“No, Olivia, say it like you mean it. Say it like you’re headed to perform at a sold-out stadium show like the big dogs.”

  “Capeesh!”

  “That’s the spirit.”

  Nick is the last person in my life I’d expect to support the Olivia Vincent Plan. “You’re like my guardian angel, you know that?”

  His mouth twists. “I’ve been called a lot of things but an angel isn’t one of them.”

  I chuckle as I slide off the edge of the Jeep and my feet hit the ground. I guess I’m here to stay.

  “Hey, Nick Leto, wait up!” some guy with a Mississippi drawl calls behind us. It’s a man in a white T-shirt, snug around his midsection—kinda like a young Louis C.K. type but without the receding red hair. A petite blond woman follows close behind him.

  “What’s up?” Nick says, pulling a cigarette from his pocket.

  “Hey, I’m Jordan and this is my wife, Kelly.” He extends a hand to Nick.

  “Nice to meet you guys. What can I do for you?”

  “My brother . . . Jeremiah was supposed to be here at the show tonight. Actually, he’s the one who requested that you come. You see, you’re his favorite comedian.” Jordan rocks on his heels with his hands in his pockets, and his wife stares at Nick all wide-eyed like he’s a movie star. “He even traveled to Tallahassee to see you once.”

  “You played Tallahassee?” I ask out of the side of my mouth, and he nudges my side, silencing me.

  “Well, please tell your brother I really appreciate his support.” Nick swings his keys in his hands, just as ready to go as I am.

  “That’s the thing, I . . . I can’t tell him.” Jordan’s voice cracks and Nick and I trade glances. “Jeremiah died this week.”

  “Oh, shit.” My jaw drops. I did not mean to say that aloud.

  Nick must be gaping too because his cigarette goes toppling to his feet. Right where it belongs. “What happened?”

  Jordan sniffles back tears. The poor guy just lost his brother. And Nick just lost his number one fan. “It was a firework mishap.”

  “Firework mishap,” I repeat bluntly. You’d think after losing a close loved one myself I could be a smidge more sensitive. Who was this Jeremiah?

  “I’m sorry for your loss, man.” Nick’s tone turns gentle, handling this whole thing with grace.

  “Thank you. That means a lot.” Jordan lowers his head. “Anyway, I came here to ask you, since you’re in town and all, if you’d be willing to come to his funeral tomorrow and . . . perform.”

  Kelly, his doe-eyed wife, steps in. “It would mean the world to him.”

  What. Is. Happening.

  “You—you want me to tell jokes at your brother’s funeral?” Nick asks.

  Jordan nods. “Yes, sir.”

  “Uhh.” Nick and I trade unsure glances. “I’m not sure that’s the best venue for my material. I wouldn’t want to offend any of his friends or family.”

  Jordan throws out one of those don’t be silly looks. “Oh, no, sir. It’d be just fine. Help lighten the mood. And I know Jeremiah would want it that way. He was your biggest fan.”

  “What time is the funeral?” Nick asks, like he’s actually considering it. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t.

  “It’s at eleven thirty.”

  “Hey, Nick.” I squeeze in between their conversation, tapping my watch. “We have to be in New Orleans tomorrow for a show. And with the Fourth of July holiday traffic, we both know how important it is to leave extra early.”

  “New Orleans is only a couple hours south, one if you drive right. You’ll be back on the road by one o’clock, tops,” Jordan offers.

  “The show doesn’t start until seven thirty. Even with traffic, we’ll get there in plenty of time,” Nick adds.

  Has he lost his damn mind? “I don’t know, Nick. Remember what happened last time?”

  “Can you excuse us for a moment?” Nick smiles politely and pulls me out of earshot of the bereaved couple.

  “What are you doing?” I ask in a hostile whisper.

  “What are you doing? This Jeremiah guy is the reason we got this gig and he’s my biggest fan!” Nick whispers back.

  “It’s. A. Funeral!” I mouth.

  “So what? They’re not asking you to perform. What’s the big deal?”

  “Nick, do you really want to risk humiliating yourself over someone’s grave?”

