Just Friends

The Memorial

I lingered at the back of the room, watching as dozens of attendees paid their respects to my late cousin, Madison. The platform held a collection of framed photographs, a chronological diary of Madi's life. Below the photos stood a large vase, brimming with flowers of every sort. These were merely decorative, of course- a prop arranged by the staff at Easy Rest Memorial Services. The guests left their flower offerings in a trail alongside the photographs, scattered in rows and perfuming the confined space of the church. As a rule, I never attended funerals, and I hadn't seen the inside of a church in over a decade-but Madi was my cousin, and it was only fitting. I avoided affairs that required me to cry out in the open, and I detested large masses of people- both of which described the Memorial Service of Madison J. Ridgeway.

"Hello Ellie," a familiar voice croaked. I closed my eyes and turned to face my aunt Gwen, Madison's mother.

"Hi Aunt Gwen," I said quietly. I wasn't sure of the reason, but I felt the need to speak quietly, as if any minute I might rouse Madi from the dead.

Gwen's brother, John, hovered over the refreshments table, his balding head shining under the recessed lighting. I didn't realize I was making a face until Gwen said something to me about it.

"Now don't you go getting all sour apples on me, Ellie Hannah. John is my brother, and he's got just as much of a right to be here as you do."

I bit my tongue. Hard. John lived with our Aunt Gwen and had for upwards of ten years. He never seemed to hold down a steady job, or a girlfriend, for that matter. But that wasn't why I hated him.

"I can't believe you'd invite that predator to your daughter's memorial service," I hissed. Gwen was taken aback by the sharpness of my words, but I didn't care. I was angry and full of anxiety. I wanted to hit someone. I wanted to get out of here.

"John maintains that he never touched Madi in an inappropriate way," she reasoned. "And we all know that Madi was. . ."

I waited, daring her to say the next few words.

". . . she relished male attention," she said delicately.

I wanted to haul off and slap her.

Madi and I had been victims of our Uncle John years ago- both of us had reported the abuse to our parents. Mine had moved far away with me. Madi's mom put blinders on. John continued living under the same roof, and, at the ripe ol' age of seventeen, Madi ran away.

"You two make me sick," I spat, and I turned to go. I wasn't watching where I was going- all I could think of was making my hasty exit, etiquette be damned. That was why I didn't see the man until I ran face first into his jacket pocket. He was tall and wearing a black suit with a crisp white shirt beneath it. His tie was a golden color with navy blue stripes, and he smelled like expensive cologne.

"I- I'm sorry," I stammered. Panic had begun to well up inside of me, a cruel demon looking to claw its way out. The church had become increasingly oppressive- with its stark white walls and its stiff wooden pews. Too many conversations drifted through the space, too many bodies drifting around.

"It's alright," he said gently. I glanced down at his hand, which held mine gently. I was stupid enough to look for a wedding ring- and foolish enough to be pleased with the absence of one. On impulse I looked up into his eyes- warm, brown irises framed by dark lashes- and I felt warm all over. His hand still cradled mine as he'd used it to steady me, and I wondered if it was the room moving or if it was me swaying on my own two feet.

"Thank you, Mr.-"

I didn't bother looking behind me to see if Aunt Gwen was still standing there. I knew better than to look for my Uncle, whom I wanted to punch right in his flat face. Instead, I concentrated on the man with the warm eyes and the comforting grip.

"Ian Salazar," he told me. My throat felt dry. Suddenly the words I wanted to come out- the polite introduction- got caught somewhere between my brain and my lips. My chest felt constricted, like it might implode. It had been some time since my last panic attack, thanks to the medication, but I'd forgotten to bring the bottle with me to L.A. Ian's face screwed up into a look of concern as he reached out to steady me before I fell. It was very difficult to breathe, and my heart hammered in my chest like the wings of a hummingbird. I was going to pass out.

"Eleanor Hannah," I told him. Then the world went black.

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