Competitive Grieving

by Nora Zelevansky

  Praise For Competitive Grieving

  “With a satisfying blend of warmth and irreverence, Nora Zelevansky

  explores grief as both a private struggle and a public performance…

  Competitive Grieving is a sharply observed comedy about the

  complexity of friendship and the finality of death.”

  —Emily Adrian, author of Everything Here Is under Control

  and The Second Season

  “Darkly funny and deeply moving, about love, loss, and the

  transformative power of grief.”

  —Caroline Leavitt, New York Times bestselling author of

  Pictures of You and With or Without You

  “With her irrepressible wit and warmth, Zelevansky perfectly

  captures the vortex that follows a shocking loss, while also

  reminding us that even on the hardest days there is always the

  possibility of finding redemption, forgiveness, and even love.”

  —Nicola Kraus, New York Times bestselling

  coauthor of The Nanny Diaries

  “Nora Zelevansky’s lovely Competitive Grieving is equal parts

  romantic, thoughtful, and truly moving—as well as being a

  lively and sincerely funny exploration of how well two people

  can ever truly know each other. You will hug your friends a

  little tighter after reading it.”

  —Heather Cocks and Jessica Morgan, bestselling authors

  of The Royal We and The Heir Affair

  “I absolutely loved Nora Zelevansky’s Competitive Grieving:

  a story about life and death, grief and identity, friendship and

  memory, told with a sharp eye and warm heart.”

  —Gemma Burgess, screenwriter and author of the critically

  acclaimed series Brooklyn Girls

  Copyright © 2021 by Nora Zelevansky

  E-book published in 2021 by Blackstone Publishing

  Cover design and elements by Zena Kanes

  Book design by Amy Craig

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced

  or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the

  publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious.

  Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental

  and not intended by the author.

  Trade e-book ISBN 978-1-0940-0785-4

  Library e-book ISBN 978-1-0940-0784-7

  Fiction / General

  CIP data for this book is available from the Library of Congress

  Blackstone Publishing

  31 Mistletoe Rd.

  Ashland, OR 97520

  www.BlackstonePublishing.com

  For Nick, with whom I daydreamed in tandem.

  “Either he’s dead or my watch has stopped.”

  —Groucho Marx

  “Afraid of death? Not at all. Be a great relief. Then I wouldn’t have to talk to you.”

  —Katharine Hepburn

  “I have lost friends, some by death—others by sheer inability to cross the street.”

  —Virginia Woolf

  Prologue

  What would I tell them about you? The ones who only knew your contours? You, as a paper doll on which to pin pictures?

  What would I tell the ones who shared excited whispers over green juices the morning after? Who posted the news online with frowny faces and then moved on with their days?

  What was the story I’d want them to know?

  Was it of a little kid, spastic and unchecked, bouncing off walls? Was it of a teenage you, first gawky, then too cool?

  Was it of us falling against each other during those struggling years? You, sitting next to me wrapped in a comforter, sleep and cigarettes on your breath, telling me you loved me as I shook my head and pronounced it untrue. For sure, it was not the story we’d all like to forget: You, alone. In that strange apartment. The one I never saw.

  Would I tell them you were funny? Because you were. To me, one of the funniest people in the world. Would I tell them about your talent? Because it was boundless. But what good is something that loses all value in the dark? Would I tell them that you were adorable? Because you were. Some of the time to me; a lot of the time to others. Would I tell them that you were selfish but sweet? You had a soft spot for kindness in others but didn’t require it of yourself.

  I would not tell them that you loved me, although I know now that you did. In a way that was at once simple and complicated as hell. Like a sibling. Like a best friend. Like an object. Like an idea. Like a competitor. Like a book that you once loved and still carry from apartment to apartment when you move—formative, but no longer top of mind.

  What hole did you leave in the world—aside, of course, from the one in my heart? What would I tell those strangers—even the ones who thought they were your friends?

  What was the story of you?

