Page 10 of Mourner for Hire
People are easy to read—in life and in death. Men, in particular, deep down are miserable, bitter, or both. Something I’ve learned from my very own father and, subsequently, every man I’ve ever dated since.
I watch him rub his lips together and nod slowly as he reaches over the bar, grabs the bourbon, and throws it back. “You think I’m handsome?”
“Irritatingly,” I emphasize, and he smiles.
“I’m impressed, Vada. But you got two things wrong.”
I tilt my chin toward his face, waiting for which two things I got wrong.
“I don’t volunteer at the soup kitchen. I volunteer at the humane society.” He sets his glass down with a rough clink, and he smiles this cocky, unhinged smile I’ve only ever dreamed of. He’s clearly a man who knows he can take me for everything I’m worth and make all my walls of steel shatter like glass. “And I’d never go back to my ex.”
I can’t help it. I smile.
“What about you?”
“What about me?” I ask in response.
“Do I get to tell you how much I know your type?”
I swallow and nod, hoping he doesn’t know my heart is rotating in my chest.
He drags his teeth over his bottom lip as he stares at me.
I raise my eyebrows and lean forward as if saying,well, go ahead.
“You’re pretty which makes people think you aren’t smart but you are absolutely brilliant. You could trivia-night anyone under the table because you’re the type of person that remembers the Pythagorean theorem and who won best new artist at the VMAs in 2014?—”
“Fifth Harmony,” I cut in.
He snorts out a laugh. “You have a lot of childhood trauma, but you don’t carry it on your sleeve because you believe in experiencing life firsthand. That doesn’t mean you don’t use it toanalyze the important relationships in your life. It just means you don’t let it interfere with being present in every moment. You clearly have an asshole ex, and you examine every person against him, wondering if he could ever morph into the same monster you dated. You have deep reasoning for attending funerals for a job, but you won’t ever let it out because you’re cold.”
“Cold?”
He nods once with a small smile. “You don’t give a fuck if you don’t have to.” He seems to consider. “And you drink a lot of coffee and pee every hour because of it. You’re funnier than people assume because they don’t listen. You probably have daddy issues, but you don’t let it affect you. You ask your best friend’s opinion on everything. You’re a serial first dater. And that scar on your hand needed stitches, but you were probably too stubborn to get them.”
I jerk my left hand closer to me and cover it with my right, and defend my actions quickly. “I didn’t have health insurance.”
His mouth turns down in a smug expression, clearly realizing he’s right. “I’m not judging. Just observing.”
I run my fingers over the raised skin on my left hand. It was a stupid home renovation accident that just didn’t heal properly.
I smirk and lean forward. “You got two things wrong.”
“That right?”
He leans over the bar, and I stop breathing so I don’t inhale his scent.
“My daddy issues absolutely affect me, and I’m not as cold as you want me to be.”
He wipes the bar with a rag and laughs—the warm sound lighting me up from the inside out.
“I want to make you something.”
Considering he’s already made me a burger and jalapeño poppers, I can’t imagine what he’s going to make next.
He muddles mint with rum and brown sugar at the bottom of a glass. He mixes and pours and garnishes before dipping astraw into the now purplish liquid and pulling it out with his thumb on the tip, and putting it in his mouth.
He thinks a moment before he swallows. I’ve seen bartenders taste many drinks before, and maybe it’s the way he licks his bottom lip or the all too consuming eye contact he’s making, but I feel my jaw unhinge just enough that I clear my throat to snap myself out of it.
