Read an Excerpt
1
We Start with the Funeral
When I learn I'm still dating Sam Lewis, I'm at his funeral.
Mara and I drift into St. Ignatius Catholic Church twenty minutes early.
"You're sloshing," she tells me out of the side of her mouth.
"Puddle in the parking lot." The wet squish of my foot into damp insole punctuates my words.
I grip her elbow when we reach the threshold, as if I'm guiding her toward the vaguely familiar faces of my ex-boyfriend's friends and loved ones. Really, she's the one who's keeping me upright. Such is her duty as my best friend, though her striking, angular features and statuesque frame make her an only slightly more discreet companion than an emotional-support corgi.
Today, we're a study in contrasts. Where Mara is tall and steady in her stacked heels, I'm short and unwieldy in my waterlogged, machine-washable flats. Her auburn hair is spun up neatly in a French twist while my long brown curls fall messily around my face, because I'm thirty years old and still can't follow a YouTube hair tutorial.
She shakes herself from my death grip to unbutton her coat, revealing a pristinely black, Woolite-commercial-ready sweater topping a pair of effortlessly chic wide-leg trousers. I-as a chronically reckless washer of dark woolens-had nothing so perfectly Burial Black to don for the funeral of a man who'd gently dumped me in a rowboat. I settled for a faded charcoal dress and a cardigan that exists somewhere between pea green and the color of the dead late-autumn grass. I hope it snows soon. I'm already so sick of fall. I'm already so sick of today.
The wooden doors thud behind us, announcing our arrival. I suppose it's not ordinary to bring a plus-one to these sorts of things, but the funeral of my most recent ex is no ordinary occasion.
My eyes search the front hall for someone I know. More accurately, I'm hoping to see no one I know and confirmation that I'm in the wrong place.
No, no. Not your Sam Lewis, a stranger might say. A different Sam Lewis. Though he hasn't been my Sam Lewis for six weeks-if he ever really was.
But I recognize his friend Russell immediately, and relief and disappointment flood my chest like an inflowing tide. Today is real. This is no mistake.
We sidle up to his group, and Russell introduces himself to Mara with an overly familiar hug. I watch her struggle against her natural urge to recoil. Russell Rossi is an adventure seeker, a shameless flirt, and a level of attractive that loops all the way back around to unattractive. He's uncanny valley-level hot and a self-proclaimed "hugger."
Since Mara once described a high five from her accountant as "inappropriately chummy," I swoop in to hug Russell myself. He presses his whole body against me and holds it approximately three seconds too long. Releasing me from his grip, he presents me to the group as "Alison Mullally, Sam's girlfriend."
"Former girlfriend," I correct Russell.
"Well, obviously, babe," Russell says dismissively before returning to his conversation.
His words snap against my skin like a rubber band. I stand there dumbly while the group continues speaking about people I don't know and sharing memories I don't have. The words He broke up with me six weeks ago sit on my tongue.
My mouth opens and shuts once, twice, and then a third time. With each second that passes, my correction morphs into an uncomfortable non sequitur in a conversation that's moved on. All of my explanations dissolve in my mouth like sour cotton candy.
Sam's mom joins our circle, greeting each of us with a cool, stiff embrace. I can hardly look at her when she pulls me close, murmuring into my putrid-colored sweater-so quietly I almost can't make it out-"I'm just grateful he found you before . . ."
My role in this tragic drama finally clicks into place.
At funerals, we're all present tense in relation to the dead. Judy Lewis is his mom. Rachel is his sister. I'm introduced over and over as his girlfriend. This is Alison, Sam's girlfriend. Only Sam is past tense.
To this group, I am Sam's girlfriend. No one interrogates the seriousness of our relationship to determine how much grief I'm allowed. We could have been together two weeks or ten years-though any of his Instagram followers could see I surfaced around June. I never made it to his TikTok. A relationship wouldn't fit the "nomad" aesthetic, he said.
Dread pools in my belly while I hover between lukewarm coffee carafes, overhearing alternate versions of my love life making their way through the sympathy floral arrangements. Most timelines diverge at the annual Lewis family Labor Day party.
In my version of events, Sam dumped me three days prior. Mrs. Lewis, on the other hand, was sad to hear of my bout with food poisoning. Russell's still bummed I was out of town and missed his epic bonfire-the tallest one yet! A few people are sure they saw me there.
