Free Nice Girls Don't Date Dead Men by Molly Harper

Janie!” She smiled indulgently at me, fluffing my hair. “You know I could never stay mad at you, even though you did hurt my feelings. You’re my little angel muffin.”
    I’d forgotten about the nicknames. How could I have forgotten the nicknames?
    “Besides, I don’t spend much time with Hannah Jo anymore, because … I didn’t know”—Mama Ginger lowered her voice—”that she has a shoplifting problem. Every time we went to the flea market, she walked out with packages of socks under her jacket. Besides, do you know she has cut off her mama? Doesn’t even talk to her anymore. Doesn’t see her at Christmas or Mother’s Day or send her birthday cards. Can you imagine, someone having such a hard heart that they cut off their mama?”
    “Wow.” I cringed as realization dawned. “So I guess that means you don’t want her to marry Zeb anymore.”
    Mama Ginger sighed. “No, I only wanted Hannah Jo to get to know Zeb because she’s so lonely, and I thought since Zeb’s such a good friend to you, he could be a good friend to her, too. My boy is so generous and sweet and kind. He’d have to be to take up with that one.” Mama Ginger shot a glare in Jolene’s direction.
    “Jolene’s a very nice girl,” I said. “She’s very good to Zeb. He loves her very much. I just said ‘very’ three times, didn’t I?”
    “You’re sweet to say nice things about someone who’s taken what’s rightfully yours.” Mama Ginger pinched my cheeks again. “But it don’t matter how perky their ass is, no one’s gonna take your place in Zeb’s heart. You’re always going to be his first.”
    Ignoring the ass comment, I asked, “His first?”
    “Love, silly, you’re his first love. No one forgets his first love.”
    I had a vague vertigo sensation as Mama Ginger’s maternal crosshairs focused on me again.
    “I’ll see you later, Mama Ginger. I need to get back to … I gotta go.”
    “We’ll talk soon, baby doll,” she called as I pivoted on my heel, made a grab for an empty iced-tea pitcher, and focused on the main stage, the front pew.
    Grandma was resplendent in her traditional Casual Corner Petites black dress suit, but she had stepped up her game with a black picture hat and full veil. Long ago, she had figured out a secret combination of waterproof mascara and eyeliner that gave her a full Elizabeth Taylor lash that never ran. A black lace handkerchief was clutched to her lips as she stifled a sob.
    Where do you even buy a black lace handkerchief? Widows R Us?
    If she was this duded up for the visitation, I deeply regretted that I wouldn’t get to see her burial ensemble.
    As amusing as this was, the whole funeral process had put me in a bit of a philosophical funk. Despite Jenny’s “offer” to give me a proper burial, there was very little chance that I would ever have a funeral. If by somechance (involving sunlight, stakes, or silver) I did die, the only remains left would be a little pile of dust. Unless someone was quick with the whisk broom, there would be nothing to put in a casket or urn. There would be no buffet, no packed chapel, and, unless Reverend Neel was feeling very charitable, no one praying over me. It was far more likely that I would watch all of my friends and family die. I would watch Zeb grow old and die. I would watch his children grow old and die. Nothing would change. Nothing would surprise me.
    These dark, admittedly self-indulgent and depressing thoughts were not really putting me in the best frame of mind to deal with my grandma, who at the moment was sniffling into the black hankie and looking on old friends with baleful, glittering eyes.
    “I’ll be fine,” she whimpered. “As long as I have friends and family around me, I’ll be fine.” She looked up and saw me standing nearby. “Jane, those coffee cups need washing.”
    Those were the first words she’d spoken to me since she found out that I’d been turned. And they were completely consistent with our BD