Page 20 of Living with Death

I lift a shoulder, playing with a loose string on the sheet. “It was a long time ago.”

She sits up. “Wait. Is Jack the reason you don’t have sex?”

“Huh?”

“Did you two have a whirlwind romance, and he broke your heart, so you swore off men? Now he’s back to make it up to you.” She stands, looking at the white tiled floor as she waves her hand. “That must be it. He hears you had a near-death experience and realizes he can’t live without you, so he’s come back to beg for your forgiveness.”

I laugh, running my hand through my hair and trying to give it some fluff. “Sam, you have a wild imagination.”

She shrugs. “In this town, I have to. The men here look nothing like him.”

She’s not wrong about that. I’ve never seen anyone who looks like Jack.

Death walks in, and so does the doctor. “Good morning, Mabel. How are you feeling?” the doctor asks.

“I feel fine. When can I leave?”

He walks over and checks the bandage on my head. “Looks good. Can you tell me what happened last night?”

“No.”

“Yes. I remember it all.”

Chapter Seven

“Thanks for the ride,” I tell Sam as I climb out of her hand-me-down pick-up truck. There's rust on the doors and no power steering, but she says it keeps her arms in shape.

“No problem. I'll tell Robbie you need a few days. I'm sure it won't be an issue.”

I nod and shut the door.

“Gotta press the button in and slam it,” she says. I do as she tells me, patting the old clunker.

“Call me if you need anything,” she yells out. “Oh, and don't think we're not going to talk more about Mr. Dark and Handsome!”

I shake my head and wave her off before I walk down the sidewalk that leads up to my steps, looking at my home. Leaves clutter the gutters, and a big tree limb is on the roof from the storm—but first things first.

A shower.

I walk out of my room, towel drying my hair, careful of the cut on the back of my head. My stomach growls, and I recall the food I didn't get to eat from Cook’s. Oh, Cook. I'm sure he's worried. I'll have to go by and see––

“I picked up your bike from the accident.”

I scream and jump backward. “Jesus.” I put my hand over my pounding heart as he stands in the doorway, leaning against the frame.

“You can't do that.” I feel my chest redden as I hold my towel.

“My apologies. Frightening you was not my intent.”

I side-eye him as I walk to my dresser. “I didn't mean that… well, that, too, but…” I wave my hand up and down. “You can't just come into my bedroom.”

He narrows his eyes in confusion.

“You don't see the issue here?” I ask.

“Enlighten me.”

“It's called privacy.”

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