And he’s right. So I try to be brave. “So where do you wanna be when . . . ?”

Q doesn’t hesitate.

Fires back as if he’s been waiting to answer this question all his life.

Maybe he has.

All his second life.

“You sure?” Ms. B asks from the driver’s seat. “Isn’t that kinda . . .”

“Masochistic,” Whit chimes.

“I think it’s fitting.” Q nods. “Circle of life and all that.”

Ms. B shakes her head. “Well, it’s your decision, Quincy,” she says. “And we’re gonna support you whatever you want, baby.”

They smile at each other through the rearview mirror. “Thanks, Mama,” he says.

“We probably should drive straight over, right?” Autumn suggests. “Maximize the time.”

We all agree.

So, yeah, you guessed it.

The last four hours of Quincy Michael Barrantes’s life are spent at . . .

. . . the beach.

Which, not gonna lie, is eerie as hell.

But hey, it’s his funeral.

Damn, that was awful.

Okay, the only person who gets to crack jokes about Q’s death is Q.

Ms. Barrantes starts tearing up before we even get to the actual sand. “I’m not crying,” she says. “I think I’m allergic to something out here.”

Q laughs. “To sand? Water?” He wraps her in a hug.

And when they start walking along the water, Whit, Autumn, and I hang back. But apparently, crying’s an infectious disease, because Whit breaks out in tears. And then I’m next. And Autumn joins in on the fun.

And I promise you haven’t lived until you’ve had an ugly-cry party.

When Q comes back, he looks us all over, like a drill sergeant examining his cadets. “Look at you all. This is supposed to be a party, remember? This is pathetic. You can do better than this. Pull yourselves together, you hear me?”

“Yes sir,” we say, our hands raised to our foreheads in salute.

“Now, turn the music on and let’s have an ugly dance-off.” He turns to me. “Don’t worry. I’m not gonna make you start because you’d destroy us all.”

I push him away. “I couldn’t ugly dance if I tried.”

“Ha!” With his toes, Q draws a line in the sand. “Well, then, let’s do this, my friend.”

The music starts and our battle is barely underway—Q already with a sizable lead because his normal dancing is already ugly. He’s basically starting this race at the finish line. But whatever—when I see someone walking toward us down the beach.

I stop dancing and Q gives me a look. I nod, and he turns around.

“Bri,” he says softly. And then loudly, “Bri!”

He tears down the beach and they’re hugging and he’s lifting her off the ground. And I know what Q said. That we’re pathetic. That this is a party.

But a guy can only take so much.