  “The guy died, Olivia,” he says, like it’s a compelling reason. I get that people die. It doesn’t mean you turn the funeral into a Netflix stand-up special.

  “In a firework accident. And you didn’t even know him.”

  “It doesn’t matter. He knew me. He liked me enough to bring me to this tiny town so he could see me live. It’s people like him that allow people like us the privilege to do what we do. The least I can do is pay my respects and bring a little joy to his surviving friends and family. Wouldn’t you want the same thing if it were your brother?”

  I hold a stubborn stance but consider his question. If Eddie Murphy or Richard Pryor or Pablo Francisco were in Midland the night before my dad’s funeral, I might’ve done the same thing—no matter how inappropriate the material.

  Nick continues. “Besides, it’s good karma. If I perform for my biggest fan, then maybe Jerry Seinfeld will do a set at my funeral.”

  “You really think Jerry Seinfeld would come to your funeral?” No one’s karma is that good.

  He shrugs. “Why not? And if you come, maybe Carrot Top will perform at yours.”

  I suppose it wouldn’t kill me to be supportive. I owe him that much. Even if I still think this is a terrible idea.

  Twenty-Nine

  Knock, knock.

  Morning light spills into my darkened motel room when I open the door. Nick’s clean-shaven face and tamed hair are almost unrecognizable. Not to mention the getup—a tailored dark gray suit and light blue tie. I’m partial to tousled-hair, scruffy-beard Nick. But I could get used to this look on him. Hell, with those dimples and that body, he could probably make anything look good.

  “Did you rent that outfit this morning?” I ask.

  “No, it’s mine.” He dusts the lapel. “I clean up nice, don’t I?”

  “You brought a suit and tie on tour? You really are a Jerry, aren’t you?”

  “If I were, this blazer would have shoulder pads.”

  “Or an emblem. Remember that episode?” I ask, and Nick snickers. “But seriously, why did you bring a suit?”

  “Just in case.”

  “In case what? You have a meeting at the bank?” Not once have I seen Nick in anything other than his jeans and leather jacket, or that Elvis jumpsuit. And of course there was that one night when he was wearing nothing at all. But who’s keeping track of his wardrobe anyway?

  “You just never know,” he says, and I think about Jeremiah and his family for a moment. People always say we never know when our time’s up and it’s so true. “What about you? You going on a date?”

  On the off chance of a nice night out, I packed a relatively tasteful dress with me—navy blue, not black. “It’s either this or jeans,” I say, wheeling my two-ton suitcase over to the door with my garbage bag pillow tucked beneath my arm. “C’mon. Let’s get this over with.”

  * * *

  —

  So here we are in our road trip best at a funeral for a guy we never knew existed until last night. Soft harp music sounds through the room—the kind that plays softly at Hallmark stores. Entering the funeral home is about as nerve-racking as waiting to go onstage. I haven’t been to one of these since my dad’s. Everyone’s dressed in mourning attire, and they all have the same question on their faces—How did he go so young?

  The only question on my mind: Do I have to be here?

  My phone buzzes in my bag. It’s Imani, probably calling me back from last night. I’ll call her later—don’t want to explain this very odd outing. A group of people pass us wearing American flag pins on their lapels and carrying handheld flags too. Hard to tell if Jeremiah was a veteran or if they’re observing our Independence Day—whose flashy tradition is somewhat responsible for his death.

  “Think there’ll be a firecracker finale?” I ask.

  “What kind of person dies from fireworks?” Finally, he says something honest about this whole thing.

  I pat Nick’s shoulder. “The kind that thinks you’re hilarious.”

  “I’m gonna go find Jordan and figure out where I’m supposed to be.” Nick buttons his suit jacket and rushes off.

  “Wait,” I call after him. “Don’t leave me . . .” My words trail off as he makes his way through the crowd. “Shit,” I mutter under my breath. The reality of this whole thing sets in. Somebody died (probably Nick’s number one fan).

  “Sweetie, you look lost.” A woman approaches me. “Are you here for the Jeremiah Hill service?”