In every story but mine, I was still with Sam on Labor Day, and I was still dating him when he crashed his rental car last Tuesday in Sedona on a spur-of-the-moment climbing trip. Therefore, at his funeral, I'm Sam Lewis's girlfriend-possibly in perpetuity.
Part of me wonders if Sam's lie means that he felt more for me than he ever let on, but I immediately dismiss the thought. It's more likely that the breakup didn't warrant a special announcement. My departure would have been self-explanatory when he showed up with a new girlfriend at the next big event. It just so happens that event is today, and he can't be here for it.
As the crowd filters into the church, I yank Mara through a set of heavy double doors into a parochial school hallway, decorated with brightly colored drawings of Jesus on the cross demonstrating varying levels of artistic competency.
Mara stumbles over her feet. "Alison, what the-"
"Why would they all think . . . ?" I can't seem to find the words as nausea clenches my throat.
"Why didn't you correct anyone?" Mara asks. Her tall, frame settles against the beige cubbies lining the school hallway.
"I tried!" She challenges my excuse with a barely perceptible eye roll. "What did you want me to do? Say 'No, Mrs. Lewis, I'm sure you don't have enough on your plate today, so let me be the one to tell you that we broke up six weeks ago'?"
She dismisses her pulsing phone with a frown. "At least he dumped you. Less culpability."
My teeth worry at my bottom lip. "I think that makes it worse somehow."
Mara's phone pulses again, more violently this time, and she soundtracks her question with furious thumb taps. "Why'd you want us to come then?"
My feet squelch as I pace the small opening of Ms. Dubicki's classroom door. "His mom wanted me here . . . which suddenly makes a bit more sense. But we're trying to stay friends. Were, I mean," I correct myself, an apostrophe the difference between life and death. "Who're you texting during my crisis?"
"The Guy," she grumbles. Mara manages the campaign of a potential mayoral candidate whom she refers to only as "the Guy." Her texting demeanor-all stiff shoulders and flared nostrils-broadcasts her frustration with her newest candidate. "And since we're clearly doing this"-she gestures in a circle between us-"I'm briefing Chelsea to get us all on the same page. She has thoughts."
"This? What is . . ." I rip my silent phone out of my coat pocket and groan at my missed notifications from Chelsea Olsen, the other member of our trio. "You can't text 'Al is dating Sam' in the group chat with no further context. Chelsea's asking if it's a 'Devon Sawa Casper scenario.'"
While Mara is a classic old soul-with the confidence and jaded perspective that comes from having done it all and seen it all-Chelsea's soul is fresh and new. The possibilities for her are always endless, so when Mara texts a coded message about my waking nightmare, Chelsea's first thought is that I've fallen into a paranormal romance with a ghost.
"Don't answer that. Never admit to anything in writing. Keep all your statements on message. Right now, the story is you're still dating Sam."
"I don't need a story. I need to set this straight." I take a deep, restorative breath before losing steam and slumping next to Mara against the cubbies. "How do I do that?"
"The Notes-app apology on Instagram is always a classic. But I think you can just tell his mom there's been a misunderstanding."
"Yeah. Yes, of course." Anxiety twists my stomach. "I think I need a second."
My eyes drift to the glowing fire exit and the sign below it that reads caution. alarm will sound.
Before I can properly consider escape routes, a gorgeous blond woman barges through the hallway doors. "Is one of you Alison?" the stranger asks. "Russell said Sam's girlfriend went this way." She stops short, somehow perfectly positioned in the single ray of sunshine pouring into the dark, nearly windowless hallway so that she's bathed in light like an angel of death. But then her wild eyes slam into me with recognition. Damn it, Russell. "Alison? I'm Rachel, Sam's sister."
As soon as she says her name, I see it. Rachel Lewis looks so much like her brother, the same ocean-blue eyes and beachy blond waves. Without a stitch of makeup, she glows in her simple black cotton dress. I suppress the inappropriate urge to ask for her skin-care routine.
The words Sam's girlfriend ring in my head like an alarm. This is the confrontation I've been hurtling toward-to rehash my dumping by the man we're all here to mourn. My body braces for impact. "There's been a misunderstanding," I explain in the passive voice like a true politician. Mara should be proud. "I'm Sam's ex-girlfriend. I'm not sure how, but-"
She cuts me off with a dismissive hand wave. "I know all of that. Who have you told?"
