Chapter 8: Planning for the Future

“You’re so fucking special

But I’m a creep

I’m a weirdo

What the hell am I doing here?

I don’t belong here” - Creep (Radiohead)

When I woke up the next morning I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to call Rebecca, but I had caused her relationship to fail.

I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, the lyrics of “Creep” by Radiohead echoing in my mind. The words felt eerily fitting for how I felt at that moment. I was the outsider, the one who didn’t belong in her social circle. I was the one who had crashed into her life like a meteor, bringing with me chaos and heartache. The silence of the early Sunday morning was a stark contrast to the noise of the party, and I felt like the last person who should be reaching out to her.

I decided to call her later that day anyway. I needed to know how she was coping and if there was anything I could do for her. Besides I needed to tell her about Vera. I needed her to help me get ready for my date.

But first, I had to deal with the looming specter of my own mortality. I pulled out my phone and Googled “professional mourners near me.” The search results were surprisingly varied, from traditional funeral homes offering the service to individual freelancers looking for side gigs. I scrolled through the options, feeling a peculiar mix of morbid fascination and practical necessity.

After much deliberation, I settled on a company named “Tears for Hire.” Their website was tastefully somber, with a promise of dignity and authenticity. It was the kind of place that understood the value of a good cry—even if it was paid for. I called the number and spoke to a soft-spoken woman named Margaret, who walked me through the process with a gentle efficiency that was surprisingly comforting.

With the unpleasant task out of the way, I decided to grab some food to clear my head. The local diner, a greasy spoon named “Mabel’s,” was my usual haunt. The bell above the door chimed as I entered, and the smell of frying eggs and sizzling bacon hit me like a warm embrace. Mabel, the owner, looked up from her spot behind the counter and waved me over. Her smile was a beacon in the sea of my worries.

“Morning, sunshine,” she said, her voice thick with the kind of cheer that comes from a lifetime of serving breakfast to hungover college students and insomniacs. “What’ll it be?”

I scanned the menu, my eyes lingering over the usual suspects: scrambled eggs, whole wheat toast, and fruit salad. But today, I couldn’t stomach the thought of anything healthy. My life was already a ticking clock, why not indulge in the greasy comforts of a breakfast that could kill a small animal? I ordered the “Heartstopper Deluxe”: four eggs, sunny side up, drenched in cheese and surrounded by a moat of grease, a mountain of bacon, and a tower of pancakes that looked like they were made from pure white flour and despair. The waitress’s eyebrows shot up, but she scribbled it down without comment.

Mabel slid the plate in front of me with a knowing smile. “Looks like someone’s living it up,” she said, her gaze lingering on the food. I felt a pang of guilt for my indulgence, but the aroma was too tempting to resist. I picked up my fork and knife, ready to dive into the artery-clogging feast.

The first bite was heavenly, a stark contrast to my healthy salads breakfasts. The eggs were perfectly runny, the cheese melted just right, and the bacon—oh, the bacon. It crunched between my teeth, releasing a burst of salty, smoky flavor that seemed to dance on my tongue. Each pancake was a fluffy cloud, soaking up the sweet, sticky syrup like a sponge. It was a breakfast that defied logic, a culinary masterpiece that could only exist in the realm of greasy spoons.

As I savored each mouthful, I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of guilt. This wasn’t the breakfast of someone with their life ahead of them. It was the breakfast of someone who was running out of time, someone who knew the bitter taste of loneliness. Yet, as the flavors melded together in a symphony of cholesterol, I realized something. Maybe this was exactly what I needed. A moment of indulgence, a declaration to the universe that I was alive and would not go quietly into the night.

I wiped the syrup from my lips with the back of my hand and took a sip of the black coffee that had been sitting next to me, growing colder by the minute. It was the kind of coffee that could wake the dead—bitter and strong, with the faintest hint of something burnt. It was the perfect companion to the Heartstopper Deluxe. As the caffeine hit my bloodstream, my thoughts raced. I had a date with Vera, a girl who seemed to see past the sadness that clung to me like a second skin. I had to look my best, but more importantly, I had to feel my best. I couldn’t let Steve’s spiteful words or Rebecca’s heartbreak weigh me down.

After paying the bill and leaving a generous tip, I stepped out of Mabel’s into the crisp fall air. The sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon, casting long shadows across the sidewalks. The world was still waking up, unaware of the turmoil in my heart. I took a deep breath and pulled my phone from my pocket, my thumb hovering over Rebecca’s number. What would I say to her? Would she even want to talk to me after the disaster of the party? I took a moment to gather my thoughts and dialed.

The phone rang once, twice, and then she picked up. “Hey,” she said, her voice small and tired.