Four Weekends and a Funeral - Softcover

Palmer, Ellie

Softcover

ISBN 10: 059371430X ISBN 13: 9780593714300

Verlag: Penguin Publishing Group, 2024

Inhaltsangabe

A tender, laugh-out-loud debut romance about a woman who ends up in over her head after a little white lie . . .

The right guy at the dead wrong time.

When thirty-year-old post-double-mastectomy BRCA 1 carrier and reluctant thrill-seeker Alison Mullally arrives at her ex-boyfriend Sam’s funeral to find that no one knows he dumped her, she agrees to play the grieving girlfriend for the sake of the family and pack up Sam’s apartment with his prickly best friend, Adam Berg. After all, it’ll only take four weekends . . . 

But Adam doesn’t want Alison anywhere near him. Forced to spend long hours with the grump, and his monosyllabic demeanor, Alison decides she must put her people-pleasing abilities to the test. She will make him like her. And after awkward family affairs and packing up dilemmas, the two form a tenuous friendship . . . if “friendship” means incredible chemistry and tension between them. Can Alison come clean and finally embrace the life and love she's always wanted? Or will her little white lie get in the way of her new, unexpected romance?

Über diesen Titel

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Ellie Palmer is a lifelong lover of love stories, a carrier of the BRCA1 mutation, and a prototypical Midwesterner who routinely apologizes to inanimate objects when she bumps into them. When she's not writing romantic comedies featuring delightfully messy characters, she's at home in Minnesota, eating breakfast food, watching too much reality television, and triple texting her husband about their son.

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1

We Start with the Funeral

When I learn I'm still dating Sam Lewis, I'm at his funeral.

Mara and I drift into St. Ignatius Catholic Church twenty minutes early.

"You're sloshing," she tells me out of the side of her mouth.

"Puddle in the parking lot." The wet squish of my foot into damp insole punctuates my words.

I grip her elbow when we reach the threshold, as if I'm guiding her toward the vaguely familiar faces of my ex-boyfriend's friends and loved ones. Really, she's the one who's keeping me upright. Such is her duty as my best friend, though her striking, angular features and statuesque frame make her an only slightly more discreet companion than an emotional-support corgi.

Today, we're a study in contrasts. Where Mara is tall and steady in her stacked heels, I'm short and unwieldy in my waterlogged, machine-washable flats. Her auburn hair is spun up neatly in a French twist while my long brown curls fall messily around my face, because I'm thirty years old and still can't follow a YouTube hair tutorial.

She shakes herself from my death grip to unbutton her coat, revealing a pristinely black, Woolite-commercial-ready sweater topping a pair of effortlessly chic wide-leg trousers. I-as a chronically reckless washer of dark woolens-had nothing so perfectly Burial Black to don for the funeral of a man who'd gently dumped me in a rowboat. I settled for a faded charcoal dress and a cardigan that exists somewhere between pea green and the color of the dead late-autumn grass. I hope it snows soon. I'm already so sick of fall. I'm already so sick of today.

The wooden doors thud behind us, announcing our arrival. I suppose it's not ordinary to bring a plus-one to these sorts of things, but the funeral of my most recent ex is no ordinary occasion.

My eyes search the front hall for someone I know. More accurately, I'm hoping to see no one I know and confirmation that I'm in the wrong place.

No, no. Not your Sam Lewis, a stranger might say. A different Sam Lewis. Though he hasn't been my Sam Lewis for six weeks-if he ever really was.

But I recognize his friend Russell immediately, and relief and disappointment flood my chest like an inflowing tide. Today is real. This is no mistake.

We sidle up to his group, and Russell introduces himself to Mara with an overly familiar hug. I watch her struggle against her natural urge to recoil. Russell Rossi is an adventure seeker, a shameless flirt, and a level of attractive that loops all the way back around to unattractive. He's uncanny valley-level hot and a self-proclaimed "hugger."

Since Mara once described a high five from her accountant as "inappropriately chummy," I swoop in to hug Russell myself. He presses his whole body against me and holds it approximately three seconds too long. Releasing me from his grip, he presents me to the group as "Alison Mullally, Sam's girlfriend."

"Former girlfriend," I correct Russell.

"Well, obviously, babe," Russell says dismissively before returning to his conversation.

His words snap against my skin like a rubber band. I stand there dumbly while the group continues speaking about people I don't know and sharing memories I don't have. The words He broke up with me six weeks ago sit on my tongue.