  Chapter 1

  Today 10:46 A.M.

  Stewart, about our conversation two nights ago. I may have overreacted. A little. Okay, fine, A LOT. I hate when you call me RESPONSIBLE like it’s a synonym for LEPER. It makes me feel like that lame friend you keep around for when you’re feeling lame too.

  And I can just hear you saying, “You’re not lame. You just act like you are.” And that makes me mad all over again. Whatever.

  Also, when you say you worry that if you weren’t around, I’d become a “cat lady,” it’s obvious what that implies about my romantic prospects. Would you call a man a “cat lady”? #microaggression Why

  is everyone always so disparaging of cats anyway?! The felines and I are all offended.

  Wait—do you have a possible movie shooting somewhere far away? Is that

  what you’re hinting at? The tropical resorts and exotic markets where you’ll be living your best life, while I’m being subsumed by fur balls? I’m mad, but still—tell me! I want to live vicariously!

  I guess that’s your point. My vicarious life. Whatever. That doesn’t mean you’re right.

  Are you loving these emojis? I know you hate them. That just makes me want to use MORE.

  ANYWAY. I love you, even though you’re a total jerk. Text me when you can. And by that I mean, get off your lazy ass and text me NOW.

  Today 2:13 P.M.

  Hey, you’re probably shooting MM today, but just let me know you got this, okay? So, I know we’re good

  and I don’t have to feel guilty about calling you an “asshat” behind your back.

  Today 5:41 P.M.

  Hello? Anyone? Bueller?

  Today 7:03 P.M.

  . . .

  Chapter 2

  The evening was too good to be true. I should have seen that from the get-go.

  The previous night’s finale of The Bachelor was recorded and queued up, and, by some miracle, I had avoided spoilers. A Postmates delivery girl named Mercedes, in heavy eyeliner and a crop top, had arrived at my building’s entrance with enough vegan taco salad and tiramisu cupcakes for eight people (not that I’m vegan—only lactose intolerant. And a sugar addict).

  I followed Mercedes’ side-eye to my hoodie with the holes in both elbows and my baggy yoga pants that have never seen the inside of an actual yoga studio. I did kind of look like I had given up. Oh well.

  Shivering against the cool air, I managed a “Thanks so much!”as I shut the door, and jogged upstairs to my apartment. Fall was beginning to descend—my favorite season for its smell of
fireplace and artificial pumpkin-spice candles, and for that tug of melancholy that makes you feel engaged with the world.

  I’d hurried home earlier than usual today from the coffee shop I treat as an office with visions of an evening spent cocooned on my couch. Now, I shook lavender essential oil into my diffuser, took a deep breath, and settled in to start the show!

  As if sensing the imminent appearance of his TV namesake, my cat, Chris Harrison, jumped up beside me and manspread against my favorite woven throw pillow from the Brooklyn Flea (which he thinks is his). I shot him a chiding look, lifted the remote, pointed and . . . riiiiiiiing!

  I glanced down at my phone: “Mom.” Always with the timing. We’d catch up later. I pressed Decline.

  I raised the remote, pointed and . . . riiiing! Damn! My best friend Gretchen this time. I shook my head. Love you, Gretch. But I have a date with reality TV destiny. Decline.

  Just as I was setting it down, the phone startled me with a more authoritative bong! Omg. What the hell is happening? Against my better judgment, I checked it: a DM from my high school classmate, Morgan. Oh, hell no.

  I had abstained from social media for twenty-four hours to avoid being spoiled. No way I was going to let dumbass Morgan “Fluffy” Tobler—with her frizzy blond hair and empty eyes—screw this up for me. At least that was the Morgan I knew a decade ago. Last I heard, she was married to a gynecologist in New Jersey. I put my phone on airplane mode, then set it down with a warning glare.

  A wave of unease settled over me. Was it a bad sign that I was this excited to be alone on my couch? I mean, I wasn’t totally alone, I reasoned: I glanced over at cat Chris Harrison, who was licking his butt.