I stop analyzing each of her eerily Sam-like features and finally take in Rachel's demeanor. She's shifting her weight from foot to foot and peering over her shoulder like an intrepid reporter handling an increasingly volatile source, the kindergartners' coat hooks a stand-in for a darkened parking garage.
I squint at Rachel. "Told?"
"That you're broken up. Tell me you didn't tell anyone." Her eyes are pleading with me.
I look at Mara before answering. "I tried to correct Russell, but it went over his head."
"Wait, I'm sorry. You know?" Mara asks, transforming into "Work Mara" like a corporate Animorph.
"He had me take Alison's name off the plane ticket to Chile. Of course I know," Rachel explains, leaning toward us. "But I'm the only one who does."
Back when I was dating Sam and feigning wild impulsivity, Sam promised he'd "figure out" my flight and accommodations if I'd join him in Chile. Just say yes. The rest will work itself out, he assured me. I'd thought it was some sort of "the universe will provide" mantra, but apparently, "the universe" was his flight attendant sister.
Mara snaps her head in my direction. "Plane ticket?"
"Sam invited me on his January Patagonia trip," I answer, my shoulders stiffening under my friend's narrowed gaze.
"And you agreed?" Mara asks. "Of your own free will?"
Rachel's waving arms cut into our aside of meaningful looks and shrugs. "We don't have much time," she instructs, her voice vibrating with a panicked energy. "I'm giving the eulogy in a few minutes, and I need to know that you'll go along with this."
"What do you mean, 'go along'?" Mara folds her arms.
Rachel pulls me closer by my forearm, gripping so desperately pain shoots to my fingertips. "Sam didn't want my mom to know he broke up with you. She'd been on him about 'getting serious' and 'settling down,' and she likes you. You're stable." She means dull. "Despite all his achievements, the only thing that matters to my parents right now is that he was finally settling down with a nice girl." Her voice puts nice girl in scare quotes. Whether she's objecting to nice girls in general or attributing the term to me, no one's asking follow-up questions.
I tilt my head to the side, trying to process this bizarre turn of events. "You want me to . . . pretend?"
She nods her head as if still convincing herself. "It's one day. You guys only dated for a minute, and when the grief fog lifts, they'll forget all about you. I-we just need you to be 'the girlfriend' today. Please." She swallows the last word, but I hear it all the same. Tears pool at the corners of her eyes, and she blinks them away. The sight of her tortured expression pulls at a painful rock in my chest, and I bite on the insides of my cheeks to keep from crying too.
The thought of Sam worrying that his bold, undaunted life wasn't enough cuts me in a way I can't explain. I want to tell him I admired his unsettled life, but I can't. I can't tell him anything ever again, and neither can this despairing woman in front of me.
But pretending is something I can do.
I peel Rachel's hand from my arm and offer her a smile I hope is encouraging. "Of course. Whoever you need me to be."
As far as funerals go, this one's vibrating with energy. The church is packed in the way it only is for Easter Sunday, Christmas Eve, and the funerals of young people. Mara and I are directed to a pew near the front, and I realize too late the usher has provided us prime mourner real estate.
We're in the second row, directly behind the immediate family, mixed in with cousins and lifelong family friends. As a discarded summer fling, I brought reinforcement and dressed for the back pew to hide beside former coworkers and high school acquaintances. Instead, I'm up front on full display as Sam Lewis's Current Girlfriend (capital C, capital G).
Rachel delivers the eulogy. She starts with childhood stories of tree climbing and broken arms. Sam's early wanderlust and his adrenaline-junkie thirst for adventure. His penchant for taking spur-of-the-moment vacations and wilderness hikes without a word to anyone. A frustrating attribute in life sounds so charming in death. I recognize the man she describes as Sam, but he's flattened-a flawless sum total of sweet stories and wacky anecdotes.
I always thought Sam was living precisely the right life. He was effervescent and spontaneous, always wanting to try a new spot, always leaving for an exciting trip. He was zero to one hundred in every facet of life. He was impulsive and did things that scared him "for the story." If anyone was really living, it was Sam.
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