Page 8 of Living with Death

He nods. “I’ll get it boxed up.” He walks into the back. I look around the store, staring at his fishing gear because there’s a creek not too far from here. Lottery options are at the front, and beers are in the back. He’s got every road trip snack you could want if road-tripping were your thing. I haven’t left town since I was a girl. My mother took me to visit some cousins. I didn’t care for the drive, and I didn’t care for the cousins.

“Now, here we go,” he says, walking around the counter. He rings me up, and I give him what I owe, plus a tip. “You take this back now, Mabel. You don’t owe me that much.”

“You keep it for a rainy day,” I say. He sighs but puts the money in his tip jar.

“You don’t have a hot date this weekend?” he asks.

“Afraid not,” I reply.

“Well now, a pretty girl like you should be dating, Mabel.”

“I’ll tell you what, you see a hot guy walk in here, you send him my way.”

He laughs, his bushy gray brows raised. “I will. You spend too much time in that house.”

I frown. “I’ve been hearing that a lot lately.”

He sits on the stool behind the register.

I pick up a lighter and flick it.

“What you wanna do with your life? You can’t want to work at Grab & Go for the rest of it.”

I shrug. “I like working there.”

His brow furrows. “You got all that money. You should see the world. If I learned anything in my seventy years, it’s that time waits for no one. You got to get out and make some memories, so you’ll have something to look back on when you’re my age.”

I smirk. “Funny coming from a man who has been at this store for most of his.”

He chuckles. “I was in the war. I’ve seen enough. Good and bad. I’m happy with the way my life turned out.” He rubs his mustache. “Married a good woman, had a child, and raised her the best we could. I have a business here, and I get to talk to good people like you daily.” He winks, running his hands over his thighs. “I’d say I did all right, and if you can live as long as me and say you’re happy with what you did with your time here, what more could you ask for?”

I put the lighter back. “I don’t think you can. I’ll keep your words in mind. See you tomorrow.”

“Be right here.”

I walk out to my bike, placing my food and water in the basket. Loosened hair blows across my face, and I button my coat before hopping on.

My home is an old Victorian house. It’s white with a porch, swing, and wicker set on the opposite side. The shutters are black; the roof is tin. My grandparents used to live here. Mother hated the house and said it was too old and needed too much work.

According to her, everything needs work. I think some things need to be left as they are, but I’m not blind. The house is falling apart. Though I’ve thought about it several times, I've done nothing with it.

The truth is, I haven’t found thewantto do it.

I carry my bike to the porch and bring it inside, placing it by the door before removing my coat and hat. I walk down the hall, running my hand over the old wallpaper.

In the kitchen, stepping over the crack Grams made when she dropped a heavy skillet, I grab a fork and knife. I walk into the living room, taking a seat on the couch before flicking on the TV. The scene inArmageddonwhere Liv Tyler and Ben Affleck lie together and he plays with animal crackers across her belly comes on.

I think of how nice it would be to find love like that. So open and honest. I’m thirty-three, and I’ve never had a real relationship because I’ve seen what my mother went through, and I don’t want any part of it.

I eat my meal, silently thanking Cook for his talents, and then I brush my teeth and climb into bed. I get lost in a book for about an hour, and as I lie down, my mind drifting into sleep, I swear I hear someone whisper my name. Or maybe it was the wind. Yes, that’s what it was—just the wind.

Chapter Four

With my headphones in my ear, I pedal to work. My hands are tight on the handlebars. Tim McGraw’s song, “Live Like You Were Dying,” comes on. The words get stuck in my head for most of the day. Cassie, the girl in the meat department, comes in after lunch with her hoodie on and her hair down around her face. She doesn’t speak to any of us; she walks past and goes to the break room.

“She’s an odd one,” Sam says to me.

I slide my glasses up my nose. “I don’t know. I can’t help but feel like something is wrong there.”

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