LIKED

Thirty-six.

Two kids even Satan wouldn’t fess to fathering.

Squeezed into size ten skinny pants riding so far up my ass they should have a canary to make sure the air is breathable. The sweat rolling off my body like a high-speed assembly line isn’t helping.

My hips beg for a twelve.

Who has their wake catered in the funeral home? Judging by the size of this spread, these pants are probably going to burst before I leave. With any luck, someone’s gonna stroll through those doors wearing sweat pants ready to tackle the giant seafood platter. Anything to help me vanish.

I shimmy between two tables displaying flowered condolence baskets. The pink and white roses shield me from all the eyes entering the room. I’d hide here until the end of the wake if the smell of roses didn’t fill the back of my throat with the shrimp cocktail already testing my 10s.

Even on the wrong side of thirty, this wouldn’t be the worst place in the world— if I hadn’t killed the guy eternally sleeping under the closed mahogany casket.

Involuntary Vehicular Manslaughter. Court’s words. Not mine.

“Stupid woman reading a text while driving a Range Rover”— would’ve been more accurate.

Progressive sentencing. Also, their words and the reason I’m here today. My husband’s high priced attorney helped. A bigger reason why I’m here and not in jail.

In my defense, the social media director at the high school should be fired for using the term “lock-down” in her text when she meant “lock-in.”

Show some responsibility people.

“Thanks for coming,” a raccoon-eyed young twenty-something says. I think she applied her eyeliner while driving. Bet she didn’t kill anyone while doing it.

It takes a moment to catch my breath and steady my nerves. The stench of Abercrombie and Fitch assaults my nose. I should have stayed buried behind the flowers.

Size two. Kendra Scott ruby red earrings. Perfect tan. Green Lily Pulitzer sundress. At a funeral? Tacky. One kid and that outfit becomes a distant memory tucked deep in the huge guest bedroom closet of her sugar daddy’s McMansion.

But she has the body, and no one even seems to care she’s not wearing black.

Of course, I’m jealous. I’d kill for that figure.

Figuratively. I don’t have room on my plate for a second.

“Who knew my uncle was so popular. I haven’t seen him since I left for school four years ago.” A small cardinal red and gold USC tattoo caught my eye as she shifted her weight from left to right. “And you are?” She left a pink lipstick ring matching the off-year Rosé on her plastic glass waiting for me to answer.

The crazy bitch who ran over your uncle and wishes she could change the past.

“Tessa Gilbert.” I offered a full hand — unmanicured nails and all. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thanks.” She pinched my index finger between her fingers and thumb like it was a shrimp. Creepy. As if I weren’t uncomfortable already.

Can we get some cocktail sauce over here?

A flock of Vera Wang designer knock-offs sweeps her up in a flurry of selfies and Instagram posts, and I find myself alone in a perfectly crowded room while Dan, my husband, huddles in the corner with five other men checking their fantasy football teams.

Remind me not to die during football season.

I suppose I should be thankful. Those are the only eyes in the room not throwing judgment my way every time I glance away.

Dan leads a chorus of collective groans. Judging by his eye roll and grinding teeth, either the Steelers or his make-believe team was losing. I pray it isn’t both. Today is hard enough, and I don’t need him pouting until bedtime.

Service ended thirty minutes earlier and already half the arrangements wilted.

Seemed everything died around me these days.

A blast of over-zealous air conditioning clears out the area around the casket offering me a chance to say my goodbyes alone. Goosebumps sprout on my arms, and I regret handing my jacket off to Dan when we arrived. Like my pants, it didn’t fit any longer, but it matched my outfit.

Funeral Chic

It didn’t exist in my wardrobe. Hell, this is the first I’ve attended, but I wasn’t about to buy something to wear here. I’m sure it’s bad luck to ever wear it again.

I lay my hand on the oak casket. Smooth. Clean. Peeling?

Veneer.

“You deserved better,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry. It was an accident. The rain. The wet road. The stupid wording on the school's text. Worried about the kids. You know. Life.”

And death.

“Were you close?” The funeral director encroaches my personal space. A bit heavy on the Old Spice, but I watched earlier as he glided from person to person, offering an ear and a kind word.

I yank my hand off the casket, but my print remains. A ghostly handshake goodbye.

“I saw him jogging.” I inhale deep, clearing the congestion in my sinuses. “Every day. Rain or shine. He never missed a day. At least, I don’t think he did.” I wipe a tear and most of my mascara from my eyes. Shit, Carrie stole my good mascara and replaced it with her cheap crap. “I didn’t even know his name until the day he died.”

“Paul—”

“I know it now!” I snap. “Oh, my God.” My hand lunges for his forearm. “Forgive me. I don’t know. I don’t…”

“It’s alright.” He pats the top of my hand.

His skin. Soft. Softer than mine.

“I’ve heard worse,” he says with a grin and small head nod. “It’s an emotional time for everyone. It helps to talk. Can you tell me about the last time you saw him?”

Pinned between my front grill and a concrete barrier. You know, the barriers where they are doing road construction out past the Jiffy Wash and the new self-storage place. His head looked like a pumpkin after a Devil’s Night prank. I screamed at my kids to stay in the car. So much blood. I wanted to do CPR. I’ve taken classes. But his chest. How do you do chest compressions when the chest is already compressed? These folks are lucky they can’t see under this casket. It’s a nightmare. My nightmare.

