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I wish I had any other words to say to Shiloh besides the redundant "I'm so sorry for your loss" that would soon leave my lips. But I had nothing better to say. It was a terrible day, bidding our farewells to someone who left this earth far too early. Yet, here I was, reluctantly awaiting an opening to speak with her.
My body was clad in the stiff polyester blend of my Class A suit—one I dreaded wearing. Tucking two digits in the tight collar around my neck, I tugged it to the side to breathe.
Little did she know, I was watching her like a hawk in the corner. Eyes ablaze (as per Luke's orders) on her sulking demeanor. Her dark waves clipped back, and her lips glazed in a layer of a glorious rosy gloss. If keeping up appearances could win an award, Shiloh Kennedy could've won an Oscar.
And I feel like a jackass for finding her hauntingly beautiful on the darkest day of her life.
I observed as she shared no interest in the man by her side, her body stiffening when he laid his hand on her. A detail that snuck its way to my core, harvesting a sickening feeling.
"Didn't anyone tell you it's not polite to stare?" I hear the voice of my close friend, not breaking my gaze from Shiloh.
I let the cold glass press against my bottom lip to sweep some of the iced tea down my burning throat. A burn only a glass of whiskey could suffice.
"I'm not staring," I reply to his tease.
"Yeah, and I'm definitely not hiding a flask in my pocket right now," he scoffs.
His hand hits my diaphragm, breaking my gaze. I let out a sigh of relief, grasping onto the stainless steel tin. Turning my body to hide my indulgence, I unscrewed the cap and poured the liquid in—blessing God for listening to my wish.
