Chapter 8

Lunch isn’t my favorite shift. Really, no shift is my favorite, but today is extra hard.

Putting my kilt and knee-highs back on after being away for two weeks felt ickier than usual. The way the guy with the short-sleeved button-down winks at me is more annoying than usual. Everything about working here is worse than usual.

Sassie’s Lassies—with its green paint, faux-leather seating fabric, and framed photos of rolling hills, the Loch Ness Monster, and the occasional big-breasted woman—is not exactly a five-star restaurant. But the patrons aren’t here for the décor or food. They’re here for the early-bird special, cheap alcohol, or the all-female staff in tiny uniforms. I took this job when I moved home to make a quick buck while I tried to find a job at the local newspaper. At the time, the paper only had unpaid internships. Nearly two years later, here I am, still slinging beers in a top that won’t cover my stomach or cleavage at the same time.

I place the plates of a plain cheeseburger and shepherd’s pie in front of two elderly men. They thank me, and I force a smile while wondering how old they are. One is completely bald, his face covered in lines and sunspots. He’s got a weathered tattoo of a pinup girl and a rose on his forearm. The other man’s hair is so thin it reminds me of Charlie Brown as he runs a bony hand over it, his clothes hanging loose on him.

It’s clear they’ve been around a while. They’ve enjoyed their time on earth.

So why are they alive when my brother’s not? I hate them for it.

Then guilt fills me up. They appear perfectly nice.

As I return to the kitchen, the guy in the stupid short-sleeved brown shirt, touches my arm. I raise a brow and toss him my best sneer, having no patience for shit today. “What?”

His eyes suddenly change from confident to nervous. “Can I have some ketchup?”

I step away to the bar to grab a bottle of ketchup and thump it on his table. I hate him too.

I hate them all. Every single person here. Why aren’t they dead?

They should be, from eating this food.

With a disgusted grunt, I head outside through the back door in the kitchen to take five minutes, but the door barely shuts before Gary pokes his head out.

“Hey, what’s with you today?” he asks.

Without my coat on, my skin prickles in the cold air. I clench my hands around my biceps.

“You look like you’re gonna kill somebody,” he says.

“I’d like to.” I pivot to face him and tilt my head. “You volunteering?”

He laughs at me, but I’m not joking.

“You’re not wearing your lipstick.” He opens the door wider and moves to stand to his full height, which is well below average. It’s a clear power move, as I’m on the pavement, a step below the door.

I put my hands on my hips. “What?”

“You should go back to wearing the red lipstick you usually do. You’d get more tips that way.”

“Fuck off, Gary.”

“Hey, you can’t talk to me that way.”

I turn away from him.

“This is your first day back, so I’ll cut you some slack after everything, but that was really uncalled for. You disrespect me again, and I’m going to write you up.”

“Yeah, sure, Gar.” I flip my middle finger at the click of the door shutting behind me. He’s an asshole and this job sucks, but I make good tips here. I’ve thought about applying to grad school, though tuition would only pile on to the loans I’ve already got. And I’ve browsed through enough jobs online to know there aren’t many available with my experience as a celebrity wrangler. Sometimes I wonder if that unpaid internship is still available.

Nevertheless, none of it matters now. That was before.

I’m not sure what to do or where to go now. So, for the moment, I’m here in my kilt. I fix my hair into a bun and head back inside to check on my tables, waiting for the time I can clock out.

When I finally arrive home, Aunt Joanie’s bags are stacked by the front door. I put my coat and bag away in the closet then wind around the steps to the kitchen, where Mom and Aunt Joanie are seated at the table. A pizza box is on the stove.

“Cooked again,” Aunt Joanie grins, and I snag a paper plate and slice before plopping down at the table with them.

“Hi, Cassie,” Mom says, dunking a tea bag in her mug.

“Hi.”

Our dialogue since Ray died hasn’t been much more than pleasantries.

“How was work?”

“Fine.”

She sips her tea, and I look to Aunt Joanie. “You’re leaving?”

