Page 139 of Mourner for Hire
“I got in, Mom,” I whisper into the silence of the apartment. I fold the letter and replace it back into the envelope.
Excited isn’t the right word. Neither is nervous.
Ready lands a little better. Because I guess that’s what I am. Ready to move on. Ready to live my own life—this time on my own terms.
When I realize Vada still hasn’t texted me back, I text her.
Me
You okay?
There still isn’t an answer, and I tell myself it’s because she’s distracted. But then, an hour later, when she hasn’t texted me, I try calling.
It rings and rings, then goes to voicemail.
A text rolls through soon after.
Vada
You can’t come here. I’m coming to you.
FORTY-EIGHT
VADA
The parking lotis empty except for Dominic’s truck. The bar is dead beyond the flickering neon sign that saysOpen. It’s not Monday, reminding me of what he told me earlier: it’s hard to survive in a town like this.
The leaves crunch under my feet, and I realize my time in Shellport is coming to a jagged end. It’s hard not to wonder what will come of Dominic and me when I head back to the city. Long distance isn’t impossible when it’s only a few hours. But it’s also hard not to wonder if he expects anything beyond my stay here.
The door creaks as it swings open, and the smell of pine, sea, and the subtle tang of beer hits me, sending a flurry of memory pulsing through my veins.
The first time I ever saw Dominic.
The first time I felt his skin.
The first drink he ever made for me.
The first round of pool.
The first kiss.
Dominic looks up from the glass he’s polishing, and his lips slide into a sly grin.
“Closing early?” I ask, and he narrows his eyes just so that I fully understand. I tilt my head. “It’s such a cool place, though.”
He shrugs, walks around the bar to meet me, and pulls me close as he says, “Bad location.”
I don’t have time to respond before his lips are on mine, and I’m lost in a sea of daydreams.
“What will come of it?” I ask, pulling back and glancing around. The wood-paneled walls. The view of the valley and the ocean just outside the back wall of windows. The string lights on the deck.
“I don’t know yet.”
I nod once. “Can I show you something?”
“Of course,” he answers as I pull out a stack of photographs and place it on the bar.
His gaze wanders over the pictures—a mixture of confusion and tenderness in his expression.
