Nearing September Read online

  Nearing September

  Amber Thielman

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Special Thanks

  Author’s Bio

  Copyright © 2020 by Amber Thielman

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is dedicated to every, single person who ever picked up a book once and then never stopped reading. I write for you.

  Samantha

  “When someone like Emily returns to our Lord and Savior, the initial question is always why—but only He has that answer. The best thing we can do is accept it and know there is a divine reason for it.”

  “Oh, give me a Goddamn break.”

  I cringed, my eyes darting from the where priest on the pulpit was preaching over to the disruptive culprit, Nick Barlow.

  “Can you shut up?” I hissed, ignoring the stabbing stares from the surrounding crowd.

  “She would have hated this,” Nick said, his eyes meeting mine. “As her best friend, you should have known better.” A few people shushed us, but neither of us paid them any attention.

  “That’s not up to you to decide,” I whispered.

  Nick opened his mouth to respond, but someone else spoke first, cutting us both off. “Samantha! Show some respect.”

  Nick and Emily’s mother, Agnes, turned to look at me, her eyes shooting daggers as she dabbed at dry tears beneath papery eyelids. My mouth dropped open, wanting to reach over and throttle Nick. Count on Agnes to reprimand me—yet again—for her son’s incessant stupidity. A strict Christian, Agnes Barlow was a master manipulator. She’d had a long time to practice, and while it appeared she was falling apart on the outside, I’d already faced her rage and scrutiny earlier, before the funeral.

  Sulking, because it was easier to give in to my anger than to wallow in my sadness, I forced my attention back to the pulpit where the priest was still waxing lyrical about a woman he’d never even known. He held a Bible to his chest, cross in one hand, glasses perched on a broad, pointed nose. I knew Nick was right, Emily would have hated this, and that was worst of all.

  On the other side of Agnes, my best friend’s seven-year-old daughter, Piper, stared straight ahead, her focus vacant, fatigued. But the red tint to the skin under her eyes told a story that everyone could read. I longed to reach over Agnes and take Piper’s hand, reassure her this wasn’t the end and that somehow—somehow—we would get through this. But would we, really? My heart was full of uncertainty and doubt. Fear seemed to grip me wherever I went since Emily’s death, a suffocating, raw fear of knowing that things without my best friend would never be the same.

  It was ironic, I thought, that cancer had killed my best friend. Women like Emily, who’d been healthy, funny, and kind, weren’t supposed to die. Emily’s disease was cancer without warning. One too many nasty headaches later, and Em had finally mentioned it to her physician. It was a tumor. Inoperable.

  God’s will, my ass, I thought, and my jaw creaked from clenching it too hard. Had I known this diagnosis earlier, I would have fought harder for Em—encouraged whatever surgery or medication a doctor could throw at her. But I hadn’t known, because Emily hadn’t told me. Emily hadn’t told anybody. She’s resumed her busy life as though a terminal illness was the least of her worries. She’d worked, laughed, played—and even after all that, she was still the best mother she could be to her beautiful little girl.

  “This is a joke,” Nick muttered again, but this time, I couldn’t think of anything to say to shush him. He was right; this was a joke. This entire goddamn thing was only a cruel, sick joke, and I was ready for it to be over.

  I glanced briefly at Nick, the painful spitting image of his twin sister. He hadn’t seen Emily or Piper in three years, at least. Had it been up to him, I knew he wouldn't have taken the time to fly to Miami from Seattle for the funeral. But I didn't care. Emily was his sister, and he owed her the respect to be present at her funeral—even if I did want to bloody his nose every time I saw his arrogant face.

  “We will end this service with a song dedicated to the lovely Emily,” the priest said. “Her twin brother, Nicholas, picked it out for us today. As the song plays for you, we encourage a silent prayer of hope and peace.”

  “A song?” I peered around Agnes and Piper at Nick, who had perked up. He met my gaze, eyebrows raised innocently. It was a look I’d often seen over the years, the same look he’d given me as a teenage boy the night he’d crashed my brand-new sixteenth birthday car into a tree. “Nick,” I said, leaning towards him the best I could without getting throttled by Agnes. “We didn't agree on a song.”

  “It's chill,” he said with a shrug, and I had the unrelenting urge to throat punch him. “It was her favorite.”

  Before I even had time to rise from my seat, the CD player crackled on, and the melody started. I froze, debating on whether I should flee, cry, or scream. I braced myself, side-eyeing Agnes, who had the expression of someone who just caught a whiff of something unpleasant.

  “Tubthumping?” I shrieked. “You picked Chumbawamba to play at my best friend's funeral?” My tone shot up a few decibels, face burning with hot rage as the song grew louder. The spectators were listening with mild confusion now—a few seemed wary and unsure. Worse, some even snickered.

