Page 103 of Mourner for Hire
“Why? I liked them there!” I yell out the question, and she doesn’t hesitate to yell right back at me.
“Because your mom asked me to!”
“But it doesn’t make sense!” I whip my hand out in a pointed gesture and hit the wall next to the kitchen. The brittle 1960s plaster crumbles, leaving a grapefruit-sized hole.
“Great,” Vada says, slapping her hands against her thighs. “Real mature.”
I stare at the hole I just made in the wall. “That was an accident.”
Embarrassment prickles at my spine, but my heart is still racing, and quite frankly, I’m still infuriated about the entire situation.
More than that…
I’m not just angry.
I’m confused.
I’m sad.
I… I… I…
“I have to get out of here,” I say, rushing toward the door.
She follows. “Great. Do some property damage and bounce.”
I whip around. “You know what? It’s a shame you turned out to be this person.”
“What person?” Her chin snaps back, and she winces. “You don’t even remember me.”
“No, Vada. I do. But even the sweetest kids can fall from grace.”
She’s too stunned to speak, eyes narrowing as she tries to absorb what I just told her.
I don’t wait for a response. I turn around, and I don’t look back. I stalk toward my truck, and it isn’t until I’m inside, peeling out of the driveway, glancing in the rearview mirror, that I realize I’m still shirtless.
And Vada is wearing my shirt, glaring at me as I speed away.
THIRTY-SIX
VADA
All because ofsome moldy fucking wallpaper.
I let out a deep groan of frustration and slam the front door shut. As I spin around, my arm catches on the nail in the damn door.
“Great. Now I need a tetanus shot.”
This town is really trying to kill me. First, the head injury at the market, and now this. I slap my hand over the gash before I see any blood and hurry to the kitchen to wrap it with paper towels and medical tape from the cupboard.
I’ll go to the clinic for a shot tomorrow. Or I’ll die of tetanus. I haven’t decided yet.
Washing my bloody hand while keeping my focus outside, my stomach growls. An odd response to what usually happens when I see blood, but I’m going to consider this an improvement.
Then I remember the food.
I flip open the lid, and the smell makes the pangs in my stomach growl with more ferocity. I devour three pieces of fried halibut and then realize I’m still wearing his shirt… nor did I put on any underwear. The smell of him is overwhelming and frustrating in aI-wish-I-could-slam-his-face-through-a-wallway.
So frustrated, in fact, there’s no way to truly enjoy all the goodness inside this brown takeout box.
