Page 2 of Deep Feelings & Shallow Graves

Jesus Christ, does he know? Is this flirtation or a legally-admissible confession? I laugh. Too loud. It gets stuck in my throat.

He grins wider like he’s proud of himself for making me laugh and waves as he heads back toward his porch. “Sleep tight, ma’am!”

Ma’am. I’m thirty-two, Blake. Not eighty. But say it again while shirtless and I might forgive your entire bloodline.

I watch him go, shirtless and radiant like a himbo Jesus, and mutter, “You’re lucky you’re pretty.” And I have bigger targets. Then I go back to burying the trash.

By the time I’m finished, my arms ache, my blouse is sticking to my back, and there’s dirt in places dirt shouldn’t be. I smooth the soil one last time, patting it like a well-made bed, then scatter some marigold seeds over the top. Bright, cheerful things. They’ll bloom right over his face come spring.

I haul the shovel back into the garage, rinse it off with the hose, and head inside, locking the door behind me, bolting it, and checking the window latches twice out of habit. I’ve got routines. Systems. Boundaries.

Men aren’t the only thing that can be dangerous.

First stop is the bathroom, and a hot shower, because self-care is important after a bad date, especially one that ends with a shallow grave.

I didn’t give myself that with Walter.

He sure as hell didn’t. Not after everything I put into us. The years. The patience. All the flaws I overlooked because I thought that’s what love was, compromise.

I lather the lavender soap. It’s relaxing.

“I haven’t forgotten you,” I whisper to no one, stepping out of the steam.

I’ve tried.

My eyes land on the apron. Blood never comes out. I guess I’ll need a new one. At least it blocked my jeans. It’s hard to find ones that fit right when you’re short and curvy. Like designers think you need to be a six-foot Amazon to earn an ass. I don’t want extra leg room. I want jeans that don’t assume I’m shaped like a sexy lamppost.

The apron goes in the trash and the rest into the laundry.

I knot my robe and head to the kitchen. I make tea, chamomile with a splash of bourbon, and hum along to the old crackly Patsy Cline record spinning in the corner.

“Crazy… I’m crazy for feeling so lonely…”

Patsy gets me. She always has.

The kitchen smells like lemons and bleach. My rug is a lost cause, but I’ve already bookmarked a replacement. The trick is not getting attached. To anything.

I settle onto the floral loveseat, one leg curled under me, and swipe open the dating app. The blue glow of male mediocrity bathes my face. I take a sip of tea. My thumb hovers over a profile.

“Alpha mindset. Proud boy dad. Here for hookups, not headgames. Two stars out of five overall from his prior dates.” And one of those was probably his mom. Or a bot. Men will do anything but go to therapy.

I save him to the “Potential Projects” folder.

It’s not personal. Not really. They write their own obituaries with this shit. I just footnote it.

And besides… no one else should ever have to feel the way Walter made me feel.

The way my voice didn’t matter. The way no one believed me. The way the therapist told me to “examine my role in provoking him.”

Well. I did. And now I wear pink and smile sweetly and clean the world one red flag at a time.

“Let’s see who’s feeling brave this week,” I whisper, swiping again.

The teacup clinks against its saucer as I lean back and let Patsy carry me away.

Chapter Two

Jennifer

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