Chapter 43: Chapter Forty-Three

LOGAN

Aunt Tricia confiscates my phone after I ream out the cheery funeral director. He sounded so fucking happy, like he was planning a party, not a service for a man who didn’t even make it to sixty.

“ ~Mhm~ . Thank you,” she says. She sets down my phone and scribbles something onto a sticky note before raising her eyebrows at me.

“Logan. Let me take care of this. I’ll get you if I need your help with something.”

“I’m fine,” I growl.

She sighs. “Alright. I’ve got a checklist here. Can you take care of some of the Quincy Ventures shi—stuff?”

I should be the one running the show, but I don’t give a fuck. Not today. If Aunt Tricia wants to do the boring work, I’ll let her.

The first item on the business list is to prepare a statement. ~Shit~ . Who’s in charge of PR? One of Taylor’s minions. I type out a quick email to Taylor ordering her to get a statement prepared and released in the next hour.

Aunt Tricia’s list is comprehensive as fuck. By the time we hit the end, it’s nearly ten at night. I’m physically exhausted, but my mind is going a million miles an hour. I lost track of how many coffees I had.

Five or six, I think. I don’t know how Rae does it, putting all that caffeine in her tiny body.

“When is Uncle Vincent heading out?” I ask, rubbing my stinging eyes. He’s been here for close to twelve hours now.

Aunt Trish shrugs. “Not sure. I’ll go check on them.”

“No, I—”

“Logan, if I don’t stretch my legs, I’m going to lose my damn mind. I’ll be right back.”

She’s lying, but I don’t call her out on it. Frankly, I don’t want to check on Mom and my uncle. Aunt Trish definitely doesn’t want me to check on them. She knows I’ll give Mom a piece of my mind.

Then, Uncle Vincent will start with the protectiveness over his sister, and we’ll get up in each other’s faces. That’s exactly what went down last night after I insisted he cut his babysitting shift short.

We’re taking turns watching Mom to ensure she doesn’t overdose.

This is my fucking life now.

My relatives are all eager to help, but that’s got to fade at some point. No one wants to babysit a fifty-six-year-old woman indefinitely. After that, I have no idea what I’m supposed to do.

Probably move back in, but I have to sleep sometime. Although I transferred my duties to Howard temporarily, I’ll have to work again at some point. I can’t exactly keep one eye on Mom and one eye on my computer screen all day.

This is what Dad left behind.

Aunt Tricia pads back down the stairs, a weary expression on her face. “He said he can stay awake a few more hours.”

“This is ridiculous,” I grumble. “She’s a grown-ass—”

“Her husband died yesterday, Logan. Give her a break.”

“I’m not asking her to bake me a fucking cake,” I snarl. “It’d just be great if she didn’t try to go through a month’s supply of Oxy in an afternoon.”

“It would be,” she sighs. “It really freaking would be.”

***

I feel like an asshole walking into my father’s wake with an iced coffee in hand, but Aunt Trish is passed out on a bench, so the optics could be worse, I guess.

Uncle Vincent is nowhere to be seen, probably napping in his car before the service starts.

None of us slept a fucking wink.

Mom got ahold of a bottle of vodka last night. I don’t know how. She must have stashed it away before the babysitting rounds started.

I thought it was the pills when her voice slurred. Then, she became incoherent. Then, she got sick. Really fucking sick. Aunt Trish stuck her fingers down Mom’s throat while Uncle Vincent and I fought over my phone.

I wanted to call 911. He said she’d be fine. That it would generate headlines.

He’s not a Quincy. His last name isn’t tied to the fucking company. He doesn’t even work for QV. I don’t get why he cares.

He won around five in the morning, because Mom sort of sobered up, but he walked away with a black eye. All I got was sore knuckles.

And kicked out of Mom’s house. Uncle Vincent started threatening to call the police for assault, so Aunt Trish sent me home.

As if getting law enforcement involved wouldn’t generate headlines. Fucking prick.

Rae squeezes my hand. She’s in a dainty little black dress, and I can tell she’s nervous because her hands keep twitching toward her necklace.

