Page 8 of Mourner for Hire
He shakes his head, and I feel ridiculously appreciative of the smile on his face.
“Why would anyone want this? Why not settle everything before they die?”
“People can be dramatic.” I laugh. “Why not guarantee that you can haunt someone long after you’re gone?”
“Is that what they tell you?” His amused gaze stays fixed on me.
“I can make assumptions, but I don’t really ask questions. I just ask for what they want. Fulfill the role and know they’re sleeping easy because their funeral went exactly how they wanted.”
His eyes turn to slits, and he presses his lips together, a cross between disbelief and shock.
“Have you ever thought about what your funeral would be like? Who would be there? Who wouldn’t?”
“No,” he answers quickly. “That’s morbid.”
“Oh.” My mind drifts to the morbidity of it. “I never thought of it that way. I guess I’m a little bit morbid because I wonder all the time. What friends from my childhood would show up? Would my cousins in Virginia come? Would my former co-workers?” I shrug.
“Isn’t that taking advantage of grieving people?”
“No,” I answer simply. “I’m honoring their loved ones’ wishes. And if it were anything that I felt would cause actual harm to their friends and family, I don’t agree to it. Unless they absolutely deserve it. It’s a business transaction. Every part is laid out in writing. I keep meticulous tabs on my clients. Some contact me when they know they’re going to die. Others are young and have no clue when the day will come.”
“And you find out about their deaths how?”
“Google Alerts.” I shrug. “My schedule is very unpredictable.”
“And what does the husband think of this job?” he asks.
I toss up my left hand and wiggle my fingers. “No husband.”
“Boyfriend? Girlfriend?” His curious expression seems more amused than as if he’s prying for information.
“No,” I laugh out. “I’m done in the dating world.”
“Really? Why’s that?”
Again, normally, a man in a bar asking me why I’m single would come off as a cheap pickup line, but he just seems genuinely curious. A conversationalist. A man trying to get to know the woman on the other side of the bar, simply because that’s the polite thing to do and not because his mind has already drifted into how he can get in her pants.
“Well, because in my experience, it’s always dudes saying, ‘You didn’t deserve to be hurt like that,’ only for three years, two months, and twenty-six days to pass for him to be like, ‘You deserve to be hurt likethis.’” I smile coyly, and he barks out a laugh—a crimson flush sweeps up his neck into his cheeks. My own face warms in response.
“Hey, Dunner. Can I cash out? We’re just going to walk home,” the man down the bar says.
I’m thankful for the distraction so I can cool the blush in my cheeks.
“You got it, Bernie,” he calls back, pulls his tab from under the bar, and slips it in a black leather case.
I should get my check, too. I have a meeting in the morning, but I stay put, mindlessly sipping my beer and munching on jalapeño poppers.
“So, three years, two months, and twenty-six days? That’s a very specific timeline.”
A laugh tumbles out of me. “It was a very specific type of asylum.”
Surprise dances across his face.
“I’m kidding. Kind of.”
He turns back to me. “I find you interesting.”
I swallow hard, heat sweeping through my insides. He could mean interesting as in weird, or he could mean interesting as in a subject he wants to study until he knows all of me. I don’t play into it, though. I don’t play where I work. Rule number one.
