Matt stays behind me. Ladies first.
So I step up to the coffin, onto a small ledge before it, because let’s do this right. Let’s really see what we’ve done. Somehow, they’ve made his head almost normal. You can’t tell, unless you look too close, that he cracked like an egg on his way down. His face survived mostly unscathed, but that’s what finally breaks me. They’ve put makeup an inch thick on him. It looks like Mom’s expired base. But he’ll never have wrinkles. I don’t realize I’m shaking, making a keening noise, until arms wrap around me, pull me away from the edge.
They aren’t the ones I want. They’re not Andrew’s and they’re not Matt’s and they’re not even my mom’s, who’s still sitting in the back next to Eddie. They’re Mrs. R.’s and she’s whispering, “That’s not him, honey, it’s okay. That’s not him.” I want to scream, “Why are you comforting me? He was yours and I took him! Don’t you know this is my fault?”
But of course she doesn’t. Matt would never tell her. He loves them both too much for that.
So I don’t either, because I love them too. I take her comfort. Cry on her shoulder. Hug Keri. Cry on hers too. I take and I take and I take because I’ve never had anything to give.
MATT
My fault.
My fault.
My fucking fault.
RAYCHEL
The night after the funeral, we have an unofficial wake at the Grove.
Our whole crew has come home from college. Stanton drove in from Lawrence, and Fischer flew in from UCLA. Bree stopped in St. Louis and picked up The Nuge and his new boyfriend on her way from Chicago. Nathan and Eliza don’t even have to miss school—they don’t have to be back in Texas until next week. They’ve all been circling us, unsure how to take my detachment from Matt, but no one’s asked questions. Bree knows something’s up, though. She and Asha won’t leave my side, and it’s both annoying and welcome.
Matt and I haven’t been back to school, except for the so-called memorial service there today. It was also ridiculous. Everyone and their dog jumped on the opportunity to skip class. No one close enough to Andrew to deserve to talk was capable, so we got heartfelt but lame platitudes from the school counselors and Big Johnson.
Cowboy Chester has become a makeshift memorial, with flowers and candles and knickknacks tossed at his feet. I wonder how long the school will let that stuff sit there. Until it rains, maybe. Or until someone notices there’s a lighter and a package of Zig-Zags among the offerings.
Tonight has ended up a more exclusive event. The entire basketball team is here, and Keri and the non-devout half of her youth group. A big chunk of the football team shows up after the game, along with Trent Montgomery, Rosa Gallegos, and most of the other cheerleaders. “We had a moment of silence,” Rosa tells me. “Some of the girls wanted to do a tribute to him, but I told them it was lame.” I thank her, although a twenty-one-pom salute would probably have cracked him up.
Only a few people show up expecting an actual party. Carson came to the funeral with the rest of the baseball players, but he either has the common sense not to crash this, or lacks the balls for it. Mindy is here, but she stays away from Matt. I almost wish she’d go to him, comfort him, since I can’t.
The boys have him sitting on a hay bale near the bonfire. He’s like the guest of honor. The Nuge climbs up in the back of someone’s pickup, stands on the truck box, and hoists a bottle of Beam. The crowd falls silent. “Tonight,” he announces, “we remember … a man.” Firelight dances off the back windshield, giving The Nuge’s wild hair and eyes an orange glow. It’s the perfect mix of otherworldly, making serious what should sound cheesy. “He was our friend, our teammate, and our brother. He went out the way he would have wanted—livin’ it up in the wilderness with friends. Tonight, we honor him the way he would have wanted—by drinkin’ it up with friends. To Andrew!” He raises the bottle into the air, then tips it back.
We all do the same.
MATT
Spencer and Fischer keep my cup full. Eliza sits by my side all night, but she doesn’t talk, and I appreciate it. I’ll never forget the way her scream echoed up the rocks when she and Nathan reached Andrew’s body. Nathan wouldn’t let me look. He pushed me and Raychel back, almost to the edge of the river, to keep us there until help arrived.
I could have gotten around him, if I’d really wanted to. But I didn’t want to see what I’d done to my brother.
Raychel did. She shoved past him after a minute, ran to Andrew’s side, and collapsed on the ground beside him. I didn’t want to see that either. She came back covered in his blood and that was when I lost it.
“Matt. Hey.” I open my eyes. Spencer holds a bottle toward me, all teeth and glasses in the firelight. I nod my thanks and take a swig. The inside of my knuckle taps against the glass and I wonder which is stronger, glass or bone.
I try not to watch Raychel, but it’s hard when years of party experience have me trained to keep an eye on her. A flashlight beam catches the can in her hand and I realize it’s maroon. She’s drinking Dr Pepper.
Not me. Nathan brings me another drink, this one in a plastic cup. “Is this moonshine?” My words slur.
Nathan laughs. “Moonshine? I feed you Crown and you accuse me of rotgut?”
“S-s-sorry.” He claps me on the shoulder and sits down on Eliza’s other side.
A parade of people offer condolences. Most of them did the same yesterday at the church, but tonight the liquor has loosened my mouth enough for me to answer. “Thanks,” I say over and over. “Thank you. I appreciate it. He would have loved it. We’ll all miss him.” Trent doesn’t call me “Ali” or shadowbox. He just gives me a bro hug and walks off, wiping his eyes. It hurts worse than an actual punch.
If I didn’t know better, if I could let myself pretend, I could think Andrew was here. Maybe if the crowd quieted down, I could hear him sneaking up behind someone in the woods, the way he always did at parties. Maybe if I squint the right way, I’ll see him holding Fischer’s legs up for a keg stand.
Someone brought a guitar, and someone else produces a bongo drum, because in a college town, someone always has a guitar and a bongo drum. They play a little, drawing people toward the fire, until most of the crowd has gathered in a large circle. I squint across the flames. The guitar player is Cruz, and he nods at me. “Any requests?” he calls.
Raychel stands off to one side, flanked by Keri and Asha and Bree, and I try not to look at her. I fail. “You know anything by The Band?” I croak.
He shakes his head. “No, but…” He strums until he hits a familiar chord.