I rounded the corner and saw my mother waiting for me. And then I ran to her, threw myself into her arms, and burst into a fit of tears.
“Brooklyn,” she whispered, holding me in a tight hug. “It’s okay,” she cooed as she stroked my hair.
“I’m a terrible friend!” I wailed. I saw the fuzzy outline of a boy walking past us tentatively through the doors.
“No, you aren’t,” my mother replied.
“Yes, I am! I don’t even know why I’m here! Beth hated my guts! She wouldn’t talk to me all summer!”
“Brooke,” Mom said. “I want you to calm down. Now, we talked about this. You knew it would be hard, but she was your best friend for all those years. Do you think she wouldn’t have wanted you here?”
“No, I don’t!” I cried.
“Yes, she would,” Mom said. “Now we have to go in.”
“I can’t!”
“Brooke, Beth was your best friend,” Mom said, trying for patience.
“No she wasn’t! Not after what I did! I ruined everything! I’m a freaking slut!” I sobbed, shaking my head from side to side.
“Sweetheart, don’t say words like ‘freaking’ and ‘slut’ in a church,” Mom replied.
I only sobbed louder.
“You can do this,” Mom encouraged.
I stood my ground, shaking my head violently, refusing to go in.
“Brooklyn Wright!” Mom hissed, pushing me away and grabbing my upper arm. She squeezed too tightly, and I squeaked in discomfort. There was no more tenderness in her voice. “Get yourself together. This isn’t about you. So stop making it about you. You’re going into that sanctuary and you’re going to pay your respects to your friend, and you’re going to make it about Beth. Do you understand me?”
I swallowed hard and wiped my face.
“Do you understand me?” Mom repeated.
I nodded grudgingly, and she took my hand, leading me through the doors.
The sanctuary reeked of sorrow and guilt. I imagined everyone thought they were responsible in some way for the death of an 18-year-old. I felt guilty, but my guilt came from an entirely different place. I didn’t drive my best friend to commit suicide, but I also wasn’t there for her when she needed me. I was too wrapped up in my own selfish desires—desires for her boyfriend, Finn. Sneaking around. Lying to her. Slowly destroying a friendship that was going strong since we were five. I was a deplorable friend, and she discovered it. Then I tried to make it right by telling Finn we were over, explaining that I couldn’t betray my friend, and he wanted to know what I thought I was doing to him. Was it not the same thing? Betrayal?
I slunk into a pew in the back of the church scanning the crowd for Finn. I knew he would be here, and I thought he had a lot of nerve. He cheated on Beth. Broke her heart. The worst part was that I was his accomplice. He destroyed my friendship, and I let him. And he felt no guilt over it. “The heart wants what the heart wants.” That’s what he told me once. I think he stole it from some bullshit movie.
I can’t believe I fell for him. I can’t believe I was sitting here now blaming him for everything. What a pathetic loser. Not him. Me. I swiped my fingers under my eyes, no doubt smearing my recently applied mascara. I kept scanning the congregation for Finn, but I couldn’t find him. It was desperate disappointment because I needed to find him. I needed to look at his face. Seeing him would compound the anguish I so rightly deserved to feel. I needed him to help me punish myself more for the pain I caused Beth.
I drew in a long, slow breath, exhaling just as slowly, and caught sight of the beautiful guy. There. That’s it, and I breathed deeply feeling my heart constrict, feeling it ache for shame at my behavior. I didn’t need Finn to make me feel like shit. This guy could. I stared at him, focusing on my guilt, silently apologizing over and over to the girl up front in the wooden box.
I’m sorry, Beth. I’m so sorry. Please don’t hate me.
And then my eyes glazed over with fresh tears as the pastor took his place beside the casket.
Two
“What the hell, Brooke?” Gretchen said. “You met him at Beth’s funeral?”
I grunted into the phone.
“A funeral?” she emphasized.
“I know, okay!” I said. “I’m a shitty friend.”
“You think?”
“I can’t help he ran into me,” I argued.
“Oh my God,” Gretchen said. “This is just like that Sex and the City episode.”
Here we go again, I thought. Gretchen had an irritating way of likening all of my life experiences to Sex and the City episodes. I already knew which one she was going to describe before she started because she made me watch every single episode with her. Multiple times.
“And Charlotte’s hat blows over to the guy’s wife’s gravestone,” I heard Gretchen say.
“I know. I remember.”
“And it’s totally pathetic and you can’t date him,” Gretchen said.
“I’m not dating him. We barely even talked,” I replied. “We kind of just stared at each other for a minute.” I screwed up my face in thought.
“You stared at each other?”
“Um, kind of,” I admitted.