Last Call

Edward

I'm too fucking anxious for this shit. It doesn't even matter who I am here for. Nothing feels like it matters now. Nothing helps with this aggravating, annoying feeling, either. Trust me…I've tried everything. It's just amplifying my despair.

My sister stands alone, head bowed slightly, wisps of blonde hair blowing through the wind.

I slide my sunglasses into place, my eyes already thanking me for the dark-tinted lenses that shield my vision with their shadow.

"You're late," Rose snaps. Her hazel eyes are wet and appear glassy as if there's no life left them. I can feel the distance in her posture, and her cool demeanor of her even in mourning.

"Traffic," I lie.

She arches a brow.

"Your suit is wrinkled and gray, and you're not wearing a tie."

I shrug.

"Overslept, too. Couldn't find anything else."

She eyes me warily, seeing through my bullshit, dragging the Ray-Bans off my face. She acts as if she's even seen me in these clothes yesterday. Fucking Rosalie knows everything, all the fucking time. Even though I haven't seen her in months.

"Seriously, at his fucking funeral?" My sister's mood is foul. I shrug again, annoyed that she reads me like a picture book. Her voice drops to a menacing whisper. "You're high as a kite, at your father's fucking funeral?" She'd be fisting the fabric of my shirt if we weren't out in public. Like she's scolding a damn child.

"You're swearing like a sailor at your father's fucking funeral, Rosalie."

Her eyes narrow, thin slits full of judgment. Because my sister is the perfect, second child. The do-over. The princess. The golden child. I'm nothing except a disgrace. Her words, not mine.

"If I'm late…where is everyone else?"

Rose looks at me, her head cocked to the side. It's as if she can't believe what I'm asking of her. She's angry and pissed off and enraged all in one. But composed. As she should be. Mother taught her well.

"Edward…" she sighs. A lone teardrop makes its way down her cheek. She brushes it away quickly with leather-gloved fingers. Her tear reflects the run, and I squint, head throbbing. "It's eleven-thirty."

My heart hammers even faster now.

"Ho—, no, I se—"

"Whatever excuse you have to miss your own father's funeral, Edward… I'm sure it can wait. I don't need to hear it. Pay your fucking respects and get in my fucking car."

Rose shakes her head angrily, a pressed handkerchief crumpled into her right hand, fingers curled around the handle of a black, croc bag. Her hair bounced obnoxiously as she makes her way to her town car, heels crushing dirt and gravel. She doesn't even glance at me from over her shoulder. She's got her head held high, debutante's perfect posture all the way until she's disappeared. Rosalie Cullen is a master of disguise.

And I'm a fucking mess, my eyes overflowing, silent teardrops falling onto my father's casket.

I'm sorry, Dad. Here I am, disappointing him again. Even in death.