“Jogging.” I inhale deeply. A little more mascara might help. “Running. The day he died.”

“Well, take comfort in knowing he died doing something he loved.” The funeral director pulls his arm free. “We should all be so lucky.”

My Coach handbag vibrates against my out-of-shape thigh. I regret skipping Pilates this month, too busy feeling sorry for myself and worrying what women in my class said under their breath.

Gah! Stupid Facebook notifications. I always forget to silence them. Dan says it’s going to get us kicked out of the movies one day.

One-hundred Seventy-three?

I didn’t think the little number overlapping the Earth icon could show triple-digits.

Dan slips his hand onto the small of my back. His touched made me smile, my first smile in days. I pull it off my face when I realize this isn’t the best place to be caught smiling. People were watching.

“I just want people to like me again.” I gaze down at the bright screen in my hand. “Like you do.”

“Don’t look, ’hon.” He peers over my shoulder.

“Good Lord, that Southern California hussy posted a picture of me standing by the casket. Could she have captured a worse angle?” My thumb trembles above the iPhone’s screen. “Let’s see what the world has to say about Tessa Gilbert.”

“Cedar Lake’s Most Wanted!”

Liked twenty-eight times.

“How come she’s not wearing orange?”

Liked sixteen times.

“Bet she’s there because the court is making her.”

Liked nineteen times.

And somewhat true, although I needed to apologize in person.

“Her fat ass should have been the one jogging.”

Liked one-hundred two times.

Are you freaking kidding me? One-hundred and two people think I’m fat.

{{{Vrrr}}}

One-hundred three.

{{{Vrrr}}}

One-hundred four.

{{{Vrrr}}}

{{{Vrrr}}}

{{{Vrrr}}}

“Remember how I said I just want to be liked?” I silence my iPhone and shove it deep in my purse right past the waterproof mascara I forgot I was there. Dan nods and pulls me in closer. “This isn’t what I meant.”

Phone chirps replace the solemn choral music in the room. Everyone in the funeral parlor exchanges glances between their phones and me. The funeral director wipes down his arm where I touched him.

“Take me home, Dan.” I crumple in his arms. He is my grill, my concrete wall, holding up my remains. “Please, take me home.”

I don’t know how I’ll face the rest of the court’s demands, but I survived the first one. The easy one.

Barely.

Chapter 2

“Katy Simmons’ mom wrote, and I quote, Tessa Gilbert’s fat ass is going to jail.” Carrie pushes aside her AP English book to make room for her forearms on the counter. She still resents me for making her take an AP course her senior year of high school. “Is that true, Mom?”

Jail. The ultimate boot camp, I mutter quietly in my head.

“I’m sure I could stand to lose some weight,” I say with a smirk. Hiding behind humor comes easier than facing reality. “Where did you read that?” I slide a napkin with a treat on it across the counter to her.

“On Facebook.” She chomps into the gooey chocolate chip cookie. I don’t mind a few sweets around the house, but nightly milkshakes and daily treats have become the norm after the accident. “There’s this group called Cedar Lake Grins and Sins.”

“Oh, that group. I didn’t even realize I was in it until the funeral, but I guess Katy’s mom added me.” I bite into my own cookie. My third of the afternoon.

No need to guess. Size two Cynthia, Katie’s Mom, guilty as charged. Little Miss Perfect used every opportunity she could to remind us of her petite frame. I swear she buys Lululemon pants just to resell them on the local Facebook Swap groups.

“Katy said her mom setup a fundraiser for the niece of the guy you killed,” Carrie thumbs dance across her phone as she talks. “Should we do something?”

I toss tonight’s dinner on the carving board, biting down hard on my tongue. The Henckels meat cleaver fails to make a dent in the frozen pork chops despite being fueled by my resentment of Miss Perfect.

“Are you going to jail?” Carrie mumbles, a few crumbs of flaky brown find their way to the corner of her mouth.

“Dang. Mom, a jailbird.” Jake tosses his denim jacket on the leather living room ottoman. “That’d give me street cred at school for sure.”

“Freshman don’t have street cred. Especially ones who think denim is making a comeback,” Carrie fires back.

“Shut up!”

“You shut up!”

Maybe jail wouldn’t be such a bad place.

I slam down the frozen chops on the granite kitchen countertop. “Seriously, you two. You could wake the dead!”

If only.

“First, young lady, I am not going to jail. And second, young man, hang up your jacket. I’m not your maid.” Jabbing a steak knife between the slabs of meat achieves even less than the cleaver. “Dammit, these things didn’t thaw in the refrigerator.”

“But Katy’s mom said –”

“Who gives a rat’s ass what Katy’s mom said? This isn’t how I wanted to tell you kids.” I set the pearled handled steak knife on the counter. Something about discussing my punishment while holding a knife didn’t sit well with me. Guess I’m lucky I didn’t have to learn how to handle a shiv. “It’s already been decided. Your father and I met with the lawyers last week. We planned on taking the family out and celebrating this weekend, but...”

What kind of song would the waitstaff sing?