DIVINE ▼ ginny & georgia

chapter 1: in georgia's wake

Kenny Drexel is dead, and momma is in rare form.

The brim of her black hat casts a wide enough net to reel in a fresh catch of mourners as she turns, crisp white handkerchief pressed primly under her eye. Her makeup is pristine, despite being on hour four of near-constant waterworks. Praise the Ulta Beauty gods. A solid brow, a pink lip, and doe eyes glistening with tears: Georgia Miller in a pinch. She hadn't even gotten around to changing her last name this time.

Not that I mind, of course. Bristol Drexel is a little too bland for my taste, a little too valley girl with bleached hair and fluttering eyelashes. I'm sure Ginny would agree in turn, that Virginia Drexel is a little too southern Sunday school and popping gum. A little too momma, bless her heart.

No, I prefer Riz Miller and all the black it entails, funeral and beyond. Most people can hardly believe I'm my mother's daughter, what with how we're physically different in almost every way. I got almost everything from daddy, from my dark skin to my curly hair to my height. Momma can look down her nose at me in a modest heel, but Ginny would have to add a good five inches to measure up. It doesn't bother me most days, not getting anything but mom's smile, hardly looking like my twin until our faces screw up the same at something Austin has said. Other days, it makes existing around other people hard to bear.

And at Kenny's funeral, there are a lot of people to exist around.

Wrapping my dark gray cardigan a little tighter over my blouse, I fights fidgeting my hands up into the curls that get stuck between my bicep and side whenever I cross my arms. Everyone is talking, and everyone is staring, and while I can normally tune it out, it's a little different when it's all directed at you and your family. Each and every one of these vultures is just waiting for one of us to slip up in some way, to have a breakdown or talk a little too loud, be a little too aggressive. Christ, but I wish I could show them what the actual meaning of that word is.

"Riz, you alright?"

It's with a startled blink that I come back from glaring at the back of the head of a woman who called momma tacky, as if the woman's gold belt and 'I'd like to speak to your manager' hairstyle aren't the epitome of the word. Ginny tucks closer to my side with Austin, staring up at me with a furrowed brow and waiting for an answer that takes too long.

"Yeah, for sure. Don't worry 'bout me, peachy," I reply, lips drawn into a half-hearted smile before I lean sideways to press a quick kiss to Ginny's temple. It's not convincing, to be sure, and Ginny's no idiot. Nothing is alright, but we'll make due one breath at a time. One of my hands unravels from my sweater to smooth across Austin's head in turn, our little unit drawing closer together amidst the sea of people that flow all around us, our mother at the center of the storm.

"After being a single mother for so long, he was like a godsend," momma intones, all the emotion of a preacher at her service, singing her praises to god were he a man named Kenny of all things. "And he was wonderful with Virginia and Bristol and Austin. He treated 'em like his very own."

I have to look down to hide the frown that tugs at my mouth, down past the black of her slim fit pants to the black flats I'd squeezed into this morning, watching as I wiggle my toes beneath the leather for something to do. Like his very own. As if. He'd never tried anything, but I never trust men whose eyes linger like that, especially if we're supposed to have been like his very own. I pity his only son if that's the truth. I pity him anyway, and for a very simple reason that I'll never say out loud.

Because Georgia Miller is a fisherman of plenty, and the eye of every storm, and a persuasive preacher on her pulpit. Georgia Miller is divine in her element, and she intends to take everything.