The Gravity of Us
Page 11

“No,” I said eagerly. “It still stole my breath away, just in a different kind of way—and trust me, I’d tell you if I thought it was complete trash. I’ve never been a good liar.” My eyebrows wiggled and my nose scrunched up as I moved on my tiptoes—the same way Mama used to—and went back to staring up at the stars. “Have you thought of planting a tree?”
“What?”
“A tree, in honor of your father. After someone close to me passed away, she was cremated, and my sister and I planted a tree with her ashes. On holidays we take her favorite candy, sit beneath the tree, and eat the candy in her honor. It’s a full circle of life. She came in as energy of the world, and went back into it as the same.”
“You’re really feeding into those millennial stereotypes, aren’t you?”
“It’s actually a great way to preserve the beauty of the environment.”
“Lucille—”
“You can call me Lucy.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-six.”
“Lucy is a name for a child. If you ever truly want to make it in the world, you should go by Lucille.”
“Noted. If you ever want to be the life of the party, you should consider the nickname Graham Cracker.”
“Are you always this ridiculous?”
“Only at funerals where people have to buy tickets.”
“What was the selling price?”
“They ranged from two hundred to two thousand dollars.”
He gasped. “Are you kidding me? People paid two thousand dollars to look at a dead body?!”
I ran my hands through my hair. “Plus tax.”
“I’m worried about the future generations.”
“Don’t worry, the generation before you worried about you, too, and it’s obvious you’re a bright, charming personality,” I mocked.
He almost smiled, I thought.
And it was almost beautiful.
“You know what, I should have known you didn’t write that eulogy based on how it ended. That was a huge clue that it wasn’t written by you.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “I actually did write that eulogy.”
I laughed. “No, you didn’t.”
He didn’t laugh. “You’re right, I didn’t. How did you know?”
“Well…you write horror and thriller stories. I’ve read every single one since I was eighteen, and they never ever end happy.”
“That’s not true,” he argued.
I nodded. “It is. The monsters always win. I started reading your books after I lost one of my best friends, and the darkness of them kind of brought me a bit of relief. Knowing there were other kinds of hurts out in the world helped me with my own pain. Oddly enough, your books brought me peace.”
“I’m sure one ended happily.”
“Not a single one.” I shrugged. “It’s okay. They are all still masterpieces, just not as positive as the eulogy was tonight.” I paused and giggled again. “A positive eulogy. That was probably the most awkward sentence I’ve ever said.”
We were silent again, and Graham went back to the banging of the sealed door every few minutes. After each failed attempt, he’d heavily sigh with disappointment.
“I’m sorry about your father,” I told him once more, watching how tense he seemed. It’d been a long day for him, and I hated how clear it was that he wanted to be alone and I was the one standing in his way. He was literally caged with a stranger on the day of his father’s funeral.
“It’s okay. People die.”
“Oh no, I’m not sorry about his death. I’m one of those who believe that death is just the beginning of another adventure. What I mean is, I’m sorry that for you, he wasn’t the man he was to the rest of the world.”
He took a moment, appearing to consider saying something, but then he chose silence.
“You don’t express your feelings very often, do you?” I asked.
“And you express yours too often,” he replied.
“Did you write one at all?”
“A eulogy? No. Did you post one outside? Was it yours I read?”
I laughed. “No, but I did write one during the service.” I went digging into my purse and pulled out my small piece of paper. “It’s not as beautiful as yours was—yours being a stretch of a word—but it’s words.”
He held his hand out toward me, and I placed the paper in his hold, our fingers lightly brushing against one another.
Fangirl freak-out in three, two…
“Air above me, earth below me, fire within me, water surround me…” He read my words out loud and then whistled low. “Oh,” he said, nodding slowly. “You’re a hippie weirdo.”
“Yes, I’m a hippie weirdo.” The corner of his mouth twitched, as if he was forcing himself not to smile. “My mother used to say it to my sisters and me all the time.”
“So your mom’s a weirdo hippie too.”
A slight pain hit my heart, but I kept smiling. I found a spot on the ground and sat once again. “Yeah, she was.”
“Was,” he murmured, his brows knitting together. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. Someone once told me people die, that it’s a pretty common aspect of life.”
“Yes, but…” he started, but his words faded away. Our eyes locked and for a moment, the coldness they held was gone, and the look he gave me was filled with sorrow and pain. It was a look he’d spent his whole day hiding from the world, a look he’d probably spent his whole life hiding from himself.
“I did write a eulogy,” he whispered, sitting down on the ground beside me. He bent his knees and his hands pushed up the sleeves of his shirt.
“Yeah?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want to share it?” I asked.
“No.”
“Okay.”
“Yes,” he muttered softly.
“Okay.”
“It’s not much at all…” he warned, reaching into his back pocket and pulling out a small folded piece of paper.
I nudged him in the leg. “Graham, you’re sitting outside of an arena trapped with a hippie weirdo you’ll probably never see again. You shouldn’t be nervous about sharing it.”