Page 1 of Deep Feelings & Shallow Graves

Jennifer

“You absolute bastard,” I say, stepping over his flailing arm so I don’t track gore onto my loafers.

“If you were going to bleed out, the least you could’ve done was aim for the linoleum.

That rug was a limited edition. Hand-woven by a widow in Maine.

She cried when she shipped it. I sobbed when I unboxed it.

And now look. Gore on the fringe. You’re a monster. ”

He gurgles something. Maybe it’s supposed to be a last word. I don’t know. I’m not fluent in dying asshole. I’ve heard it all before anyway. He won’t be the first man to end up as compost. That gardenia bush out front? Flourishes.

“Third rug in two months,” I sigh, shaking my head and side-eyeing the splatter pattern climbing up the cabinet.

I’m going to need another gallon of vinegar.

“At this rate, I should get a punch card at Home Depot. One more tarp and I’m due a free shovel.

Do I ask about a bulk discount on bleach, or does that get you flagged by the feds? ”

This wasn’t even supposed to happen up here. I planned better this time. The basement is where this kind of thing goes down now. Well should have been. Cement floor. Drain. Plastic sheets. Order. I planned it, damn it.

Do men have respect for plans? For effort?

Do they care if you shave, or add just the right amount of vanilla to the cupcakes?

No. And this jackass had to open his mouth about my thighs and whether I really bake or just use cake mixes.

He had to joke about “females being too emotional for commitment” while downing my lemon bars like he wasn’t one condescending comment away from becoming compost.

“Honestly?” I crouch beside him, ignoring the way his eyes are rolling like he’s confused why I’m mad.

I press my fingers to his neck. There’s still a pulse.

Faint. Gross. “You were warned. Four of your exes on the app said you ghosted them after sex. One said sleeping with you was like inviting a yeast infection to dinner. Another said you were forceful with her. And I still gave you a chance.”

He gurgles again. Slower this time.

“I made you lemon bars from scratch with real zest,” I tell him, soft and syrupy sweet, even as I reach for the roll of paper towels to mop up the worst of the splatter.

“Do you know how long zesting takes? Of course you don’t.

You think ‘from scratch’ means opening a box without reading the instructions.

I didn’t use a box. And this is how you thank me?

You ruined my rug. You ruined my night. You ruined lemon bars, and I really liked you. For ten minutes.”

I press the towels to the worst of it. Not to save him. Just to control the mess.

“This is a public service,” I whisper, smoothing his hair back from his forehead. “You’re welcome.”

Thank God I already dug the hole.

Not for him, specifically. I like to be prepared. Odds aren’t great for men these days. Frankly, I’m shocked he made it to date three. I try to give them four, in case there’s a last-minute redemption arc. There never is.

I grunt, dragging his limp weight across the grass. His shoes catch on the stepping stones. His arm flops loose and smacks the side of my planter box, knocking my ceramic gnome, Gary, face-first into the begonias. Gary’s seen worse.

“You didn’t even try to hide what a dick you were,” I huff, yanking harder. “Half your profile read like a manifesto. ‘Strong opinions. No fatties.’ You’re lucky I didn’t brain you with a cast iron pan on night one.”

It’s a crisp, clear night. Moonlight makes the garden glow, all serene and silver if you ignore the part where I’m dragging a body past the tomatoes. I should check if this is bad for the pH balance. Tomatoes are picky. But I don’t need that kind of Google history.

He lands with a thud in the hole. Not graceful, but whatever. It’s not like he’s going to Yelp about it.

I grab the shovel and start covering him. Steady. Rhythmic. Therapeutic.

“You ruined my rug,” I say between shovelfuls.

“My mother told me I forgive too easily. Said one day it’d bite me in the ass.

” I pause to pat the dirt smooth. “Joke’s on her.

I don’t forgive at all. I bury my anger, like all well-adjusted adults do, neatly, deeply, and where no one will ever find it. ”

I adjust my grip, step back, and then…

“Evenin’, Miss Jennifer!”

I almost scream. The shovel jerks. My heart damn near punches through my ribs. I whirl around, smile already stapled on.

