Page 122 of Mourner for Hire
Her remark is sly as I slide my driver’s license over to the teenager working the rental station. He slips it in a drawer, and we sign the liability waivers.
“All right, have you ridden one of these before?” he asks.
“No,” I answer, just as Vada says, “Yes.”
She jerks her attention toward me. “You haven’t? Why not? It’s only a quick walk from the beach cottage or a two-minute drive from the bar.”
I shrug. “I haven’t had someone to do it with, I guess.”
She eyes me curiously.
“I mean, I asked Eli, and he told me no because he was riding with his wife and she’s not into throuples.”
She laughs—I could get lost in the sound.
“Anyway…” the teenager cuts in. “Here’s your brake. It just pulls up. Unlatch it and pull it down to release it. Um…” He scratches the back of his sunburned neck while his gaze scans the surrey to determine what else he needs to tell us. “Oh, only this side steers, so you just have to decide who’s driving.”
Vada looks at me, smiling.
“You drive,” I say.
“Really?” she asks rather enthusiastically, and it makes me wonder what assholes she’s dated before to make this a surprise.
“Really. Fuck the patriarchy, Vada.”
A light breath of a laugh falls out of her. I wonder how I let my own grief and hatred turn her into something else. I also regret wasting time hating her. Or at least trying to. Vada is a gem. Vada is a dream. Vada is sunshine in the dead of winter. A light breeze when the humidity is suffocating. A spark in the middle of darkness.
I wish I allowed myself to see it sooner. Or rather, I wish I allowed myself to admit I saw it a year ago sooner.
“Be careful with your dress,” the teenager says as we take our places on the bike seats. We both glance down at the fabric of thehem of the yellow dress brushes the chains of the surrey. “I’d hate to cut you out of this.”
She lets out an uncomfortable laugh.
“You can just hike it up a bit.”
Her eyes dart in my direction, and it would seem there’s something she wants to say but doesn’t know how.
“Here. Let me help.” I hop off my seat and walk around the front of the surrey.
“All right. Have fun. Don’t crash!” the teenager hollers and walks away.
I kneel before her, taking hold of the fabric in my hands to tie it up and make it a few inches shorter to solve the problem. Her knees clench together.
“Be careful,” she whispers.
“It won’t ruin your dress,” I reason, wadding the fabric.
“I’m not wearing—I mean, I am. But they’re just—” She clears her throat, and my eyes turn up to her.
Oh.I grin, and heat rushes through me.
“All it would take is a gust of wind for me to flash the Robinsons over there having a picnic on the rocks, you know?”
She offers a shy smile and scrunches her nose—she is worried she’s toeing the line of being flirtatious and inappropriate.
“I just wanted to be honest. I already have a bad reputation.”
“Right,” I say, gently wrapping the fabric around my wrist and knotting the hem just above her knee. I can’t help but notice my fingertips tremble, and the way the pink returns to her cheeks lets me know she noticed, too. I rub my thumb over her knee as I stand. “Then drive carefully.”