  I sneaked a quick glance at Agnes, but then looked away, unable to directly meet her critical gaze. Emily’s mother scowled, her eyes hard under the brim of her tacky black hat and veil. Her head turned in my direction, and she glared at me like I’d chosen this song for Emily’s funeral and not her insufferable son.

  Nick got to his feet then, ignoring my warning glare as he reached for Piper's hands and pulled her to her feet. He swung his arms above his head in a sort of epileptic seizure that I could only assume was supposed to resemble a dance move. I was afraid to turn around and face the crowd—terrified to see the shocked faces and pitiful stares of Emily’s friends and family. I’d had one job when Emily passed—plan a funeral that would be memorable and touching. With Nick there, it had turned into a disaster. But the whole mess would be blamed on me instead of him.

  “Sit down,” I said between my teeth, but Nick ignored me, taking Piper’s hands in his to twirl her in a circle. I cringed down in my seat, wishing I could just place my head in my hands so I wouldn’t have to face the reality of what was happening in front of me. Every pair of eyes in the crowd were pinned on Nick and Piper, who were still dancing to Tubthumping mere feet from Emily's casket. I put my hand over my mo
uth to keep from screaming as I tried to figure out how I could end this thing in the politest way possible. Knocking Nick out, I was sure, would only draw more attention, but it was tempting, nonetheless.

  “Come on, Piper,” he called. He twirled her around, banging his head to the music. It was then, I noticed, that Nick’s sandy blond hair was too long to look decent, and the stupid stubble on his chin needed shaving—or better yet—waxed with a boiling pot of honey and some duct tape.

  The least he could have done was cut his fucking hair.

  “You know what, Nick? Forget it.” I got to my feet, now more furious than embarrassed, before turning to face the crowd. “I apologize for this. The funeral is over, and Emily didn’t want a wake. You can all go home. Emily would have appreciated everyone coming.”

  I saw the anger again in Agnes’ eyes, and for a fleeting moment, I wanted to throw my hands in the air and scream, “If you don't like how it turned out, maybe you should have planned it. Emily was your daughter, after all, you stuck-up bitch!”

  But I didn't. I leaned down to gather my jacket instead, seething with fury beneath a smooth and composed surface. Someone had already hit stop on the stereo, and around me, the bustle of people (mostly Emily's co-workers, family friends, and neighbors) all dispersed. Some people looked awkward and unsure, as though questioning whether they should try to help or stay out of it altogether. Others looked amused, which only angered me more. This wasn’t funny. There was nothing funny about it. My best friend was dead, and she would never come back.

  “I'm so glad you could tear yourself away from magnificent Seattle to be here today, Nick,” I shouted, backing toward my car. I couldn’t stay and stomach watching Emily be lowered into the ground, not when it was exactly what she didn’t want.

  “It’s a good thing I did, too, because you apparently had nothing handled here,” said Nick, his jaw set in a fierce line. A sheen of sweat glowed on his forehead, and he reached one hand up and swiped it away, pushing a lock of dirty blond hair back as he did so, squinting at me. The sun was high in the sky, bearing down on us with unrelenting, humid heat. I loved the heat, but today I hated everything.

  “Whatever,” I muttered. “Thanks for fucking it all up. Per usual.”

  I turned away from the scene, fuming, as hot tears streamed down my face, spilling from what seemed to be a never-ending flow of agony. My chest hurt with the pain of a loss I knew my beating heart would never be able to fill again.

  It was over. It was finally over, and now all I wanted to do was go home and cry and cry until I couldn’t cry anymore. I wanted to cry out the sadness and devastation; I wanted to cry until I couldn’t physically cry anymore, because maybe then, and only then, it might stop hurting so much.

  As I reached for the car door handle, someone put a hand on my shoulder, stopping me, and I turned to find a stranger encroaching on my grief.

  “Samantha Carson?” the man said. “My name is Howard James. I’m Ms. Barlow's attorney. Do you mind if we speak somewhere quiet? I have some papers for you.”

  Nick

  I watched Sam retreat to her car, shoulders stiff, jaw set in a hard line. Part of me wanted to stop her, to apologize, but the more significant part of me didn’t want to waste the energy to try. It was difficult for me to care about Sam’s anger. Sam was always angry about something—especially at me. It had been that way since we were kids, and even more so as adults.

  Sam and I lived in different realities, despite growing up together on the streets of Miami, enjoying bonfires on the beach and joyrides as teenagers. We had been friends once, before graduation, but that hadn’t been the case for years.

  Then again, Sam had always been uptight and relatively challenging to have a good relationship with, even as a child. Goal-driven had been Emily’s word to describe Samantha, which had always translated to Queen Bitch. Sam was everything I never wanted to be. I enjoyed my simple life in Seattle, where I could sleep all day and hike the damp mountains of Washington on the weekends. I enjoyed a good drink, late nights with friends, and even an occasional toke in my apartment while reggae played in the background. Sam hated me for it; she always had.