It’s just Blake, leaning over the back fence. Shirtless, for no reason other than to ruin my blood pressure. Grinning like a golden retriever who found a stick and a girl at once.

“Oh,” I say, bright, breathless, and innocent. “Hi, Blake.”

His gaze flicks from the shovel to the disturbed earth, then to the blood smear on my apron. His smile doesn’t change.

I smile back. Innocent. Sweet. Try not to look like someone mid-body disposal. Who the fuck gardens in an apron? Not that Blake would notice. He’s all abs but not the brightest star in the sky.

“Late-night gardening?” he asks. Crooked grin. Soft voice. Stupid as hell.

“Gotta keep the roots healthy,” I say, voice sugary. “I compost.”

“Smart.” He nods like I’ve just cured cancer. “If you ever need help digging holes, I’m your guy. Got a whole shed full of shovels. Arms like post-hole diggers.”

Jesus Christ, does he know? Is this flirtation or a legally-admissible confession? I laugh. Too loud. It gets stuck in my throat.

He grins wider like he’s proud of himself for making me laugh and waves as he heads back toward his porch. “Sleep tight, ma’am!”

Ma’am. I’m thirty-two, Blake. Not eighty. But say it again while shirtless and I might forgive your entire bloodline.

I watch him go, shirtless and radiant like a himbo Jesus, and mutter, “You’re lucky you’re pretty.” And I have bigger targets. Then I go back to burying the trash.

By the time I’m finished, my arms ache, my blouse is sticking to my back, and there’s dirt in places dirt shouldn’t be.

I smooth the soil one last time, patting it like a well-made bed, then scatter some marigold seeds over the top.

Bright, cheerful things. They’ll bloom right over his face come spring.

I haul the shovel back into the garage, rinse it off with the hose, and head inside, locking the door behind me, bolting it, and checking the window latches twice out of habit. I’ve got routines. Systems. Boundaries.

Men aren’t the only thing that can be dangerous.

First stop is the bathroom, and a hot shower, because self-care is important after a bad date, especially one that ends with a shallow grave.

I didn’t give myself that with Walter.

He sure as hell didn’t. Not after everything I put into us. The years. The patience. All the flaws I overlooked because I thought that’s what love was, compromise.

I lather the lavender soap. It’s relaxing.

“I haven’t forgotten you,” I whisper to no one, stepping out of the steam.

I’ve tried.

My eyes land on the apron. Blood never comes out.

I guess I’ll need a new one. At least it blocked my jeans.

It’s hard to find ones that fit right when you’re short and curvy.

Like designers think you need to be a six-foot Amazon to earn an ass.

I don’t want extra leg room. I want jeans that don’t assume I’m shaped like a sexy lamppost.

The apron goes in the trash and the rest into the laundry.

I knot my robe and head to the kitchen. I make tea, chamomile with a splash of bourbon, and hum along to the old crackly Patsy Cline record spinning in the corner.

“Crazy… I’m crazy for feeling so lonely…”

Patsy gets me. She always has.

The kitchen smells like lemons and bleach. My rug is a lost cause, but I’ve already bookmarked a replacement. The trick is not getting attached. To anything.

I settle onto the floral loveseat, one leg curled under me, and swipe open the dating app. The blue glow of male mediocrity bathes my face. I take a sip of tea. My thumb hovers over a profile.

“Alpha mindset. Proud boy dad. Here for hookups, not headgames. Two stars out of five overall from his prior dates.” And one of those was probably his mom. Or a bot. Men will do anything but go to therapy.

I save him to the “Potential Projects” folder.

It’s not personal. Not really. They write their own obituaries with this shit. I just footnote it.

And besides… no one else should ever have to feel the way Walter made me feel.

The way my voice didn’t matter. The way no one believed me. The way the therapist told me to “examine my role in provoking him.”

Well. I did. And now I wear pink and smile sweetly and clean the world one red flag at a time.

“Let’s see who’s feeling brave this week,” I whisper, swiping again.

The teacup clinks against its saucer as I lean back and let Patsy carry me away.