From inside her bag she pulled out something black, lacy, and entirely too sexy for a funeral. I hardly had the energy to stand, let alone care what she’d brought me to wear. So I accepted her dress without complaint.

“Change,” she commanded. “Then I can help you with your hair and makeup. Today’s going to be a bitch and a half, but I’ll be here. Same with John. We will help you get through this.”

I swallowed, fighting down a ginormous lump in my throat. I wanted to thank her. And to thank John. Because John had never looked so frightened and unsure in his life—clearly freaked over my nearly catatonic behavior. But I couldn’t manage to say a single word. So instead, with the dress locked tightly in my fingers, I turned around and headed upstairs for my room.

Getting ready was the easy part. I didn’t need Mom’s help. On autopilot, I showered, groomed, and perfected. Typically, I never spent extra time bothering over superficial things like makeup, but for a brief moment pampering myself helped me to forget the emotional boulder that had been weighing on me for days. I only focused on the things I could control—like blow drying and meticulously curling my hair.

The hard part came after I finished getting ready, when my hands were no longer busy, and I had nothing to focus on but my thoughts. The ride alone, in the backseat of Mom’s car as she drove John and me to the funeral home, was unbearable. It was too sunny outside. All the songs on the radio were too happy. And when we pulled into the parking lot, my heart began to sting too agonizingly. It was as if someone had a grip around that very vital organ and was squeezing the life out of it.

From my seat in the back I watched as so many of my classmates emerged from their cars, some appropriately dressed in black and others in regular clothes. They were heading toward the building where everyone would say their final goodbyes. It seemed the entire school had shown up for this. Teachers, staff, locals…everyone. And watching them…anger flooded me.

How many of them really knew Ben or genuinely cared for him? How many of them were here simply because of his popularity? Why was death made into a greater tragedy when it happened to someone handsome, young, and well-liked?

Bitter thoughts were consuming me. Then I spotted Ben’s family as they stood outside the doors to the funeral home, greeting people and receiving hugs, and the anger inside me slipped away as fast as it had come.

There was Georgina. The most beautiful girl I’d ever seen in real life. She had long, silky, dark brown hair that fell like a curtain down her back. She and Ben were eleven months apart. Their birthdays fell perfectly so that they were in the same grade at school. Her arms were tucked in close against her body and her face showed all the pain my heart felt. Ignoring everyone around her, she slipped inside the funeral home. I didn’t blame her. I couldn’t have stood there listening to everyone give their sympathies—both real and fake—either.

Ben had two other sisters, one older, with lots of tattoos that I suspected were my brother’s work, and one several years younger. They stood with Ben’s parents, some blonde guy with a ponytail, and what appeared to be other relatives. These people were semi-familiar to me because they all attended every single football, baseball, and swim meet of Ben’s. I knew because I’d attended many of those same events myself over the years.

Seeing them all and seeing the sadness on their faces…well, it crushed my already broken heart into even smaller pieces. With tears streaming down my cheeks, I stepped out of Mom’s car. John followed. Then he held me close as we made our way past the family. He said a few words to Ellie, Ben’s oldest sister, as I stayed tucked under his arm. Then we went inside the building. Mom being Mom, unable to cope with ‘adult’ issues like this, waited for us in the car.

The funeral was a blur. I missed Ben’s eulogy because I couldn’t hear or think past my own pain. I openly wept, which was completely unlike me, but I couldn’t contain my emotions. Then, almost as soon as it had begun, the pastor was saying his final words and John was walking me back to the car.

One detail from the day stood out in my mind. A random man—the same random man, the one with blonde hair and a ponytail, who’d been standing with Ellie Turner and the rest of Ben’s family outside. I noticed him outside again as we left. I noticed his brown eyes were filled with tears. Who was he? A cousin? A friend? It didn’t matter. But he helped me realize something. Ben was loved by so many people. Not because he was handsome or popular, but because he was a good person. When it came time for my funeral, I hoped to be half as lucky. And I vowed to myself, if I ever fell in love again, I wouldn’t hesitate a second time to tell that person how I truly felt.

CHAPTER 3:

SYDNEY

Fast forward four months and I am a well-adjusted, normal young adult once more. Yeah…not so much. Actually, the opposite. If there was such a thing as grieving properly verses grieving poorly, though it is likely neither one of those exist, I would have been in the grieving poorly category. Or maybe the problem was, my heart was still broken. Either way, I couldn’t shake the feelings of loss. I couldn’t stop imagining Ben around every corner. And I still cried myself to sleep every single night. It was annoying, to say the least, because I just wanted to move past all of this.

In the first few weeks after Ben’s death, I stayed with my parents. They (and by ‘they’ I mean my grandfather) had several different houses up and down the East Coast, so they let me choose where we went. I chose the penthouse apartment in New York City. The reasoning behind my decision was…how could anyone be sad or bored in New York? And Mom was on a mission…to do anything and everything in her power to help me.

My inner/outer transformation started with a makeover. After years of never letting Mom touch my hair, I finally gave in. She took me to the fanciest salon I’d ever stepped foot in. I let the hairstylist work her magic, and I walked out blonde. Well, blonder. The change was drastic and surprising, but I loved it. It made me open to more changes. Following my hairstyle makeover, Mom talked me into getting Lasik eye surgery. Mom called it ‘maintenance surgery,’ but it was something I’d always wanted but never been brave enough to do. So when she suggested it, I went for it.

Once my eyes healed, Mom and I filled several days with shopping, museums trips, Broadway plays, and meals at overpriced restaurants. And there were these moments in the middle of everything else, sometimes only lasting for a second or two but sometimes lasting for a few minutes, where I would forget about Ben. Poof, gone from my mind. The first time it happened I felt guilty as hell afterward, because forgetting him was the last thing I wanted. But at the same time, despite the guilt, I began craving these fleeting, brief moments of relief, and then I started living for them.

Distractions became my coping mechanism.

I began doing and trying things the old Sydney wouldn’t have dared. Mom, a bit of a socialite, and always up for another party, was my enabler. She encouraged me to keep pushing my boundaries. We drank on the rooftop terrace, danced in clubs, sang at karaoke bars, and attended fashion shows with celebrities. The clothes, the parties, the people—none of it was truly me, but all of it helped me to forget. Or so I thought.

That’s the thing about distractions…they only last for so long. Pretty soon it all stopped working. Drinking made me miss Ben more, I didn’t have the energy to dance or sing, I stopped caring which celebrities were where, and a new outfit no longer gave me the same thrills. This forced reality to crumble down the wall I’d built, and quickly. And I missed John. I missed his cooking, his dumb advice, and even hanging out at his tattoo parlor on the weekends. I needed to be home. Besides, I had school to finish and the whole ‘homeschooled while grieving’ excuse wouldn’t last forever.