My mouth opens and shuts once, twice, and then a third time. With each second that passes, my correction morphs into an uncomfortable non sequitur in a conversation that's moved on. All of my explanations dissolve in my mouth like sour cotton candy.

Sam's mom joins our circle, greeting each of us with a cool, stiff embrace. I can hardly look at her when she pulls me close, murmuring into my putrid-colored sweater-so quietly I almost can't make it out-"I'm just grateful he found you before . . ."

My role in this tragic drama finally clicks into place.

At funerals, we're all present tense in relation to the dead. Judy Lewis is his mom. Rachel is his sister. I'm introduced over and over as his girlfriend. This is Alison, Sam's girlfriend. Only Sam is past tense.

To this group, I am Sam's girlfriend. No one interrogates the seriousness of our relationship to determine how much grief I'm allowed. We could have been together two weeks or ten years-though any of his Instagram followers could see I surfaced around June. I never made it to his TikTok. A relationship wouldn't fit the "nomad" aesthetic, he said.

Dread pools in my belly while I hover between lukewarm coffee carafes, overhearing alternate versions of my love life making their way through the sympathy floral arrangements. Most timelines diverge at the annual Lewis family Labor Day party.

In my version of events, Sam dumped me three days prior. Mrs. Lewis, on the other hand, was sad to hear of my bout with food poisoning. Russell's still bummed I was out of town and missed his epic bonfire-the tallest one yet! A few people are sure they saw me there.

In every story but mine, I was still with Sam on Labor Day, and I was still dating him when he crashed his rental car last Tuesday in Sedona on a spur-of-the-moment climbing trip. Therefore, at his funeral, I'm Sam Lewis's girlfriend-possibly in perpetuity.

Part of me wonders if Sam's lie means that he felt more for me than he ever let on, but I immediately dismiss the thought. It's more likely that the breakup didn't warrant a special announcement. My departure would have been self-explanatory when he showed up with a new girlfriend at the next big event. It just so happens that event is today, and he can't be here for it.

As the crowd filters into the church, I yank Mara through a set of heavy double doors into a parochial school hallway, decorated with brightly colored drawings of Jesus on the cross demonstrating varying levels of artistic competency.

Mara stumbles over her feet. "Alison, what the-"

"Why would they all think . . . ?" I can't seem to find the words as nausea clenches my throat.

"Why didn't you correct anyone?" Mara asks. Her tall, frame settles against the beige cubbies lining the school hallway.

"I tried!" She challenges my excuse with a barely perceptible eye roll. "What did you want me to do? Say 'No, Mrs. Lewis, I'm sure you don't have enough on your plate today, so let me be the one to tell you that we broke up six weeks ago'?"

She dismisses her pulsing phone with a frown. "At least he dumped you. Less culpability."

My teeth worry at my bottom lip. "I think that makes it worse somehow."

Mara's phone pulses again, more violently this time, and she soundtracks her question with furious thumb taps. "Why'd you want us to come then?"

My feet squelch as I pace the small opening of Ms. Dubicki's classroom door. "His mom wanted me here . . . which suddenly makes a bit more sense. But we're trying to stay friends. Were, I mean," I correct myself, an apostrophe the difference between life and death. "Who're you texting during my crisis?"

"The Guy," she grumbles. Mara manages the campaign of a potential mayoral candidate whom she refers to only as "the Guy." Her texting demeanor-all stiff shoulders and flared nostrils-broadcasts her frustration with her newest candidate. "And since we're clearly doing this"-she gestures in a circle between us-"I'm briefing Chelsea to get us all on the same page. She has thoughts."

"This? What is . . ." I rip my silent phone out of my coat pocket and groan at my missed notifications from Chelsea Olsen, the other member of our trio. "You can't text 'Al is dating Sam' in the group chat with no further context. Chelsea's asking if it's a 'Devon Sawa Casper scenario.'"

While Mara is a classic old soul-with the confidence and jaded perspective that comes from having done it all and seen it all-Chelsea's soul is fresh and new. The possibilities for her are always endless, so when...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Penguin Publishing Group
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2024
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 059371430X
• ISBN 13: 9780593714300
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 368
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: gpsr@libri.de; gpsr@libri.de; ; Europaallee 1; Bad Hersfeld; 36244; Deutschland