They’ll jump up, and then she’ll realize what she’s doing, and she’ll force them back down by her sides. It’d be really cute if I didn’t feel like such a dick asking her to come to this fucking thing.

She took a couple of days off work to help plan this and get Dad’s shit arranged.

She even insisted on making phone calls for me. She actually broke a necklace twirling it around so much when she was talking to the florist, but she did it.

I drew the line when she offered to watch Mom, though. That would definitely have her running in the other direction.

Uncle Vincent stumbles in and shoots me a glare. The skin around his eye is off-color. I think he might have attempted to cover up his bruise with makeup.

Rae bites her lip and stares at her feet, an expression of deep concentration on her face. I know that look. She’s trying—and failing—to keep the laughter at bay.

“That’s the one,” I breathe into her ear.

“I think Zoe uses that concealer,” she breathes back. Her shoulders begin to shake, and she buries her head in my chest, only pulling away when the director ushers us into the viewing room.

Thank God for closed caskets. Dad didn’t want any part in people checking out his dead body, and I didn’t want any part in being subjected to it.

Once again, Rae takes my hand, and we get in formation near Dad’s coffin. People are already forming a line to kneel in front of Dad and pray (or pretend to).

After the prayer, they shake Mom’s hand, then mine, then Rae’s, then Aunt Trish’s.

Maybe I’m an ass—okay, I’m definitely an ass—but wakes seem to be Rae’s shit. She’s got that sensitive, quiet voice down-pat, and she reads emotional people really fucking well.

I keep stumbling over my words, thanking people at the wrong time, going in for awkward hugs, but Rae doesn’t run into any of that.

Aunt Wendy is sobbing hysterically, causing a scene. Without any sort of prompt, Rae takes her hands and says that Dad’s living on through me and that he left a permanent imprint on the world.

When Dad’s coworkers stop by, she shakes their hands and says that it’s nice to meet them and that she was honored to have worked with Dad too.

Meanwhile, Mom is pretty much incoherent, and I’m gritting my teeth, trying not to punch everyone who tells me he’s in a better place.

Rae’s even polite to Taylor and Michael, who have the fucking nerve to stop by five minutes before the wake ends. I really don’t know how she does it. I don’t utter a word to either of them.

After four long-ass hours, it’s over. “Thank God,” Aunt Trish mutters.

I sigh in agreement. Rae flicks at a pendant on her necklace.

“You’re girlfriend of the goddamn year,” Aunt Trish continues, gazing at Rae in appreciation.

“Thank you,” Rae says softly, leaning into me.

“Don’t eff this one up, Logan,” Aunt Trish says in a warning tone.

Rae giggles while I roll my eyes. “He could never,” she laughs.

“Who’s watching Mom tonight?” I ask. As much as I’d love to stand around while my aunt talks shit, we’ve got business to take care of.

“I’m right here, Logan,” comes a soft voice from beside me.

I hadn’t noticed her, but what does it matter? She knows she has a rotation of babysitters. No sense in hiding the logistics from her. Maybe if she realizes how fucking obnoxious it is, she’ll get her shit together.

“And?” I deadpan.

“Log—” Aunt Trish starts.

“No. None of us got any goddamn sleep last night because we were making sure you didn’t die.” That’s it. I’m fucking done.

“You really want to do to me what Zach did to you? I lost Zach. I lost Dad. I’m keeping my shit together. It’s not that fucking hard.”

“I didn’t—”

Her voice is so meek I actually feel a wave of revulsion roll through me. I don’t want to hear her denying what I saw with my own eyes.

I’m about to grab Rae and get the fuck out of here, but no. I can’t. I have to arrange a goddamn babysitter for my mother.

“Who’s watching her?” I snap at Aunt Trish.

Mom’s crying softly now, but I’m too far gone to care.

As Aunt Trish strokes her arm, she murmurs, “How about you and me go back, Lorraine? We’ll let Logan get some sleep for tomorrow.”

Mom nods and lets her sister-in-law escort her away.

Pathetic.