Bad Taste (Part II) // Colby Brock

236 - Angela

I didn't want to look perfect for the funeral—I wanted to look good, but today wasn't a day for glam.

My hair and makeup team didn't show up in the morning, I did everything for myself, which I found weird but it was nothing I hadn't done before. I had the most natural, basic makeup possible and simply curled my hair into soft waves at the tips. My outfit was, of course, black, and as I stared at myself in the mirror, I realised how much I was able to look like Rebecca. The hair still threw the whole look off, though.

Dresses were overrated for me. I'd wear them at a gala or a fancy event—or even at a business meeting—but not for a funeral. For me, I thought I looked better in a black suit. Black dress pants, white blouse, black jacket; it shaped my body without showing it off, and still fit the funeral motif.

There was just an hour until we had to attend the wake, then we had the burial, then we had to do a small "celebration of life" that I felt was just unnecessary. If I was honest, I wanted to go along with Rebecca's idea and just have the burial and a tiny wake. But Dad wanted to be around some people to get his social abilities back up to par, so I agreed to make it a bigger deal.

Little things still had to be set up for the funeral, but those were things I could do whilst there—and with the help of Rebecca and her super-strong vampire friends. So I picked up my phone, texted someone, then slid on a pair of black sneakers.

Rebecca had won the argument about shoes; it wouldn't be smart to walk around in heels like I usually did when we were at a funeral that required a lot of walking for us.

By the time I opened my door, I found the door opposite being closed, and instantly met the pretty eyes of Brett, my neighbour—aka someone. He was dressed in a high-end black suit that was pristinely pressed, and wore a polite smile on his face.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey." I quickly locked my door, testing the handle once to make sure it had really locked, then turned to him. "You're ready to go?"

"Of course," he smiled. "Lead the way, I don't want to encroach too much."

"You won't be," I assured him, "but thanks." He nodded and we started down the hallway together, side by side at that awkward distance where your hands almost meet. In the corner of my eye, I could see his fingers just hanging there, lonely and waiting to be held.

But I tried not to get myself into the thoughts I'd been having a lot about Brett, because those thoughts were dangerous for me. My addictions were still on the horizon, I didn't need anything to send me down the wrong path. All men were the same when you didn't have a soulmate bond with them—which was a total cheat, by the way; I couldn't risk my mental health on a successful, attractive young man with a great sense of humour and cute personality. Even if that was a rarity in LA.

I was driving my convertible with the roof up, as it wasn't a day for enjoying the sun, and Brett was coming with me in the passenger seat. He was still politely smiling, even when I put on a song I knew he hated. I switched it over, but he switched it back again.

"I know you love this one," he said.

"But you don't like it," I reminded him, reaching for the radio.

He caught my wrist before I could twist any knobs. "It's your car."

"Exactly, I can listen to my own music when I'm alone." I pulled my tingling hand out of his grasp and said, "Tell me what you want to listen to."

"Angela, it's really okay. I don't need to-"

"I remember you said you like rock," I interrupted, and his open mouth simply closed. I scrolled through Spotify until I found a rock playlist, and the first song that came on was a classic. "Is this okay?"