  Ugh! I was letting Stewart get in my head with all that “cat lady” bullshit. Forget him! I would reappropriate the term “cat lady” and make it cool. Like “dog person.” You’d like her. She’s awesome. She’s a total cat lady.

  I shook my head clear, picked up the remote, and pointed it at the screen.

  Brrrrring! My home phone. Oh, my fucking god! No one had that number but my mother. I let it ring—once, twice, three, four, five times—until it went to voicemail. Then I pressed “play” before anything else could interrupt me.

  The human Chris Harrison—the host, the legend—was standing on a sound stage wearing a signature suit, no doubt from his own collection. He smiled tightly, his lips disappearing. “It’s time for the conclusion of the most shocking season in Bachelor history. Tonight, we’ll watch as our bachelor faces the most important decision of his life—”

  “Whether or not to do Dancing with the Stars?” I grinned and took a forkful of fake taco meat. Good one.

  “Will our bachelor find love? Or will his journey end in heartbreak? Can Bethany F. come to terms with her fear of helicopters? Can Bethany M. recover from the hot tub incident? Or the other hot tub incident? Let’s get right to—”

  Bluuurg! My downstairs buzzer blared. Why, God?! This happened all the time—wrong bell. No way was I heading down three flights of stairs to redirect a confused delivery person.

  Bluuuuuuuurg! The buzzer rang longer this time. “Decline!” I shouted out loud.

  Back on screen, establishing shots of some all-inclusive Caribbean resort were interspersed with images of the bachelor standing alone, shirtless and pensive, on his hotel balcony, staring out toward the sunset. Perhaps in search of his five brain cells.

  “Last week on The Bachelor—”

  Bang, bang, bang! I nearly jumped out of my skin. Someone was knocking—no, banging—on my front door.

  For real? How ill-equipped was this delivery guy? If the food looked good, I decided I was claiming it. That’s what people get for entering the wrong information on Seamless! Also, I was enjoying the vegan salad and everything, but fried pork dumplings suddenly sounded really good.

  Bang, bang, bang . . . bang!

  Resigned, I exhaled, rose, and padded across the creaky hardwood floor. Unlocking the deadbolt, I swung the door open, remembering too late that I should have looked through the peephole to make sure I wasn’t inviting a serial killer in.

  What stood in my doorway was far more statuesque and familiar than I’d expected. And it was not bearing Chinese appetizers. “You’re not a delivery man.”

  “Thanks for the update.” As usual, Gretchen was pulling off some black asymmetrical cloak that would have looked on me like a costume for an apocalyptic Renaissance Fair. I told myself it was her extra six inches of height (at five foot ten) that had allowed her to rock “grown-up” clothing, while I still kept it basic in jeans, shearling-lined clogs, and faded T-shirts. Her dark curly hair spiraled out in every direction like a loudspeaker announcement: I’m here! Take note! You may begin!

  I was suddenly annoyed. “What are you doing here?” It may have sounded more accusatory than intended.

  “Hello to you too.” Gretchen moved past me into the apartment, letting the front door slam behind her. She shed her wrap, throwing it over the arm of a chair, then turned in my direction and surprised me by taking my hand. Confused, I followed, as she led me over to the sofa to sit. “Hey, honey.”

  Gretchen never calls me “honey.” What was happening? Was this about her work crush flirting with the donut truck girl again? I looked longingly at my taco salad.

  “I figured you’d want company.”

  Really? Why? “Oh, okay. Great,” I said. Gretchen stared at me until I added, “That’s nice.”

  She furrowed her brow. “That’s it?”

  “I think so. Should there be more? I just wasn’t expecting you.”

  “I know. But are you . . . okay?”

  “With what?” I shifted under her intense stare. “Am I missing something? Why do I feel like I came into this movie in the middle?”