  “Uh, yeah,” I say, adjusting my glasses.

  “Well, okay. Now, you must be from out of town.”

  “New York,” I say.

  The woman narrows her eyes in suspicion. “You don’t sound like you’re from New York.”

  “Well, I am.”

  “All the way from New York just to pay your respects to Jeremiah. Well now, y’all must’ve been good friends.”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Oh.” The woman’s eyes widen. “Oh, I think I know who you are now.” She leans in, whispering, “Just steer clear of his wife, okay, honey?” The woman pats my arm in a condoling kind of way and walks on.

  Steer clear of his wife?

  Oh, no. Does she think?

  “No, I’m not—” I call after her, but she’s already gone. Great. If this place is like the small town I grew up in, word will get around that I’m Jeremiah’s mistress before the eulogy’s over.

  I wander farther inside toward the glow of a mounted TV screen playing a slow montage of photos. A shirtless Jeremiah poses with a can of Miller Lite on the dock of a river. Unlike his brother, he’s tanned with dark hair, slicked back. And it looks like he was no stranger at the gym. I tilt my head as I take in the photos. He can’t be much older than me. Maybe even my age. Handsome too. A photo of him leaning against the tail of a black F-150. The license plate reads PUMPIN. I raise an eyebrow. What does that mean? The photo fades into the next, Jeremiah and a handful of bros pumpin’ fists at a nightclub.

  Ah, got it. Perhaps his other woman is from the Jersey Shore instead of the city.

  Jeremiah’s people seem to be filing into another room and taking their seats. I glance around for Nick, who’s standing in a corner with his head lowered.

  Is he crying?

  I hurry over and tap him on the shoulder. “You okay?”

  He startles. “Yeah, fine. It’s just weird. He’s like younger than me. One day here and one day . . .”

  “I know. Boom!” I mime an explosion and he startles again.

  “Excuse me. Are you Nick Leto?” A woman, whose perfume entered the room before she did, asks. Nearly as tall as Nick, she seems to have caught him with her crystal blue eyes.

  “Yeah,” Nick says.

  “I’m Holly, Jeremiah’s wife.” She extends her hand as if she wants Nick to kiss it and whisper enchanté.

  He takes it and gently lays his other over hers like a Southern pastor. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  “Yes, it was a shock. He and some of the other guys put on the firework show from a barge out on the lake every year. They get a little drunk out there while they test a few before the big show, but he’s always safe. I mean, a few burns here and there. And then there was that one time his sleeve caught fire but it was fine as soon as he jumped in the lake. That’s why he started goin’ shirtless out there.” Holly’s eyes glisten with tears. “I just never thought something like this could happen to my Jer-bear. I mean, how many people actually die from fireworks?”

  “About seven people every year in the U.S.”

  Holly and Nick gape at me.

  “I looked it . . .” Not the place to cite a Google search. “Never mind. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “He was only thirty years old,” she continues. “There’s so many things he didn’t get to do. We didn’t even get a chance to start our family yet.” She sniffles back tears. “Anyway, we better get in there. Thank you again, Nick, for showing up. It would have meant so much to him.”

  “Of course,” Nick says. “Happy to do it.”

  Nick and I settle near the back on a cold, hard wooden pew. Aren’t funerals uncomfortable enough without the sixteenth-century furniture?

  “I can’t believe we’re doing this.”

  “Did you have a bad experience at a wake or something?” Nick asks.

  “No,” I say, though I’m not sure it’s totally true. My phone rings again. Imani for the second time. This time I send her a text.

  OLIVIA: I’ll call you later.

  After a quick introduction, the emcee (if that’s what they’re called at a funeral) starts the show. “Now we have a special guest. Nick Leto, Jeremiah’s favorite comedian, is here and he’d like to tell a few jokes in his honor.”

  “Wish me laughs,” he says out of the side of his mouth, and rises to his feet. The knot in my stomach tightens more and more the closer he gets to the stage. The room is silent. Yikes, a dead crowd is never a good start.

