Devin Rhodes, my best friend, will be buried in her parents’ garden, two feet beneath the agapanthus, in a green, ceramic umbrella stand. Just her ashes, really, charred little flakes of humanity, which bear no resemblance to her thick, honey curls, faded jeans and shimmering brown lip gloss. She loved flowers when she was alive, and although her mother’s rows of budding shrubs are nothing compared with the lush gardens in Eastland Park—her favorite spot—this patch of moist warm earth seems a fitting, if not odd, and possibly illegal final resting place. Devin died over the weekend. And here’s the thing—it’s my fault.

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Excerpted from Devin Rhodes Is Dead by Jennifer Wolf Kam
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