The Shape Of My Heart - Ann Aguirre

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just go quietly back into the closet and confine my sexual identity questions to watching interesting internet porn, that would be great. He didn’t say that, of course, but over the years, I’d gotten great at reading between the lines. Conversations with my family were pretty much always frustrating for various reasons.

      “You good to go?” Max asked, starting the engine.

      “Yep, let’s do this.”

      Like the previous day, we rode in two-hour increments, stopping to rest so my muscles didn’t lock up. Max grew progressively tenser the closer we got to Rhode Island, and when we crossed the state line, his back felt like a brick beneath my cheek. Since I could only touch his abs, it seemed weird to rub his belly as if he was a spaniel and I was trying to make his back leg kick. As we rolled into Providence, he pulled into a gas station parking lot. The area didn’t look awesome, but I didn’t protest. I figured he needed a minute. Max disappeared inside for over ten minutes, and when he came out, he had on dress slacks, a wrinkled button-up and the ugliest tie I’d ever seen in my life.

      “The wake’s already started,” he said.

      “Then I should go change.” I hadn’t realized we were going straight to the funeral home.

      Without another word, I took my backpack and did my best to look respectable in my black dress and ballet flats. Short of dyeing my hair and removing all my piercings, I figured I’d done the best I could, then I had to get back on the bike in a skirt. I hadn’t thought of that when I was packing. There was no way to ride sidesaddle, so I tucked the fabric.

      Max took off, gunning the throttle, and I could practically sense his tension. Fifteen minutes later, we stopped outside a run-down-looking funeral parlor called Cavanaugh and Sons. The building had clearly seen better days, pitted with wind and rain, and grass grew up through cracks in the sidewalk. Most of the businesses nearby had bars across the windows; the rest were vacant buildings.

      “It’s worse than I remembered,” he said, pulling off his helmet.

      Max took a couple of deep breaths, and I put my hand over his heart, feeling the way it raced at the idea of facing his family. As I stared up at him, his gaze locked on my face. I metered my breathing to his, willing him to calm down. You can’t start this way. It’ll go up in flames sooner rather than later.

      “Whatever happens in there, I’m on your side. You know that, right?”

      “My dad would punch me in the face for bringing you to fight my battles.”

      “He sounds like a catch. Has he remarried? I’m thinking I might have a shot.”

      “Don’t even joke,” he snapped.

      “Sorry. The more nervous I get, the closer I come to doing standup. You should’ve been at my bat mitzvah.”

      “Did you wear a frilly dress?”

      “And combat boots.”

      Smiling, Max pulled my hand off his chest and pressed it to his cheek for one beat, two. “You make me feel like this might be okay. Somehow. Come on. Let’s go meet the family.”

       CHAPTER FOUR

      Inside, the funeral home was cramped.

      We stepped first into a small foyer with worn red carpeting, dusty silk floral arrangements set on tables to either side. I fought a sneeze as Max took my hand and led me into the chapel. A few white folding chairs were set up, but not too many, as most people were standing around in clusters, wearing their Sunday best and talking in low voices. Before, I’d only attended Jewish services, so this should be interesting from a cultural perspective.

      There was a clear pathway with a runner leading up to the casket, arrayed with pictures, flowers and mementos to one side. Wearing a determined look, Max pulled me along, not stopping until we reached the coffin with the old man inside. From the look of him, he’d definitely lived a full life, complete with alcohol abuse, judging by the veins in his nose, poorly covered by the morbid makeup artist who worked for Cavanaugh and Sons. There were also plenty of wrinkles and liver spots. Reflexively, I took a step back, ostensibly to give Max room, but really I was getting away from the weirdness of staring at a dead person I’d never met.

      Granting him some privacy, I turned away, taking stock of the crowd. There were middle-aged women in polyester dresses, bored men talking sports in low tones. Nobody seemed particularly broken up; I didn’t see an elderly woman weeping like a bereaved widow. But across the room, I spotted a young man in a wheelchair, and he looked uncannily like Max, except for the upper-body strength. Max was lean, and he definitely wouldn’t win at a gun show. This guy might compete in the Paralympics or something.

      I put a hand on Max’s shoulder. “I think your brother’s watching us.”

      He whirled, scanning the room with hungry, worried eyes. Then his gaze locked onto Mickey—I was that sure of his identity—and the guy wheeled toward us. “It’s been a long time.”

      “Yeah. How’ve you been?” From the flash in Max’s dark eyes, he thought it was a stupid fucking thing to say, and he was already kicking himself, but it wasn’t like these occasions came with a manual.

      Before Mickey could answer, a man shouldered through the crowd toward us. He was maybe an inch shorter than Max with hard eyes and cuts on his jaw that suggested he’d shaved with an unsteady hand. I might be jumping to conclusions, but they looked like the result of sobering up suddenly, after a long bender. I put his age around fifty, so he might be Max’s dad.

      “Can’t believe you showed. I bet your uncle Lou ten bucks you wouldn’t have the balls.”

      “Enough, Pop.” Mickey confirmed my speculation with two words. “This isn’t the time or the place.”

      A blonde woman joined the group then, wearing a worried look. “Is that you, Max?”

      “Hey, Aunt Carol. Thanks for the email.” He leaned in to kiss her cheek.

      She didn’t seem like a horrible person at first glance, so I wondered why she hadn’t protected Max back in the day. I noticed nobody was hugging him, though, or touching him at all. I finally understood why he was so tactile; it was reactionary, like bingeing on chocolate after a strict diet.

      Clearing my throat, I offered my hand for her to shake. “I’m Courtney.”

      His dad skimmed me up and down, then his lip curled. “She must have money. I guess you’re not a total idiot. Cash lasts way longer than a pretty face, and all cats feel the same in the dark, am I right?”

      Wow. That wasn’t the first time I’d heard that verdict, but it was the bluntest anyone had come across with it. Max lunged at his dad, and his aunt caught his shoulder. His jaw clenched as he shook her off. But I squeezed his hand, silently telling him to relax. It’s so not worth it.

      Carol smiled at me. “You’re Max’s...”

      “Friend,” I supplied.

      From her expression, that wasn’t the answer she expected. “Nice to meet you. I was surprised when Max said he’d try to make it. He didn’t tell me he was bringing company.”

      “We’re not staying with you,” Max said. “So don’t worry about it.”

      “Too good for your family.” His dad snorted.

      Max cut him a WTF look and I understood why. From his father’s tone, he made it sound like it was Max’s choice, not involuntary exile. Before the tension could get worse, though, Mickey shook my hand with a friendly smile. This kid had incredible eyes, two or three shades lighter than Max’s, and flecked with gold. He must already be breaking hearts.

      “With all this bickering, I don’t see an intro anytime in our future. I’m Michael.”

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