reaching out months before. And I’d gotten tired of always being the one to reach out first.

No.

It was no one who cared about me.

It was Matthew’s friend.

A groomsman from our wedding.

Nico Costa.

Another person who seemed to despise my very existence. Though, I could only imagine it was for other reasons than Matthew’s family. He couldn’t exactly object to the way I dressed when he himself was always in a suit and wearing a watch that cost more than my whole wedding.

In the handful of times I’d crossed paths with Nico in the past, he’d been cold and distant and in a hurry to get away from me.

It was clearly just about me, though, because Matthew and his family were forever going on and on about how kind, warm, and generous Nico Costa was.

Him sliding in beside me was the first time I’d experienced that firsthand.

Those stormy eyes of his were full of understanding, too. Which I hadn’t expected since in kicking Matthew out, I’d likely sent him right to Nico’s doorstep.

So maybe he didn’t hate me as much as Matthew’s family did for deciding I was through with my marriage.

Maybe, unlike them, Matthew opened up about things. Maybe he knew about the endless begging (on my part) for things to change, the therapy I’d gone to alone, the counseling I’d taken Matthew to. For three sessions before he declared it was all ‘bullshit’ and refused to go again.

Maybe Nico understood, even a little bit, how doomed my marriage had been from the very beginning. Not, as Matthew’s family assumed, just because of me. But because Matthew was just as far from perfect as I was.

I know I was only reinforcing the idea that I was a stone-cold bitch to the Ferraro family all through the service and the ceremony at the grave.

It wasn’t that I felt nothing.

It was just all simmering under the surface—a pressure that was bound to burst. But hopefully when I was alone.

I didn’t need to show them my grief. I’d probably never see them again anyway.

I expected to keep it together until the door was closed and I was free to feel all of my conflicted feelings, the guilt mixed with the grief, the confusion and the anger and the regret.

But then there was Nico, an ever-present shadow behind me. Silent. Steady.

I knew I should tell him to go. But I couldn’t seem to make myself.

Then as soon as we started to speak, as soon as he told me it was okay to grieve—regardless of the separation—it was like the well overflowed and started pouring.

He was right there again.

But this time, catching me as I fell, pulling me close and letting me sob into his already damp shirt.

It was all there. Everything I’d been feeling since I heard the news.

And before. It was the grief of his death, of the brutality of it.

But also the years of losing him, of feeling him slip between my hands as I desperately clung, trying to keep convincing myself it could work, that there weren’t too many hurdles to overcome.

Yes, there was also the overwhelming guilt of the last of his days on Earth being full of confusion and loss after I’d told him I was finally done.

“I’ve got you,” Nico murmured, his lips touching my hair as his arms held me tighter when a loud, shuddering cry escaped me. “Just let it out.”

It didn’t feel like I had a choice.

Once it started pouring, it seemed to surge endlessly.

And, God help me, I clung to this man who probably wanted nothing more than to get away from me. Like he always did.

But he just stood there, stalwart and strong, holding me together as I split apart.

I wasn’t sure how long we stayed like that. It felt like hours. And from the raw feeling on my cheeks, the swelling of my eyelids, and the scratchy sensation in my throat, I could almost believe it was close to that.

Eventually, though, I found some decorum, sniffling and turning away before he could see my face.

“You don’t have to stay,” I said, striding down past the kitchen toward the hall bathroom. I needed to blow my nose and splash some cool water on my cheeks and eyelids.

“I’m not leaving you alone,” Nico’s voice followed me into the small powder room.

There was no logical reason for how my belly wobbled at his words.

Surely, it was just gratitude. For someone having the decency to care about me, despite my complicated relationship with Matthew.

If I were being honest with myself, I’d been a little worried about being all alone after the funeral was over.

Sure, I’d been alone when I’d first gotten the news of Matthew’s passing.

But something almost felt surreal about that.

Even if I logically knew he was gone, it hadn’t sunk in.

I knew that after the service, there would be no denying it.

Matthew was gone.

Any chance we might have had—albeit slim—to reconcile and work out our many issues was dashed.

Only now I wasn’t a divorcee like I’d planned.

I was a widow.

Matthew, with all of his flaws and many sweet attributes, was torn from this world. From his family.

It was all just so unbearably sad.

Even if I had been grieving the loss of him for many months already, letting him go little by little.

Alone, I tried to make myself presentable. But I’d always been someone whose skin refused to show any sort of grace. If I dared to pick at a blemish, my skin was stained red for a week. So there was no helping the tear-streaked cheeks or the swollen lids.

What did it matter?

It wasn’t like I’d see Nico again after this.

So I took a deep breath, straightened my somber dress, and made my way back out into the hallway, my heels clicking down the white marble floors.

“What are you doing?” I asked. Then immediately cringed at the sharp edge to my voice as I caught him with his hand in one of the kitchen drawers.

“Menus,” he said, producing them. “I’m going to order some food. Your fridge is empty.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“That’s okay. I’m going to have it here in case you get hungry.”

I couldn’t seem to stop myself from comparing Nico and his friend.

If I’d told Matthew that I wasn’t hungry, he’d have told me, ‘suit yourself,’ and order food only for himself.

And if I dared to try to steal a bite, he’d yank his plate away, barking at me about how I said I wasn’t hungry and it wasn’t his fault I didn’t realize I might get hungry by the time the food got there.