The Funeral We Didn't Deserve

Margot hadn't seen Elena in three years, not since the incident at the Christmas party, not since Elena slept with Margot's husband and then had the audacity to call herself her *friend* afterward. Yet here they were, seated together at Cheryl's funeral, because Cheryl had been that kind of person — the glue that held incompatible people together.

Margot adjusted her black *hat*, pulling it lower. She'd stopped dyeing her *hair* six months ago, and the silver streaks at her temples felt like evidence she'd stopped trying. Beside her, Elena was picking at a quiche with *spinach* clinging to the fork like something alive.

"You're *running* again, aren't you?" Elena said suddenly, not looking at her. "Your left knee keeps bouncing. You only do that when you're about to leave."

Margot's knee stilled. "I'm not running. I'm present. That's the problem."

"The problem is you think being present means staying stuck. Cheryl wouldn't want that."

"Don't," Margot snapped. "Don't act like you knew her better than I did. Don't act like you didn't destroy everything."

Elena set down her fork. The spinach fell back onto the plate, a small green surrender. "I didn't destroy anything, Margot. Your marriage was already dead. I just happened to be the one who pointed out the body."

The words hit harder than Margot expected, because somewhere deep down, she'd known it was true. She'd been running from the truth for years — in more ways than one. The morning runs, the late nights at the office, the inability to sit still at dinner without checking her phone. It had been easier to blame Elena than to face that she and Richard had become strangers who shared a bed.

"Why are you wearing that hat?" Elena asked softly. "You never used to hide."

Margot lifted her chin. She was forty-two years old, and she was exhausted from her own performance. She took off the hat. Her silver hair caught the light streaming through the church windows.

"I'm not running," she said again, and this time she believed it. "I'm staying. Even through the uncomfortable parts. Even through this."

Elena's eyes filled with tears. "Good," she whispered. "Because Cheryl left us both something."

She pressed a crumpled envelope into Margot's hand. Cheryl's handwriting on the front. Inside, two tickets to Paris, booked for the following month.

"She knew," Margot said, understanding dawning. "She knew we'd need to remember why we became friends in the first place."

"Before," Elena agreed. "Before everything got complicated."

Outside, the rain had stopped. Margot didn't put the hat back on. Some things, she decided, were meant to be seen.