Page 72 of Friendshipped
“Lex?” his warm voice comes through the phone. It’s laced with concern.
“I’m okay,” I tell him.
“Okay. Good. What do you need? Aren’t you on the double date?”
“I am,” I say. “But Laura and her date were really compatible, so they took off together and I’m here with Eddie—like as in Eddie Munster.”
Trevor hums. I shift on the toilet seat lid, which I lowered so I could sit and talk to my best friend for a few minutes in privacy.
“Is he doing anything inappropriate?” Trevor asks.
“Not like that,” I say. “He’s …”
I trail off. What’s the actual problem? The man’s a mortician. Okay. Maybe it’s me. But I do have issues when it comes to anything remotely scary. I can’t even go through a haunted house or sit through creepy music videos. Still, that doesn’t mean this guy should have a bad date with me.
“He’s just really into his job,” I finally say to Trevor.
“What does he do?” Trevor asks.
“He’s a mortician,” I mumble.
“What did you say? I thought you said he’s a mortician.”
“Yeah. He is. Technically it’s called mortuary sciences—his job.”
Trevor laughs. It’s not a belly laugh, but it’s a laugh and he’s enjoying himself.
“Trevor,” I plead.
“Okay,” he says, taking a breath. “So, besides him being a mortician, what’s wrong with the date?”
“He already made several jokes. Like how his workplace is prettydead, but it’s a great place tourna living. Urn, Trevor. Urn.”
Trevor laughs again.
“Maybe I should fixyouup with him!”
“No. No,” he says. “I’m sorry, but you will laugh at this too in a few weeks … or months.”
“How about this one? Eddie also said if anyone wants to know the end of their story, he’s got the plot laid out.”
Trevor starts laughing again, harder than before. Then he sucks it in. “He’d get along great with your dad.”
“Right?” I agree. “Trev, I’m dying. Not literally. Thank goodness. Ugh. I just made a funeral joke! Eddie’s rubbing off on me.”
Trevor chuckles. “That’s the spirit.”
Then he groans. “Spirit! It’s contagious, Lexi. We’re making macabre dad jokes.”
“I don’t know what to do. I thought I was open minded, but he talked about dead bodies over our artichoke dip. Am I wrong?”
“No,” Trevor says in his thoughtful-talk-Lexi-off-a-ledge voice. “I mean, the world needs morticians, but that doesn’t mean you need to date one.”
“That’s what I thought. I feel like telling him, ‘thank you for your service.’ But I don’t want to date him.”
I chew at a loose cuticle and sit quietly.
“There’s one more thing,” I tell Trevor.
