Falling Fast (Falling Fast #1) - Tina Wainscott Page 0,5

memorial—not a “funeral”—was to be held at the cemetery, not in a church. She hadn’t stepped foot inside a church in twenty years, as far as Mia knew.

“I don’t understand why she liked this place so much,” her mother said, looking around in disdain as they drove through the downtown area, with the old brick buildings claiming to be historic. “Then to insist on being buried here…”

Her father kept his eye on the road, his mouth a tight line the way it always was when she went on and on about his mother. “Mom wasn’t a city girl. She told me the moment she arrived in town for vacation she made up her mind that she wasn’t leaving.”

“Making us come down here to see her every year,” her mother groused.

Her father’s fingers gripped the wheel. “We haven’t been down in seven years.”

Because of Mia. At first, because she wasn’t in any condition to travel. Then it was that Grandma was “consorting”—Mia’s mother’s word—with the boy who had corrupted and disfigured their daughter.

At the time, Mia had been at a low point, having suffered through yet another surgery, with the prospect of continuing disfigurement. Grandma had called to say hello, then announced that she was putting Raleigh on the phone. Before he’d said more than a few words, Mia had blurted out that she couldn’t talk and hung up. A torrent of grief and regret poured from her, leaving her a sodden mess.

Through so much of her hospital stay and the pain, thinking about Raleigh had strengthened her. Hearing his voice, though, had knocked her completely off balance. The heartbreak had been so unexpected, so huge, that she hadn’t known how to process it. She had coping skills for facing surgery, facing her death and the deaths of the kids she got to know in the peds oncology ward. Counselors helped her with all of that. She had nothing when it came to losing love.

Later, she’d written a letter to Raleigh, sending it to her grandmother to give to him. She’d never heard back. Not that she blamed him. It was time to move on for both of them, she’d told herself.

Another lie.

Would he be at the memorial? Mia’s fingers involuntarily curled into her linen pants as she imagined seeing him. Her breath stopped. She needed to be prepared, just in case, so she let her mind conjure up a scenario. Seeing him in the crowd, wide shoulders filling out his shirt, face chiseled by the intervening years. Him striding close, gathering her hands in his, saying how much he missed her in that honey-rich voice. Her sinking against him, bracing his face in her hands, kissing him—

Whoa! Bad idea. Feelings from a long, long time ago. So no, amend that scenario.

He’s there, in oil-stained jeans, T-shirt tight over a beer belly, and a pregnant girlfriend. No, wife. Make him a little more respectable. But not totally. He ducks back to the car during the ceremony to sneak another drink of beer, leaving the wife standing awkwardly by herself.

Yeah, better. Much safer.

She caught herself looking for him as they arrived, even though they had come early to make sure the arrangements met her parents’ specifications. At least as much as Grandma’s instructions allowed. Mia couldn’t help smiling. Grandma knew her son would want to do it his way—or, more specifically, his wife’s way. And she was damn well going to make sure that didn’t happen.

Three chairs sat beneath the green tent where the casket stood, facing the rows of chairs set up under a huge oak tree. Rows and rows of chairs.

Mia walked over to a woman with long silver hair who was tying white ribbons onto the chairs. “Can I help?”

Gratitude, or maybe relief, colored her smile. “That would be great.” She handed Mia a roll of ribbon that shimmered in the light. “Just do it the way you’d like. Your grandma was a free spirit. She wouldn’t want it all uniform or anything.”

Mia couldn’t help glancing at the casket as she wove ribbons through the arms and legs of the chairs. The casket was nothing fancy, per Grandma’s directive. But she didn’t want to be cremated. Mia remembered her saying she’d rather rot than be dust. Just the kind of thing her grandma would say in her snappy way.

I wonder if she had faced death once, too. Or maybe it was just getting older. Once you stare that monster in the face a time or two, it doesn’t scare