A/N: After Cameron's death, Will stayed behind in the city to have Cameron cremated, after which Will planned to take a trip on his own with the ashes. In that time, Brody and E.J. goes back home, but Grace decides to get into contact with Cameron's mother. When Grace is invited to the memorial for Cameron, hosted by his mother, Grace decides to go. Her nephew, Jacob, decides to go with his aunt, and this story is written from his point of view. We get to see Cameron's family, an old drag queen friend, and we get to meet Jacob, a character that will be very important in "Behind Closed Doors". This story plays off just over a week after the last chapter in "Behind The Mask".

"Jacob," I hear her say, but I'm not listening.

I can't help looking at the people standing in their best black suits and dresses that's definitely seen better days. Some of these textiles has to be at least twenty years old. Not that I'm saying you shouldn't wear something that's out of fashion, but from what Aunt Grace has told me, Cameron was quite the fashionista.

"Jacob," Aunt Grace tries to get my attention again. "We really do need to go in, sugar. I think the service might be starting soon."

I nod my head, opening the door on my side of the car, although I wish I could rather just take the steering wheel and drive back home. The last thing I need is to be at some memorial service of someone I never even met in life. Sure, I cried when I heard the news of Cameron's death, but that's only because I heard so much about him over the last few months. Aunt Grace has been constantly talking about him and the impending wedding. I was to meet him on Will's wedding day, but I never had the opportunity since this guy apparently pulled a runaway-bride leaving all of us sitting in the sun, between grape vines on that old Southern farm. I cancelled a photoshoot with a highly popular influencer which took months to schedule. I wasn't impressed.

And now I am here, attending a memorial service for a guy who probably cost me a very important client. Me and my big mouth. When you tell your Aunt that you are there for them when and she should push on your button when her almost son-in-law dies, you do not expect her to drive you to another state to go to a service where people will probably not even want her to be.

"You said he wasn't on good terms with his family," I ask my aunt. "I mean, they didn't even RSVP to the wedding. Ma told me so."

"I don't think his family was very progressive. I've been fixin' to talk to Cameron's mamma since his death, but it doesn't feel right over the phone. Maybe I can try and bury the hatchet between them while I'm here," Aunt Grace answers, grabbing the black shawl from the back seat before she opens her door.

I watch her as she climbs out of the car and drapes the shawl around her shoulders.

It's always kinda amazed me how much Aunt Grace and my Ma look like each other. They could have been twins. Sure, they are sisters, but I have rarely seen non-twins look this much like each other. I can't even tell them apart on old photos. Well, almost. I've learned to just look closely, and if the lighting of the photo is good enough I can usually see that Aunt Grace's complexion is just one shade lighter than my Ma.

"It's really darlin' of you to have come with me," Aunt Grace says as I finally leave the car, and the safety it promises me behind, putting her arm through mine.

"I think we're almost a little overdressed," I whisper to my aunt, wondering if I should maybe take off my purple tie, not even to mention the fashionable diamond brooch I pinned to my lapel. We are definitely not near a city anymore.

I should have guessed when I agreed to accompany my aunt and she gave me the name of the small town that nobody here would have ever heard about fashion. Kentwood. It sounded like the name of a blender or a cake mixer to me. I quickly Googled. Britney Spears grew up here. Naturally I thought that the little fact I could find might have turned the small town into a metropolis. I was wrong.

"Oh sugar, don't worry. Nobody is here to look at the way others are dressed. We're all here for the same reason. To mourn poor Cameron," Aunt Grace answers. "Remember, this ain't New York."

"Clearly," I observe, still looking around to see if I can spot someone who doesn't look like they are wearing clothing that's been in the family for generations, but I don't seem to find any.

Here and there people are wearing hats. Nothing fancy. Looks like it was bought on a quick whim at an outlet mall. Possibly only going home with its owner on account of being the only black hat available. I am almost impressed with one woman wearing long black gloves, but when she turns around, showing the frills coming up to her chin, I avert my gaze again.

"It's like fashion came here to die," I whisper to Aunt Grace, making her put her hand in front of her mouth to stop a smile. "I mean really... Don't they get Vogue here?"

"Do you always only think about fashion? I don't think we should think about fashion when someone dies. It's about honorin' the person, not making a statement," she answers.

"Yeah, you only say that because you're looking drop-dead gorgeous," I answer, pointing to her high heels, little black dress, the shawl which is the Cashmere I gave her two Christmases ago, and a brooch that looks like something that should be in the British Royal Collection. I quite admired the pink heart shaped stones with its pearls against the contrast of her black dress with the drive over. I have to admit, I don't hate her look at all.

"Thanks sugar," she answers, bowing her head a little bit as we walk into the little stuffy church. Why do people I know always seem to die in the middle of summer, and then on top of it have their funeral or memorial service in a stuffy, extra small church without air conditioning? It was the same when Diablo died.

