Justin walks out and sits next to me. “Are you okay?” he asks. I nod, inhaling the smoke deeply. “I decided to come out and make sure. Devin seemed to need some time to himself with your dad.” Although I have no idea why Devin would care, I nod. “You shouldn’t smoke.”
“I shouldn’t do a lot of things,” I say. I look at him and see he is likely teasing me with a slight smile on his face. “I definitely shouldn’t come to funerals of people who treated me like shit.” Justin nods and doesn’t say anything. “I mean, he was a fucking asshole to Devin, too.” I don’t want to focus on myself right now; I’m feeling too much. “So what about you?” I ask. “What have you been up to?”
“I’m a wedding photographer by day and a starving artist by night,” Justin says. “The photography pays my bills. The art is what keeps me getting up in the morning.” He turns on the bench a bit, shifting away from me but facing his body toward me. It’s more conversational than sitting side by side and staring straight ahead. “What about you?”
“I’m a cage dancer at the Appleseed,” I blurt out. “It’s a club over by Rush and Division, you know, where all of the Trixies and Douchebags hang out. I have no talent or skill to speak of so it pays the bills and gives me someplace to be so I don’t just stay home drunk in my shitty apartment.”
Justin gives a half smile that could pass for a smirk. “I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t like to see that. Clothing optional?”
“You can wear what you want,” I tell him. “I’m mostly unclothed.”
“I don’t even know how to respond to that.”
“Most people don’t,” I say. “You could add it to your list of things to lecture me about. Smoking and cage dancing. I’m also a heavy drinker.”
“Most south side Irish are,” Justin says. Devin walks outside, as well as some other people. It seems the viewing is over. A man walks up to us in a crisp, dark grey pinstriped suit that looks incredibly expensive and well-tailored.
“Jenna Parker? My name is Drake Carroll. I’m so sorry about your father.” He takes my hand and holds it between his. They are dry and rough and strangely cold in the heat. His shirt is dark crimson and he wears no tie, which makes me wonder if he’s a member of the mafia or something.
“Er, thank you,” I stutter. He is probably in his mid-thirties and extremely handsome in a smooth and masculine sense of the word. I’ve heard Devin described as “pretty” by other girls before, and I would say Justin could probably take holding on the word “cute”, but I feel handsome is really reserved for men of Drake Carroll’s stature. In fact, the more I take him in, the more I would associate the word “gorgeous” or “perfect”. He has dark blonde hair and light brown eyes with heavy lashes that remind me of the word “drapes”. They are strangely much darker than his blonde hair and I wonder if mascara is involved. He has the most chiseled face I’ve ever seen and is staring at me as though he can read my thoughts. His chin is strong and his jawline is square and perfectly shaved. I wonder if he is one of those people that go to the barber shop for a straight razor shave. He looks manicured from head to toe.
Drake Carroll glances at Devin. “My condolences for your loss,” he says to us. “And a pleasure meeting you.” He puts a stress on the word “pleasure” that sounds out of place. He puts some dark Ray Ban sunglasses on and walks toward a black Mercedes Benz and gets in and drives away.
“What the fuck just happened?” asks Devin.
“It’s always helpful when people actually say how they know people,” Justin says. “But he chose to omit that important piece of information.”
I shrug. “Perhaps he was making sure Jack is really dead. I’m guessing Jack owed him some money. Do loan sharks actually exist?” No one laughs at my pathetic attempt at humor. Maybe because they don’t think I’m joking. The guy was seriously unreal, like a character from some police drama show. “Are we really going to this burial?” I ask. “I have to work tonight.”
“I don’t care,” Devin says. “I’ve said my goodbyes. I’m done.” I realize that his eyes are puffy. He was actually crying over our piece of shit father. I’m disgusted and uncomfortable by this but don’t say anything.
“Why don’t we go get some food?” Justin suggests. “I haven’t seen you two in so long. It’d be nice to catch up.” I realize that I’m suddenly ravenous and likely drowning my internal organs in alcohol. Then I remember that my vomit is just behind the bushes, and my stomach gurgles at the thought. We all agree to go get pizza at Pisano’s, which is a south side institution that serves amazing cracker thin crust pizza with amazing Italian sausage, or “eye-talian” if you’re from the neighborhood. I eat far too much bread before our pizza arrives and pick at a small square while Justin and Devin catch up on what they’ve been up to lately. The conversation revolves mostly around art and photography and local gallery exhibits and I’m slightly bored but intrigued as to what kind of art Justin does. He sees that I am not involved in the conversation and graciously changes the subject. He mentions how his mother is still living in the same house he grew up in around Elm Forest.