Page 108 of Mourner for Hire
But another thought plays back stronger than how much I hate this feeling. It’s the memory of kissing her. Tasting her. Feeling her warm skin under my hand.
Vada, Vada, Vada,pulsing in the undercurrent of my mind like my very own heartbeat.
The following morning,when I see her car parked at the hardware store, I know exactly why. Myuncontrolled outburst turned hatred-fueled make-out session has left a hole the size of her ass in the wall.
She’s checking out when I get inside. Before she even gets her wallet out of her purse, I slide over and slip my credit card into the card reader.
She raises her eyebrows. “Can I help you?”
“Truce.”
She doesn’t respond right away, but I watch her swallow hard.
“No, you’re violent,” she deadpans, jaw tight.
“I lost my temper,” I agree, and she lets out a tsk. “I did the damage; let me pay for it.”
She glances at the wall repair materials on the self-checkout counter and sighs. “Fine.”
She picks up the bagged items and then starts walking out before the purchase is authorized.
I tear off the receipt and chase after her. “Where are you going?”
“Home.” The word surprises me as much as it seems to surprise her. “I mean to the cottage.”
I pace next to her, unable to get the use of the word out of my mind. I don’t know if I want to get the last word in or if I’m simply not done talking to her.
“Can I talk to you?”
“Youcan.”
Her emphasis on the last word reminds me of how my English teacher used to use that phrase when teaching a life lesson that differentiated between the words can and may.
“MayI?” I ask, taking the bag and piece of drywall from her while she pops her hatchback open.
She turns to face me, expressionless, crossing her arms over her blue sundress. “You may.”
“I’m… sorry,” I force out the words, and it’s embarrassing how difficult it is to say them.
“Okay.”
Her voice is small. There is no hint of forgiveness or understanding. Just a guarded acceptance.
“Okay?” I venture, placing the items in her hatchback.
“Was that hard to say? You look like you’re in pain,” she says, slamming the trunk so abruptly, she catches my finger.
“Ouch! Shit!” I suck on my thumb.
“Oops,” she says—a squeak of innocence with zero remorse filtering through her words.
I stare at her, kind of admiring her audacity.
She stares back, only breaking eye contact to put on her sunglasses. “I should go.”
“I’m going to help you fix the wall.”
The demand almost makes me choke. Vada may be graceful with a beautiful face, but she’s also terrifying. It’s almost as if behind her eyes, I can tell that she’s experienced a world of hurt.