  Nick takes the mic. “Good morning, Mississippi! You ready to liven up this funeral?” Oh, no. “I didn’t know Jeremiah but from what I can tell he was a great guy. A guy who loved to laugh, is that right?” The crowd nods and throws yeses his way. “I’m told that if Jeremiah were here, he’d want to hear some jokes, so what do you say? Can we share some laughs for him?” Everyone agrees and Nick begins.

  My phone vibrates in my hands again. No surprise, it’s Imani. This time, I get a sinking feeling in my gut. Something might be wrong. I better take this. I quickly sneak out the back and walk outside into the sweltering Southern heat.

  “Hey, Imani, everything okay?” I answer.

  “Do you not have reception down there?”

  “Yeah, sorry. I’m kind of at a funeral right now.”

  “A what?”

  “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you later. What’s going on?”

  “I need to talk to you. It’s really important,” she says. Uh-oh.

  “Okay, what is it?” I find a wooden column to lean against and brace myself.

  “I got a promotion.” A promotion? That should be good news. Why is she saying it with an I have terminal cancer tone?

  On the off chance I’m reading this whole thing wrong, I respond strictly to her words. “Imani, that’s amazing. Congratulations!” With all the overtime and effort she’s put in, why isn’t she over the moon right now?

  “It’s in Frankfurt.”

  Excuse me? I blink my eyes quickly as if clearing away fog. “Did you say Frankfurt? As in Germany?”

  “Yep.”

  “Like an ocean away?”

  “That’s the one.”

  Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no. This isn’t happening. “So you’re moving to Germany?” I clarify, trying to imagine Imani going back to the home of Oktoberfest and punch buggies.

  “Yeah. I leave next week to start, then I’ll be back for the rest of my things in a month.”

  “Next week? But that’s so—”

  “Soon, I know.”

  I take in a deep breath, trying to pace my racing heart. Let me get this straight. My best friend and roommate is moving halfway across the world almost immediately and I’ll be left with a lease that I can’t possibly afford because I just got fired from my only real paying job.

  “Olivia, you there?” she asks.

  “Yeah, sorry. Just trying to wrap my head around this.”

  “I know, me too. I thought this might happen but I didn’t want to say anything until I knew more.” Is that why she’s been up my ass about finding a new job? Why hold out on me? Would it have made a difference if she hadn’t? Oh, God, I don’t know what to say. What to think. Or what to do. I can’t handle this right now.

  “Listen, I really am at a funeral so I’m gonna have to call you back.”

  “Are you okay?” She already knows the answer to this.

  “Yeah, I’m fine. I’m just . . . I’m really happy for you. Seriously. I’ll call you later.”

  Thirty

  In a daze, I walk back into the service. Nick’s still onstage, or whatever it’s called, holding his gaze to the ceiling. “Well, Jeremiah, I wish I had the chance to meet you. I know that wherever you are you’re driving one helluvan F-150 with a license plate that says PUMPIN’ Forever.” The room swells with heartfelt laughter. And by the response, Nick actually killed at a funeral.

  I want to join in with the others but I feel like I’m in mourning. In the same way Jeremiah’s death changed the lives of his family and friends in an instant, Imani’s news changes mine. The Olivia Vincent Plan was supposed to be simple. Easy even. Road tour hiccups made it hard. But now it’s like my plan’s dead in the water.

  I guess sometimes you’re the firework and sometimes you’re the idiot it kills.

  Nick takes his seat next to me. “Hey, where’d you go?”

  “I had to take a phone call,” I say, keeping my eyes focused on the large wooden crucifix hovering behind Jeremiah’s casket. Dear Lord, have mercy on my soul!

  “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah.” I force a smile. “Everything’s fine.” Except everything is not fine.

  Jeremiah’s brother, Jordan, takes the mic and begins his eulogy. His words bring me back to the day I took the mic at my dad’s funeral. I’d been onstage many times at comedy clubs but nothing quite compared to speaking that day. I’m not the kind of person who cries or falls apart. And if I do, it’s in private (like doors bolted shut, soundproof walls kinda private)—not in front of a room of people.