Diablo...

It's been a while since I thought of him. Not because I don't want to. But sometimes a death hurts you so badly that you feel like you want to die as well. It's like every fibre of your soul gets ripped to pieces. I promised myself the day he died that I would never be in a relationship ever again. I don't think the pain of losing someone is worth the love you had together. It almost destroyed me. I know Ma thought I wasn't going to make it. That I would take my own life. I told her she was being silly. I lied. I was pretty close to doing it the day after Diablo was buried.

I do my best to bring my thoughts back to the present. There's no reason to relive Diablo. Not now in any case. Maybe not ever. It's something I never want to think about again. I've gone through great lengths to remove every part of Diablo from my life, storing it away in a storage locker, which will probably never be opened again in my lifetime. I hope. I can't get rid of it, but I don't think I ever want to see it again.

I watch the backs of people's heads. It doesn't surprise me that one old man is digging in his nostril. Typical I would say. I don't mention this to Aunt Grace. She's already scolded me for acting presumptuous, and apparently a bit snobbish. That may be true, but I'd rather be snobbish rather than out of date.

Right in the front is a huge easel where someone blew up a picture, obviously taken with a substandard camera phone at some point, because I can clearly from my seat in the back make out every pixel. A blond boy, smiling with braces on his teeth, a school uniform that makes him look like an out of place British kid on his way to a boarding school in the mountains. Sure, he's smiling, but he doesn't look happy. One of the things I love the most when I take a picture is the eyes of the subject. That's what usually tells the story. This story doesn't seem to be true at all. There's something dark, almost sinister about the smile, and a devoid lack of empathy in his eyes as he looks at the person standing behind the camera.

I sigh, wishing I could take a moment and open up my phone without seeming disrespectful. The photo's I have seen of Cameron on his Insta-feed looks absolutely nothing like the boy that's presented here in the front of the boiling hot church. And I'm not even talking about his Lady Lalaland alter ego. I'm just trying to think about the usual photos. Ones I know where taken at opportune moments when he was just being himself. Those photos were alive. This one isn't. It's a copy of a fake persona, nothing more, and nothing less.

"The photo is old," I mention to Aunt Grace in a whisper. "There's dozens of newer ones they could have used."

Aunt Grace shakes her head at me. For a moment I think she's going to put her finger on my lips to shuush me the way she used to do when I was a kid, making a lot of noise after Uncle William had his heart attack. She doesn't. Instead she turns her head back to the front, seemingly staring at the photo, although I wonder if she isn't like me, watching the man digging in his nose once again.

I glance down at my watch.

The service should have started ten minutes ago already. I would very much like it to be on time. The sooner it starts, the sooner it will be over. I can already feel the sweat accumulating in my armpits, and I've barely just sat down inside here. Hopeful for something to cool me down, I locate a small fan in the top left corner of the church. I sigh. That's not going to help at all. Maybe I should have just come with a short sleeve shirt on. I would not have been the only person here to do so.

"It's ten past," I whisper to Aunt Grace, making her give me another look of wanting me to keep quiet. This time I didn't comply. "It's damn hot in here. They had better start soon."

She raises an eyebrow at me, and I know exactly why. It's not because of my comment. For some reason my Southern accent just came through.

I sigh again as she turns her head to the front. I feel like a six year old, being in church on the hottest Sunday of June, wishing I could rather be next to the river, cooling off and stealing peaches. Luckily Ma isn't here to give me a slap against the head like she would have done when I was a kid.

What I think is the minister walks down the aisle, followed by a short and stumpy woman with calves like a well fed pig. I try my best not to giggle at the thought, and try to turn my attention to the man following her. He looks like he fought in the civil war. I would have to lift his wrinkles to see who is hiding underneath. Must be the nearest and dearest.

The minister takes his place right next to the photo, while the woman with the pig calves, and the man with the wrinkles take their places in the front row.

"Brothers and sisters, if we can please stand to honour the Lord for having borrowed us this wonderful young man for the time he was here on Earth," the minister says, the entire congregation standing up. Aunt Grace pulls me by the arm when I don't get up fast enough.

An organ sound from an old CD player behind the minister blares through the small church building. Man, woman, and child starts singing the mournful tune with dragged out voices, making me want to flee. I try my best to try and tune them all out, trying to listen only to the voice of my Aunt who sounds like an angel against this crowd.

"Then sings my soul, my Saviour God to Thee

How great Thou art, How great Thou art

Then sings my soul, my Saviour God to Thee

How great Thou art, how great Thou art."

I mouth the words, no sound escaping my lips. There is nothing on this planet that could convince me to put my voice alongside those standing around me.