At the funeral, 5

Why why why didn’t I just meet Jillian in Queens? We could have had coffee, gone to the cemetery together, skipped all this Catholic craziness. I could have slept in. Could have gone to temple and lit some joss sticks instead faking it for these lunatics and their death cult.

Doors are closed. It’s a sign, right? Wouldn’t want to interrupt the service; there’s no telling what they’re doing. I’d probably walk in right in the middle of a moment of silence. I should just call Jill and go to Queens now; we still have time to hit that coffeehouse on 33rd, and there’s that incredibly hot barrista, she might be working today. Man, the ass on that woman, a guy could go nuts just thinking about it.

But it’s Paxton. She’s in there somewhere, up at the front, and maybe her mom’s in a coffin a few feet away. Does she have any family coming? I never thought to ask Sara. I hate to think of her up there by herself. No, surely she’s got someone with her. Maybe even Sara and Robert; she’ll be fine, she’s a rock.

I could just sit here on this hard bench and wear holes in my butt cheeks for the next hour. Then I can catch her on the way out, at least so she knows I’m here, that I showed up. Or I could go in. What’s the worst that could happen? It’s not like I’m going to be struck by lighting. They’re not going to come after me with pitchforks. They’re not all going to turn around and stare at me – maybe a couple of people will, but not all of them.

No. This is bullshit. What it comes down to is that Paxton may or may not know I’m here, but the least I can do is go in and be there. Not because she might need me – I know she won’t – but because she’s practically a sister to me, and that’s what you do for your sister. I’d walk through fire for her. I can walk through those doors. And if I do nothing else, I can at least bear witness.