Chelsea Fine - Perfect Kind Of Trouble

First and foremost, I would like to thank my readers. Thank you for believing in my stories and making this thing I call work a dream come true! I’d also like to thank my incredible editor, Megha Parekh, for her never-ending brilliance in making this story what it is, and my incredible agent, Suzie Townsend, for believing in me from the very beginning. Thank you to my mama, for giving me laughter and love while I write, and to my kiddos, for being so understanding when I pick them up from school in my pajamas. And last, but never least, my amazing husband, Brett. You are my whole world and I love your guts.

On the other side of the casket, a middle-aged woman wearing a navy blue dress glares at me.

The man in the wooden box has only been dead for three days and this woman already has me pegged as the slutty mistress he kept on the side. I’m probably an ex-stripper with a coke problem as well, based on the way she’s sizing me up. But this isn’t my first rodeo—or my first funeral—and deadly looks like the one Navy Nancy is angling at me are nothing new, unfortunately.

Now feeling a little self-conscious, I slowly slide my black sunglasses on and tip my head down, concentrating on the casket in front of me as the preacher/priest/certified-online minister drones on about peace and eternity.

It’s a nice casket, made of polished cherrywood with decorative iron handles and rounded edges. I should care more than I do about the deceased man within, but all I can think about is how that casket probably cost more than any car I’ve ever been in, and how the man inside is probably tucked against velvet walls lined with Egyptian cotton.

And now I’m angry. Great.

I promised myself I wouldn’t be angry today. Bitter? Sure. That was a given. But not angry.

Taking a deep breath, I raise my head and try to avert my attention. Behind my dark shades, I glance around the cemetery. More people showed up than I had expected, most of them looking like they’re sweet and respectable. I wonder how well they knew James Turner. Were they friends of his? Coworkers? Lovers? Folks around here probably show up at funerals regardless of their relationship with the deceased. That’s the thing about small towns; everyone cares about everyone else—or at least acts like they do.

“James was a good man,” the minister says, “who lived a solid life and has now gone on to a better place…”

A roll of thunder sounds in the distance and I turn my eyes to the heavy gray clouds above. The weatherman said it’s supposed to rain tonight. They’ll bury James, cover his casket with dirt, and rain will fall and seal him into the earth. What an ideal passing.

Screw him.

A woman beside the minister begins to sing “Amazing Grace” as the pallbearers lower him into the grave. Across the way, a teenage boy openly gawks at me, his eyes gliding up and down my body like I’m standing here naked instead of fully clothed. I’m wearing a knee-length, long-sleeved, turtlenecked gray dress, in July no less. I’m ridiculously covered, not that Navy Nancy and Gawking Gary care.

When the boy catches me watching him, he quickly looks away and his face burns bright red. I turn away as well and play with the bracelet on my wrist as I focus my attention on the back of the crowd.

A huddle of women dab at their eyes with handkerchiefs. Beside them, a young family stands quietly with their hands clasped together. Nearby, an older couple mouths the words to “Amazing Grace” as the singer starts on the third verse. Looking around, I realize everyone else is singing along as well. Of course the people of Copper Springs would know the third verse of “Amazing Grace.”

I really need to get out of here. I don’t belong in this tiny town. I never have. One last obligation tomorrow then I’m gone.

In the far back of the congregation, a guy moves out from under a large oak tree and I tilt my head. He looks vaguely familiar but I can’t quite place him.

He’s average height, with dark brown hair, and a dark purple button-down shirt covers his broad shoulders. The long sleeves of his shirt are rolled up to his elbows and he’s got on a pair of dark jeans to match the dark sunglasses that cover his eyes. Dark, dark, dark.

He’s attractive. Dangerously attractive. The kind of attractive that can suck you into a sweet haze and undo you completely before you even know you’ve surrendered. I know I’ve seen him before but for the life of me I can’t remember where, which is probably a good thing.

The singer wraps up the fourth verse of “Amazingly Depressing Grace,” and a long silence follows before the minister clears his throat. He glances at me and I subtly nod. With a few last words about what a wonderful man James Turner was, he concludes the funeral and I let out a quiet breath of relief.

The end.

People disperse, most of them heading to their cars while the rest pass by the lowered casket and throw a handful of dirt or a flower onto the shiny cherrywood top. I step to the side, sunglasses strictly in place, and watch the mourners. Navy Nancy glares at me again and I look away. Wow. She really must think I’m some sort of James Turner hussy.

As offended as I am, I know she’s probably just hurting. She was the first person to arrive at the funeral today and she teared up several times during the ceremony so I’m assuming she and James were pretty close. And if judging me makes her feel better on this sad day, then I’ll let her hate me all she wants. I watch her leave the cemetery with a small group of other mourners. It’s not like I’ll ever see her again, anyway.

The guy in the purple shirt steps up to the grave and drops a handful of red dirt on the casket. The red stands out against the brown dirt beneath it and I wonder what its significance is. Then I wonder about the guy in purple. He doesn’t seem to be here with anyone else, which is only strange because of how good-looking he is. Hot guys don’t usually travel places without an equally hot girl on their arm. But this guy is definitely alone.

He strides to the parking lot and climbs into a black sports car, and all my wondering comes to an abrupt halt. I no longer care about who he is, or how he knew James, or why he looks familiar. Spoiled rich boys are the last thing I care about.

When everyone has left the area except the funeral home people, I carefully walk up to the casket. The heels of my black pumps slowly sink into the soft grass as I stare down at the last I’ll ever see of James Turner. I try to muster up some sort of sadness, but all I come up with is more anger.

With a long inhale, I toss a soft white rose petal onto the brown and red dirt, and quietly say, “Rest in peace, Daddy.”

Some people don’t name their vehicles. Most people, probably. But there’s something about a black Porsche that just makes you want to call it… Monique.

I climb inside my sports car, close the door, and look through the windshield at the dark clouds. Looks like Monique might need a bath tomorrow. My eyes fall back to the cemetery and my chest tightens. I still can’t believe Old Man Turner is gone.

When I was thirteen, my life took a sharp turn to the shitty side of the street and Turner offered me a job mowing his lawn for fifteen dollars a week. A year went by before he asked me to start taking care of his garden as well, then gave me a raise. Shortly after, I was taking care of his entire yard and did so until last year when he requested that I focus my energy on my “real” jobs.