She rubs my back. “I’ve got to get back to work. I have no more vacation time to use.”

I stick a gob of cheese in my mouth, trying not to pout.

“It’s been a week since the funeral,” she says, “and I know it’ll be hard, but we’ve got to go on as usual. Ray would want us to.”

I rip off a piece of crust to eat while Mom cries silently across from me.

“Where’s Dad?”

Mom dabs at her eyes. “Not home yet.”

Aunt Joanie tries and fails to hide her eye roll before she explains how she’s not looking forward to facing all the work she’s missed. She tells us about her colleague who always has lipstick on her teeth and the guy who burns popcorn in the microwave. Mom doesn’t attempt to take part in the conversation, and I already dread Joanie being gone.

When I finish my pizza, she motions with her head for me to follow her out to the living room. We relax on the sofa, and she takes my hand in both of hers. “Promise me you’ll be okay.”

I nod my promise.

“No, really. Your dad’s father died of a heart attack, right? You need to go to the doctor and get checked. If Raymond’s heart condition was genetic and he didn’t know he had it, you might not know either.”

I lift a shoulder. “Yeah, okay.”

She pinches the back of my hand. “Go. To. The. Doctor.”

“Ow.” I pull away from her, shaking my hand. “Fine.”

“I’m serious, Cassandra Lyn.”

“Full-naming me?”

“Yes. Where’s your phone?”

I take my phone out from the pocket of my hoodie.

“Call the doctor now.”

I bite back a smile, but she snaps her pinchers at me again.

“Fine. Fine. Okay.” I open up the Google app on my phone, pausing over the keyboard. “Should I look up heart doctors or…?” I’m genuinely unaware of who I should be calling.

“You don’t have a doctor?” When I stare at her blankly, she huffs. “Who do you go to when you’re sick?”

“The emergency room.”

“You’re not serious, Cassie!”

I don’t move, and she takes out her own phone.

“You know I work for the hospital network, right? And you don’t have a doctor.” She grumbles. “What the hell am I going to do with you?” She continues to murmur to herself but is cut off mid-sentence. “You’re exactly the type of person we’re trying to get health insur—Kate, hey, how are you? Good, I’m all right. Listen. I’ll be back at the office tomorrow, but I’m going to need you to make an appointment with Dr. Parikh for my niece.” She tugs on the earlobe of her cell-phone-free ear. “I know she’s usually full, but tell them my niece is having heart palpitations and that she’s recently been made aware of genetic heart disease in the family. Use my name.”

Aunt Joanie tosses a victorious glance my way. “Great, thanks. Text me the date and time for the appointment.” She hangs up then holds her phone above her head in triumph. “It’s nice to be the boss.”

“Head of the hospital mafia or something?”

“I do run my department like Michael Corleone. Minus all the murder.” She yanks me to her when she stands, hugging me tight. “I love you.”

“Love you too.”

She pushes me back slightly to look me in the eye. “I’ll need proof you went to the appointment.”

“You won’t believe me if I say I went?”

“Of course not.” She taps my nose. “You are my niece after all.” Then she pets my hair and kisses my cheek. “Be brave.”

Those two words roll through my body, knocking the reality of the situation into my bones. The unimaginable has happened, and I have to get through it somehow. I have to be brave. Not like face off against a giant with a pebble kind of brave, or even the naked and alone in the jungle brave. No, she wants me to be emotionally brave. Solid. Sturdy. Words no one has ever used to describe me.

I want to laugh at her, but she gazes at me so earnestly, I have no other answer besides, “I’ll try.”

She kisses me once more then heads to the kitchen, I assume to say goodbye to my mother, but I can’t stay to hear it.

I traipse downstairs to my room, where it’s quiet. Everyone’s gone, and it’s all back to normal. Except normal is relative. Normal is broken.

When I lie on the bed, it doesn’t escape me that I’m in a basement, well below ground level, on my back. My brother is in the same position right now, underground, on his back.

I squirm and twist onto my side.