Page 129 of Mourner for Hire
His brows draw together. “It’s just that, I could have sworn I went to your mother’s funeral.”
My spine stiffens, and I narrow my eyes at him. “There’s no way… That’s not…”
“I don’t know. It was so long ago, but it was like, the first funeral I ever went to so it kind of sticks out because everybody was crying. I remember thinking that I’d never seen so many grown-ups cry.”
The confusion pulls from my face, and I’m left with complete and total absence of feeling. He can’t be right. It’d be like stealing the one memory I have.
“I could be wrong, though,” he overcompensates, and I nod, trying to shake the feeling of uncertainty.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispers. “Keep going.”
“Yeah, me, too.” I exhale and collect my voice, straining against tight vocal cords. “So as you can imagine, I turned into the typical sob story. Rough, alcoholic dad. Dead mom. Lost girl. I went to college, and I partied and searched for something to fill this empty piece of me.” My gaze gets lost in the memory of the night everything changed for me. “I remember thinking my glass was dirty. I took a sip of the cocktail, and there was dust at the bottom. Then it clicked. The guy at the frat party had drugged me.”
Dominic wraps his arm around my shoulders now, and he curses under his breath. “Did he?—”
“Morgan didn’t give him the chance.” I laugh, ignoring the swell of my tear ducts. “She drove me straight to the emergency room, and I remember feeling like I was being pulled apart. Like my body was stretching beyond capacity. I remember being terrified and so angry. I remember thinking: I still have so much to do and say and accomplish for this to happen to me. I never once said if I wanted to be buried or cremated. I never once told anyone I hate roses and would hate if they were on my casket. I never said I wanted them to serve pizza and tell all my embarrassing stories. I never once wondered who would be at my funeral…”
“Until that night,” he says.
“Until that night,” I confirm. “So I graduated from college with my degree in interior design and had every intention of making something of myself. But the thought never went away, and my business never took off, so I started this one. It turns out more people wonder about these things than you think—also, some people are petty and hilarious even in the afterlife, and that is just the added bonus.” I grin at Dominic, but he doesn’t smile back.
“You laugh at weird things.”
I shrug. “Humor is a coping mechanism.”
“Humor is also a mask.”
The response gives me pause, and I lean back on my elbows.
“It is.” There is no need to argue. He’s right. “But tonight is not about me and my corrupt coping mechanisms. Tonight is about Gregory Baxter and how he is going to be the talk of the cemetery.”
Dominic laughs. “Tell me about Greg.”
I sigh, a happy story that serves as a pre-emptive introduction to the story of Greg. “He is unintentionally funny which is the best kind. He’s goofy without being obnoxious. Kind without being pretentious. He doesn’t just speak when necessary but when it actually adds to the conversation. He would have made a great father—I’m sad he never got the chance.”
There’s a ghostly silence between us and a swift breeze tickling the pines. Dominic zeroes in on something. I look at him and then follow his gaze to the headstone next to Greg’s.
A boy named Cameron. Died at eleven.
“Oh,” I breathe.
In this moment, I wish I could see every ghost, speak to them, and ask if they found each other in the afterlife. I wonder if, in some weird alternate paranormal reality, the ghosts are all dancing and welcoming Greg to his new stomping grounds. I wonder if the boy buried next to him misses his parents and if he’s been searching for his grown-up in the afterlife.
But it’s all wonderings because absolutely zero paranormal activity is happening tonight.
I glance at the headstones surrounding Greg. An elderly couple named Oliver and June. Two middle-aged women. A man in his twenties. Four more people who died in their eighties. One thing about a cemetery is you will quickly realize death has no parameters.
“You were a good man, Greg. I’m glad I met you, and I’m sure everyone here is, too,” I say, holding up my apple cider in toast.
“Don’t be shy, Greg. You can’t die of embarrassment anymore so might as well go all out!” Dominic laughs. I gape at him, and he shrugs in response. “What? So you’re the only one that can joke about death?”
I fully appreciate the honesty, wanting to laugh but more than anything wanting to kiss the apple cider off his lips, so I reach out and pull him to me by the nape of his neck. His lips draw close to mine, and the kiss feels as familiar as it ever has. The warmth of his embrace makes my body mold against his. I don’t know if this is love or lust. All I know is it’s justhim.And whatever he does to me, I don’t want it to fade.
FORTY-FIVE
DOMINIC
The dewof fall is beaded on the flannel blanket wrapped around our shoulders. Based on the height of the sun, it can’t be later than six a.m., but the warm, bright sun makes it impossible to sleep.