  “Wren, I just wanted to see if you were okay. You wouldn’t answer your phone. Or texts. Or FB messages. Or Insta DMs. I was worried!” At that moment, she seemed to notice my dinner spread and the paused TV. “But you look . . . fine.”

  “I was just trying to watch The Bachelor in peace! Can’t a person stay off social media for twenty-four hours without—”

  “Wait. Off social?” She dropped my hands, bringing a palm to her cheek. “You’ve been off the internet? Completely?”

  “Yeah. All day. Digital detox! Analog self-care.”

  “Shit. I assumed you knew.” She closed her eyes, her shoulders drooping. “Oh, Wren. You don’t know.”

  “No! And no spoilers! I feel like he could pick Bethany F., but then Bethany M. has blonder highlights, so—”

  “No, Wren.” Gretchen was wearing her serious face: the one she wore when she found out her parents were getting divorced junior year of college, the one she wore when she realized we’d run out of Scotch on election night. “You don’t understand.”

  “What? He doesn’t like blonds? ’Cause I’ve thought about this and he does ’cause on the vineyard group date and during the Mexican wrestling date, he—”

  “Wren.” Gretchen’s expression softened, her chin quivered. “Wren, listen. Please.”

  Something was not okay. Of course, I could see that. Gretchen was not acting normal. But the more I talked, the more time I could buy before she said whatever she was about to say. My throat felt tight; I tugged at the collar of my tee. I couldn’t stall anymore. “G, what’s wrong? Do I have cancer? Is the show canceled? Not necessarily in that order.”

  “Wren. It’s Stewart.”

  “What’s Stewart? Like, my Stewart?” I leaned in. “Wait! Is he the next bachelor? Are they doing one of those C-list celebrity seasons? ’Cause that’s really a new level of cheese. But I wouldn’t put it passed him. Ooh, do you think I’ll get to meet Chris Harrison? Like the real one?” I turned to face my cat. “No offense.”

  Gretchen didn’t crack a smile. “No, Wren. I’m sorry. I don’t even know how to t
ell you this.” She exhaled. “Stewart—he’s dead.”

  I looked at her for a beat. “Wait, what?”

  In that moment, the floor dropped away. Gretchen’s face became a mass of fragmented colors. I had no comprehension. I kept waiting for more. He’s dead broke. He’s dead tired. He’s dead serious. He’s dead—

  Pixilated Gretchen held up her phone, her eyes watery. On autopilot, I took it and watched as a Deadline Hollywood article loaded. The headline read, actor stewart beasley dead at age 36.

  Stewart? Dead? But I just—But he’s too—But no. My brain rejected the information. Surely there was some mistake?

  Everything paused. Time. Drake blasting from a car speaker outside. My own breath. It all stopped for the world’s longest millisecond while I struggled to process this impossibility. One minute ago, Chris Harrison was cleaning his privates. Now Stewart is just . . . gone?

  I was blindsided. Wasn’t bad news supposed to come in the middle of the night? When you’re awakened from a dream—legs twisted in sheets—and can’t assimilate reality?

  A world without Stewart wasn’t conceivable to me. He was like the sidewalk or the color green or wallpaper or bubblegum. He just existed—maybe somewhere faraway, maybe he disappeared for months on end and you forgot to notice—but you knew he was on the planet, somewhere. If you needed him.

  “Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God.” I barely recognized my own voice. How long had I been repeating that refrain? “I need to—” What? I needed to what? Call Stewart? Let him know?

  Stewart. Gone. Could it be a hoax? At my core, I knew the answer was no. Hadn’t I felt oddly worried when he didn’t text me back? Was he already dead when I called him an “asshat”?

  Oh, God. The shame. I peered up at Gretchen’s familiar face—her high cheekbones, full lips, freckles against tan skin. “When? How? Where?”

  “They’re not releasing official information yet, but your mom called me when she was trying to find you. She talked to Stu’s mother. It was an aneurysm. Last night. He just complained of a headache and then—” Gretchen snapped her fingers.