“I’m Lena,” I say, gripping the podium tight with both hands. The wooden elevated surface where I’m standing creaks under me as I shift my weight. “Most of you know me as Charlie’s girlfriend.” The second I say it, all I can think about is the pack of cigarettes in my bag and how the only thing I want to do is run straight out of here and continue on to a grungy dive bar in Pigalle and take a shot or three and smoke up a storm. There’s all this pressure to say something important now, and all I wanted was for everyone to know who I am. That’s it. Because I’m selfish like that. I wonder what would happen if I pulled out a cigarette right here, but then I hear Charlie’s voice in my ear: You’re making it all about you again, Lena. And it pisses me off so much that for a second I’m glad I won’t ever have to hear the phrase again or see the smug expression that always went along with it.
“Charlie and I were in love,” I say, hating myself as the words dump out. I sound like a stupid American greeting card with traces of a British accent, leftovers from a life spent in U.K. boarding schools. There’s a sharp intake of breath from somewhere, and I scan the crowd. Charlie’s mom is looking at me with desperate eyes, like I’m some sort of flotation device. After a long struggle, she finally accepted he was dead, given the myriad evidence and the fact that the police said there was no way he could have survived the explosion. I pry my gaze from her grief-racked face with difficulty. A few feet to her right, Charlie’s friend Max looks bored. Max is all cozied up to his new girlfriend like it’s a movie date and he can’t wait to go home and make out.
My eyes settle on the girl in the third row, the really beautiful but kind of cagey-looking one, sitting with the family even though she’s not family—I know it because I’ve met all the family at birthday parties and anniversaries and reunions. The family is close like that. The girl’s face is pale. Her mouth is hanging open. She looks like someone just told her that her father murdered her puppy.
That’s when I know it. It’s so obvious, I almost laugh. The way she looked at me in the hallway. The way she’s looking at me now.
“Charlie and I dated for three years,” I say aloud, not because there’s any point to it, but because I want to see her reaction. Red splotches are appearing on her cheeks. “We talked about marriage.” We hadn’t, really—I’m nineteen and he was twenty, for Christ’s sake—but now that I’m watching her react, I can’t stop myself. It’s like orchestrating a multicar collision—one designed for revenge. The feeling makes me heady, and I have to grip the podium tighter for support.
The words escaping my mouth are saccharine. I know if Charlie could see us (which he can’t, because I know there’s no heaven and thus no more Charlie), he’d make a gagging noise in the back of his throat and accuse me of being melodramatic.
“I really believe I’ll be promised to Charlie in my heart forever,” I conclude a minute later. I know I’ve provoked tears because I can hear the sounds of noses blowing and muted sobs, and I have to control the instinct to roll my eyes. I train my eyes on her; she looks like some kind of ghoul under those jet-black bangs and that wavy, messy bob. I wait for her to crack. To bolt upright and run away. The challenge hangs there for a minute; but she stares back at me, unflinching despite the horror written all over her face. She’s tougher than she looks. I return to my seat and face front, forcing myself not to turn back. This weird, lightheaded feeling washes over me, like I was just two seconds from fainting up there.
As soon as the minister says some final words and invites everyone to a luncheon immediately following the service, I allow myself to turn halfway around in my chair as though I’m reaching for my purse. I look for her. She’s not there. But the door to the foyer is just now swinging closed.
I run in the direction of the exit as fast as I can in my suede booties.