Mrs. Grey wiped a tear away from Whitney's face. Tears she didn't know were already falling. Tears were the pent-up anger and pain she was feeling inside. Shit. Shit. Shit. "You don't need to lie to me, Whit. You've been Mira's best friend for sixteen years. I know you are not okay."
That was why Whitney preferred to wear her dark shades. She did not want people to look into her eyes and read through the hard shell she had built. She hated it when others saw her pain. She hated feeling pain. She hugged Mrs. Grey. "I am so sorry; I don't know what I should have done or how I should have done it but I should have kept Stefflon safe."
Her heart started to feel too heavy for her chest.
Mrs. Grey padded Whitney's back. "Silly child. How could you have done that?" She pulled Whitney back by her shoulders. "She was sick and she didn't want anyone to know. I was her mother and I didn't even know."
Whitney gave an agreeing nod. A large chunk of her heart disagreed though. She was her best friend. She should have seen the physical signs. She should have looked more deeply when she smiled and found the pain beneath it. She should have. But she didn't. She failed her. Woefully.
"Go, she is waiting for you." Mrs. Grey nodded towards Stefflon's coffin. Whitney gave her one final hug before motioning to it.
Stefflon looked nothing like Stefflon. The makeup was a failed attempt at trying to make her look alive. Her eyes were closed too tightly to convince Whitney that maybe she was still there and only sleeping. Her skin was too pale—Stefflon never had pale skin; she was always Olive. Shiny. Beautiful.
She was no longer Stefflon; she was only a shell of who Stefflon used to be. A cloned version of her.
But even that was okay for Whitney. Even a shell of Stefflon was enough as long as she got to bid her farewell. She caressed her face.
It was cold. "Hi, Stefflon." A part of waiting for a response. None came. "You're a bad friend you know that?" she was starting to choke in anguish. "You're selfish you know?"
There was a constriction in Whitney's throat that made her swallow. "How am I supposed to live without you for the rest of my life? You promised me we would live together on a beach far away when we were seventy, how are we going to do that now?" She threw her head behind and her face to the ceiling to push back the liquid that had swelled in her eyes. It was futile, they leaked through the corner of her eyes.
She mopped them and then held Stefflon with her hands. "You better become the sky and wait till the day I join you as a cloud. If you do not then I may never forgive you. I mean it." She lowered herself and placed a goodbye-for-now kiss on Stefflon's forehead. "I hope it is not too long before we see each other again."
It was the most painful thing to do. Turning away. Whitney never knew or guessed it would be that hard until she spun away from Stefflon, forever. Nothing seemed harder than that.
Ken was standing just by the door of the funeral home attending to one of the visitors who happened to be a woman. He was dressed in a pair of black jeans and a black shirt. Whitney looked at him in disgust. Who dresses so casually to their wife's funeral?
He even had the nerve to share a smile with the lady. Gross disregard.
Whitney stood at akimbo with her hands folded towards her chest, glowering at him with every irritation she could summon. One good thing about being the president of a publishing company was that you needed to be a writer first, and one good thing about being a writer was the ability to translate body language.
She narrowed her eyes when Ken smiled sadly, he was trying to gain fake sympathy. Who would not feel sorry enough for a young widower? Even enough to want to comfort him by warming his bed. From everything Stefflon said about him when he was alive, he was the type of guy to try and do that.
Whitney guessed he would lean in for a hug in a matter of seconds, it happened.
He did hug the platinum-blonde lady.
He leaned in for a hug the very next minute, sending a puke up her throat. Asshole. He truly had no shame in him. For goodness' sake, his wife was in the same room with him—not practically though—but at least literally; stiff. Cold. Breathless. Her mother and the rest of her family were there as well. He had to respect that at the very least. He didn't give a damn.
Whitney grimaced. She thought her friend must have been in so much pain living with a man like that for three years. It must have been even more painful than cancer that slowly ate away her life till there was nothing left.
The memory of it started to throw her in anguish again. Stefflon had suffered so much and was alone. It was not until a month before her death that Whitney found out Stefflon had stage four ovarian cancer. Chemotherapy was no longer doing her any good and she could no longer hide it.
Her heart had broken for her friend. She'd pretended to be so strong for such a long time while she knew each breath she took was drawing her closer to her last. To her grave.
There was a sudden inexplicable urge to transform her pain into anger and take it out on someone. Just anyone. And, quite unfortunately, Ken was just the perfect person to feel the wrath of it, he deserved it for treating Stefflon badly. For hugging a lady on her funeral day. For dressing so casually like he didn't frigging care.
Whitney started towards him and the lady who was "comforting" him left. Speaking of perfect timing. She must have sensed trouble. Yes. Whitney wouldn't have hesitated to give her a taste of what she had in store for Ken.
A rain of rage was about to fall!