  “Is Aunt Sam mad?” Piper asked, drawing me from my thoughts. She still held my hand in hers, eyes wide and wandering, mousy brown hair framing her face like a curtain of hidden angst.

  “Isn’t Aunt Sam always mad?” I said, drawing a small smile from my niece. But then the smile faltered, and Piper drew her lip between her teeth.

  “No,” she said. “She’s just sad.”

  I opened my mouth to respond, slightly thrown off guard, when someone grabbed my shoulder from behind, squeezing it painfully. I ducked out of the way, dropped Piper’s hand, and spun around.

  “This funeral has been a disgrace,” Agnes hissed in my ear. “What were you and your friend thinking?”

  I turned, and every emotional guard I possessed shot straight up, shielding me from years of distrust, anger, and punishment. Agnes, per usual, darkened with a lifetime of parental displeasure. Beside her, my father, Milton, barely looked my way. That had changed little over the years, his lack of involvement in our lives. Even today, at his own daughter’s funeral, I didn’t see a single shed tear.

  “What do you mean?” I tried to hold my ground, knowing that if I cowered now, Agnes would seize the upper hand and run with it. If there was anyone I didn’t want to oversee any situation, it was my cold, uptight mother. Even Queen Bitch Samantha was more tolerable than my Bible-thumping ice-queen of a mother.

  “What do you think I mean?” Agnes snapped. Her long, pointy nose wrinkled with a look of hatred, which was her usual expression. Even now, as a full-grown adult, Agnes still reminded me of the wicked old witch from Hansel and Gretel. It was Sam who had whispered it as a child, and it had stuck ever since.

  “This is the kind of funeral Emily would have wanted,” I said. “Aside from the religious talk, anyway. I’m going to go out on a limb here and assume it wasn’t Sam who insisted that a priest be here?”

  I stood my ground, sizing my mother up, feeling a ball of hatred grow in the pit of my stomach. It had been six years since I'd seen my parents last, and today was still too soon. Had they not come to Miami at all for the funeral, I wouldn't have minded. None of us had ever been close to my parents. I wasn’t sure anyone could be close to Milton and Agnes.

  “Shame on you,” Agnes said. “I thought I raised you better than that. Twenty-six years old and you’re still acting like a child.”

  “Yeah, Mom,” I said. “You should remove that stick from your ass and try it sometime.”

  “Nicholas James Barlow.” Agnus lifted her black veil as if preparing for a fight. I wouldn’t have been the least bit surprised if she’d hit me; I’d seen my mother break a full-grown man’s jaw one time simply for grabbing her uninvited. “You are no son of mine,” she continued. “Jesus will refuse you for your sins.”

  “Great, Mom, because I’m not sure I want to spend the rest of eternity with someone who would leave a child motherless, anyway.” Securing Piper’s hand once more in mine, I turned away from my parents and walked with my niece to the car. Emily hadn’t wanted a wake, but there was still the issue of going back to Emily’s house to sort out whatever needed to be sorted out. Whatever happened next was of no real concern to me, and I was desperate to get out of this hot, muggy city and back to Seattle, far away from Queen Bitch and my devoted and loving parents.

  “Mr. Barlow?” said a man with thinning gray hair and a slight potbelly, stepping in front of Piper and me. “Are you Nicholas Barlow?”

  “Yeah. Who are you?”

  The man looked down at Piper briefly, forcing a smile for her that I didn’t feel was genuine in the least. She didn’t smile back, only gripped me tighter.

  “My name is Howard James. I'm your sister's trust attorney. Would you mind coming with me, please? I want to talk to you and Miss Samantha Carson together.”

  Sam

  “This
is a joke, right?” My hands shook as I removed the last cigarette from the now-empty pack of menthols and lit it.

  “This isn’t a joke,” the attorney said, but I barely heard him over the dull ringing in my ears.

  “I can't be responsible for Piper. I had no idea about any of this. Emily didn’t tell me anything.” I took a drag from the cigarette and held my breath, wishing I had a stiff drink instead. A vodka tonic sounded good, preferably served in an uptown bar where soft music played in the background to soothe my nerves. There, children weren’t allowed, and drama was unwelcome. I wanted to be there instead of here, facing this, because I couldn’t seem to fathom just what was happening right now.

  “According to Ms. Barlow, you are Piper's godmother, are you not?” the attorney asked. If I remembered right, he'd introduced himself as Howard something only an hour earlier. Howard was a middle-aged man with a receding hairline and a potbelly that hung over belted slacks. He looked like a lawyer, although I had no idea what a lawyer was supposed to look like.

  “Godmother?” I repeated. I looked over at Nick, who shrugged, helpful as ever, as he traced lines in the condensation on his water glass. He was useless, as usual, and I couldn’t figure out why Howard Something had brought him into Emily’s dining room with me. What did Nick have to do with anything? He hadn't even seen Emily in years, let alone Piper, and I was well and truly ready to send him home so that I’d never have to see his arrogant face again.