Page 16 of Mourner for Hire
I sigh.
“Oh, that’s sweet,” I say with a slight shake of my head. “I don’t know. But we’ll see, yeah?”
“Fair,” he reasons as he strides around the counter, and I turn into his outstretched arms. “Later, Hot Pocket. Thanks for the snuggles.”
I laugh and roll my eyes. “Goodbye, Dunner.”
He groans, and it’s playful and as endearing as his perfect smile. The longer I’m in his presence, the more I realize how wrong all this is. I’ve known the man for twelve hours, and I am catching feelings. Well, maybe not catching feelings per se, butthey are floating in my stomach waiting for me to grab hold of them and admit what they are.
“Let me walk you to your car,” he says.
I follow him down the narrow staircase surrounded by brick walls, leading to the green outside door to where my car is waiting for me. Fuzzy remnants of last night twirl through my mind as we make our way through the bar.
I balance the bagel on top of the coffee mug so I can grab my keys from my purse. He steadies the coffee and bagel while I unlock the car. I’m unsure if I’m supposed to hug him again or not, so I just kind of hesitate and say, “Oh! Do you need your cup back?”
He opens the car door for me. “No, keep it. Consider it a souvenir.”
“Okay.” I swallow and nod, ready to bolt. I hold his stare a moment, trying not to remember the details of last night that are growing less and less fuzzy. The way he held me and talked to me about my mom. I don’t remember the words he said, just that he was so, so kind.
I sneak a glance of the mortgage lender arriving to his office attached to the bar. He’s looking at us with a smile on his face that readsthat-son-of-a-bitch.
I smile, returning to Dunner’s gaze.
“Go inside,” I say, then feign a whisper with a hand cupped around my mouth. “Your neighbors are watching.”
He smiles wider. “Hey, Chuck!” he yells across the parking lot. “This is my friend, Vada.”
My mouth drops open. Mortified.
Chuck’s smile widens, and he leans back on his heels while his bushy eyebrows make assumptions.
“You’re the worst,” I mutter and slip into my car.
I don’t look back as I drive away, letting the memory of that bar melt into the pavement. I take a reluctant sip of the coffee, knowing I won’t like it, but I didn’t want to be rude and tell him I onlylike my coffee one way. And there is absolutely no way on God’s green earth he takes his coffee like me?—
“Well, I’ll be damned,” I say after taking a sip.
Black coffee, with an extra shot—a shot in the dark—and two Splendas.
It’s stupidly specific. And it’s exactly how I take my coffee.
I stare at the orange metal tumbler with a circular logo that is a picture of the oceanside cliffs and the waters on it. Underneath, it says, “Shellport. Shell always love you.”
My souvenir.
I will be keeping this.
The old reddoor creaks open, revealing a woman in her mid-fifties with bright blue eyes and hair so dark, it’s almost black, and ivory skin.
“Well, it’s you,” she says, opening the door wider and throwing her arms around me. She saysyoulike it’s a term of endearment—something sacred and personal—and her arms are tight around my shoulders.
“Oh. This is nice.” I blink heavily as she rocks me side to side.
“I’m so happy to seeyou, Vada,” she says, still holding on.
It’s a good hug, if I’m honest—the kind that smells like cinnamon sugar and feels like a fresh, warm load of laundry. Albeit, awkward and entirely overbearing, but a lovely hug, nonetheless.
“Nice to meet you. You must be Annabelle.” My voice is muffled against her rust-colored sweater, and she pulls back with a bright but nervous smile on her face.
