Page 80 of Mourner for Hire
“Used to be.” She smiles softly, her gaze keeping a gentle hold on me.
“My mom just died, Vada. Forgive me if I’m not shooting out rainbows. You have to understand why I’m struggling with this… with you.”
Her eyes drift to the dirt beneath her hiking boots, guilt washing over her expression.
“See? You know it’s weird. You know it’s not right. What you’re doing is just…” Anger fuels the words I want to say but restraint holds them in place.
“The cottage will be beautiful, I promise. And then I will leave. Okay?” She throws out her hands in surrender.
“I’m sure it will. But it won’t be mymomanymore.”
The ocean roaring in the distance swallows the silence until finally she says, “If you ever want to help, you can.”
I think for a moment. “I’d rather crash a funeral.”
“Well, that can be arranged.” She explodes into what can only be describe as a fit of giggles.
“Is that funny?” I ask, but my jaw ticks to smile.
When she finally comes up for air, she tosses her hair over her shoulder and sighs.
“Yes, it was. You are actually quite funny, Dominic. You know, underneath all the—” she waves her index finger at me like a magic wand. “Layers,” she finishes with a snort.
A split, fleeting moment of remembrance rushes over me about the night we met—my desire to get to know her and the taste of her kiss. It’s almost enough for me to bury the hatchet. But then I force myself to remember why she’s here, and I choke down whatever reconciliation she was trying to conjure.
“Did you get my message earlier?” I ask, interrupting my childish antics.
She makes a rather dramatic roll of her eyes as she closes the mailbox and dusts off her hands.
“I did,” she says, with a sweet smile that in no way fits her actual personality. “I gave it a thumbs up.”
My nostrils flare. “That’s not a response.”
“What do you want me to say? No? Yes? You’re right, let’s argue?”
I clench my teeth and inhale deeply.
“Look, Dominic, paint whatever picture of me you want. Hang it on a wall, admire it, and get used to it. I have never lied to you. And if you don’t like me, fine. You have no effect on my actual life, so I’m not going to let your opinion of me hurt my feelings.” She grabs her backpack and slings it over her shoulder and buries her gaze in the ground.
“I’m not worried about your feelings, sweetheart. I’m worried about you being a bad influence on Lucy,” I argue. Though I’m not. Not really. I’m more concerned about her presence flipping my life upside down.
“You can’t stop me from ordering food, Dominic.”
“No, but you don’t need to be offering up yourservices so she has to trudge three miles on her bike to deliver you some fried prawns and cheddar biscuits.”
Her hand inadvertently touches her stomach.
“I know their food is good. Just—” I say tightly. “Just leave Lucy out of this.”
She steps forward, a soft flush blooming across her cheeks—the same delicate pink they wore the morning she woke on my chest, her long brown hair spilling over my shoulder all those months ago.
“Out of what?” She gestures between us. “There is nothing between us. No need for contact. Leave me alone.”
“Oh, see, but you are involved with me. You are living in my mother’s cottage, sifting through her pictures and her life that very much involves me. You’re stuck with me.”
“Ugh. I’d rather shit in my hands and clap.”
I snort out a laugh and clear my throat to cover it up.
