But then, considering the Daisy Carter-Kincaid factor, it’s likely no one really would notice. People can’t stop stealing glances at her.
Naturally.
She’s utterly stunning in her black dress, and she’d stand out even without the blue hair and massive sparkly sunglasses.
And she’s behind Dr. Richardson, for the record.
He is not staring at her.
I’ll bet she and Tyler have some secret signal that would prompt her to pull her flask out of her cleavage and pretend she’s trying to be subtle about taking a hit off of it so that everyone would watch her while he leaps across the casket, grabs Dr. Richardson, and pushes him behind that taller, but still not very tall, tombstone a few rows back.
Not that I’d ask Tyler to beat anyone up. Especially at a funeral.
Especially when I’m starting to want to beat him up myself.
It was my fault for thinking that auctioning my virginity was something I could follow through with, and for not considering that a faculty member might be the one to win me instead of one of the preppy trust fund students.
But yeah, I’m totally squicked out at the fact that he keeps staring at me.
And now I’m wondering how many other students he’s slept with. Or tried to sleep with.
And if his wife knows.
Tyler lets go of my hand, then clamps his arm around my shoulders so tight that I get a weird pull in my hips and have to adjust my stance.
Across the casket, Dr. Richardson goes pasty white. He looks down quickly and steps closer to his wife, who makes one of those back up and give me space looks and steps away from him, running right into Daisy, who pulls her flask out of her cleavage—really wasn’t kidding about that—and offers it to Mrs. Richardson.
If I hadn’t tried to take a shortcut to paying off some of my student loans, I could be here right now as an actual medical doctor.
I could’ve stayed in Richmond an extra year, done a few more classes, taken on a research project, found a different job in a medical field to stay in the industry, and tried again for a residency the next year.
I could’ve been through that residency by now. I could’ve been starting a practice like Veda did last year.
But instead, I’m floundering, trying desperately to help eight women find the love of their lives.
Eight.
I have eight total clients, and two are pro bono cases who don’t know I’m trying to find matches for them, because everyone deserves love.
You can’t make a living off of eight clients.
At least, I can’t. I can’t even find dates for my eight clients without working outside normal matchmaker boundaries.
Of course Tyler’s embarrassed to introduce me to his family under circumstances that suggest we’re something more than friends.
I could’ve made something of my life by now, and instead, I’m the woman who didn’t have the courage to go back to my college town solo.
His grip on me tightens as the song comes to an end.
The funeral director says his closing words and thanks everyone for coming.
Which means it’s probably about time for them to lower the casket into the grave.
I glance up at Tyler.
He’s staring straight ahead, jaw visibly clenched.
It’s hard to stay mad at him for being embarrassed by me when I know being at a funeral is physically uncomfortable for him for other reasons beyond the normal funereal discomfort.
“It would be really nice if a bird swooped in and pooped on the casket right about now,” I whisper to him.
“If I never hear the word casket again for the rest of my life, it’ll be too soon,” he mutters back.
A couple people I don’t recognize are the first to break ranks as the funeral director messes with something at the head of the casket. So maybe it’s not a thing to stay and watch the casket get lowered?
I really don’t know.
I don’t do this often.
Once folks realize other people are moving away from the grave, more follow.
Some pause to offer condolences to Veda.
Others slip away.
And then there are the mourners who angle closer to Daisy.
Dr. Richardson’s wife leans over and says something to her. Dr. Richardson checks out Daisy’s cleavage in her black dress, and his wife hits him with an elbow to the gut.
She’s not even looking at him, and she still knew what he was doing.
“I am never getting married,” I murmur.
“Same.”
I would absolutely get married. One hundred percent. No question.
But not until I found a man that I knew with absolute certainty loved me for everything I am, and everything I’m not, and everything I could be, and everything I could never be.
And not until I could love him back with everything inside of me.
So, basically, I’m never getting married. There’s not a single person on this earth that I could ever trust that much.
The casket begins its descent into the ground, and the mourners still gathered all pause, like they, too, have realized maybe they made a faux pas.
Tyler shudders, so I wrap an arm around his waist and squeeze.
To his credit, he doesn’t ask if we can get out of here.
But then, he probably knows I’d tell him no. Until Veda’s done, I’m here. “If you want to go back now, I can hop a bus later.”
“I’m not leaving you here without a ride home,” he mutters.
“I could ask Daisy to fly me over.”
He winces.
And suddenly I’m mad at him all over again.
I know I shouldn’t be. He had to ask for a day off practice to be here today, and it’s not like the coach randomly hands out get out of practice free cards. Tyler gets paid a crap ton of money to play hockey, and that means he’s expected at every practice unless he’s dying, injured, or ridden with contagious cooties that could wipe the whole team out, and even then, he’s supposed to be there for his team however he can.
Plus, funeral.
He really doesn’t want to be here.
Still— “Am I that embarrassing?”
“What?”
“Don’t play dumb, Tyler. You spent all of breakfast trying to make sure no one talked about me and what I do and how terrible I am at it. You spilled your orange juice so your brother and his wife wouldn’t figure out that I’m basically a failure.”
“What? No. I thought—”
“That I couldn’t handle talking about my own business, which I do every day, with your very successful sister-in-law?”
“Muffy—”
“Never mind. It doesn’t matter. Thank you. Again. For being here. I know you hate funerals, I know I should’ve told you that’s what this was, and I know I shouldn’t have burdened you with anything that I burdened you with last night, and I—”
“Stop saying thank you,” he hisses. “This is what friends do. And we’re friends. And I’m not embarrassed by you. I didn’t want—”
“Muffy? Oh my god, Muffy, is that you?”
My shoulders hitch up to my forehead as I slowly turn to face Connie Bragowski.
Doctor Connie Bragowski.
Who clearly doesn’t care for the sanctity of the moment of having Veda’s dad lowered into the ground, and who apparently might have a new last name, if the stunning man in the custom-tailored pinstripe suit and million-dollar hairstyle standing next to her is any indication.