Page 22 of Grim

“It amazes me you actually consume this willingly,” I mutter, eyeing the pastel-colored chalkboard menu with deep suspicion. “It smells like melted feelings and burned marshmallows in here.”

I take in the vibrant walls decorated with cartoonish representations of medieval battlements and then spy a list of nonsensical flavors. I shudder.

“Kane,” she says solemnly, turning to me as she points at the glass case, “that is strawberry funnel cake. It’s everything you love about the state fair in dairy form. Don’t disrespect it.”

“What’s a state fair?”

“How old are you?”

“Very. Also, not from around here, so …” I leave the vowel sound hanging between us as an eager youngster comes to greet us.

“Welcome to Dairy Castle. I’m Jake, your court scoopster. Care to try any of our regal flavors, milady?” the poor kid intones with as much enthusiasm as he could possibly muster for such an asinine job.

Believe me, kid, I get it. And I wish I could say it gets better. But it doesn’t.

I look at Rue, whose face is alight.

“Can I try the Damsel’s Double Chocolate and the Moat-cha Mint?”

“Moat-cha? Are you serious? This place doesn’t just have regular ice cream?” I ask, shocked at the inanity of this place.

“Shut up,” she responds. “What flavor do you want?”

“I do not want.”

“No way. I’m getting you something.”

Jake hands over two tiny spoons of semi-hard cow’s milk, and I work feverishly not to vomit.

“Oh, these are both delicious,” Rue moans after the bite.

The sound sends undeniable daggers to the base of my spine. That’s definitely a noise I’d love to produce from her. Which is a thought I try to suppress, followed immediately by another annoying epiphany. Am I jealous of ice cream?

Rue’s response to Jake brings me back.

“I will take a scoop of each in a bowl. And he will have …” Rue looks from me to the case and back again.

I indicate nothing.

“Let me get one scoop of A Court of Thyme and Rosewater.”

The nausea returns. “Whatever happened to plain old vanilla?”

“You snooze, you lose,” Rue singsongs.

I can’t help but notice the befuddled look on Jake’s face. I do everything I can to repress the laughter threatening to bubble over.

I manage to control my amusement while Jake doles out a few scoops. Rue pays, and we make our way back outside.

Rue’s continued exuberance makes it almost difficult to brood. Almost.

I sigh heavily. “I’m not eating the ice cream.”

“Oh, yes, you are.”

“I’m a denizen of the OtherWorld. I don’t need food. ”

“You have no problem downing the booze in your pocket,” she says under her breath while poking the spot where my flask resides. “Therefore, you can consume this.”

“I can eat. I just don’t need to. Can’t say the same for the delicious burn and sweet relief of a drop of grappa.”

We sit on a bench outside, the sun filtering through the trees in soft gold. Rue takes a bite of her ice cream and makes that delicious sound again. The ice cream I could take or leave, but that moan I would gladly devour.

“You’re going to stare at me the entire time like a judgmental statue, aren’t you?”

“I don’t judge.”

“You’re literally judging me right now. I can practically see the gavel growing out of your ass.”

“I’m observing. Professionally.”

“Whatever. Do you,” she says and takes another huge helping to her face. After she swallows, she looks at me. “Is it just me, or was Jake looking at me kinda funny? I mean, most people in this town look at me like I have a third head, but I don’t know. There was something off about the whole vibe.”

I think about whether or not I want to fill Rue in or if this is one of those post-mortal realizations that one must come to on their own terms. She’s got a lot to digest, I decide, not the least of which is mounds of lactose, so I’ll get her up to speed.

“Well, Jake couldn’t see me, so perhaps he found it odd, watching you yell at thin air and order ice cream for your invisible friend.”

“What do you mean?”

“We’ve been over this, mortal. I am not from around here. I come when needed—which is usually a coronary episode. Those I come for can see me. Those who will live on get to carry on in blissful ignorance.”

“So, that kid watched me have a full-blown dialogue with what?”

“Nothing, I imagine. Must have looked pretty weird. Even for you, Rue.”

Her lips purse in irritation. “I’d tell you off, but I doubt it would land. ”

“Probably should save that precious breath then.” I wink as she rolls her eyes.

“You’re impossible.”

“You’ve mentioned that a time or three. You’re running out of material, Mayday.”

She ignores me while scooping another bite and shoving it toward my face.

I blink. “You can’t be serious.”

“Live a little, Kane.”

“I did—centuries ago. Overrated, in all honesty.”

Her face drops into an annoyed scowl as she wiggles the spoon.

I roll my eyes. “You want me to eat a spoonful of sugar paste from your bowl like some pathetic romantic-comedy side character?”

“Yes. Precisely.”

I give her a long look. She doesn’t blink.

With an exaggerated sigh, I lean forward and take a bite. The flavor hits like it’s settling a score.

“Well?”

“It’s not awful,” I state plainly. “Possibly the least offensive mortal invention I’ve tasted this century.”

She beams before reaching over and running her thumb over my bottom lip. I freeze, unable to think as she pulls away and brings her thumb to her mouth, sucking off the ice cream.

Well, that’s going to be an image that will haunt me this evening.

She seems happy and peaceful for a moment longer, and then something dawns on her. Her entire countenance shifts.

“Wait,” she says. “If Jake can’t see you, if people can’t see you, then how are we going to spend the next several days together?”

“Do you want to spend the next several days together?” I ask with a small level of surprise in my voice.

“Well …” she hedges.

“Not that I was complaining,” I clarify.

“I just mean, how can I do earthbound activities with someone who is invisible to all but the undead?”

“No, I got it.”

“I’ll look like a crazy person, talking to myself. ”

“That does seem to be a potential side effect,” I admit.

A light bulb goes off behind Rue’s eyes. “I have an idea.”

“What?” I ask, intrigued.

“I’ll put my earbuds in. People walk around all day long, looking like they’re talking to themselves. No one will blink twice.”

“Okay, there’s one crisis averted. Now to figure out how to actually spend that time …” I offer, and there is that light-bulb moment again. She’s like the Christmas tree in Rockefeller Center.

“Come on,” she says, her voice soft. “Let’s go sit under the tree.”

I look from her outstretched hand to the large tree across the street. “There’s no bench, and I’m not holding your hand.” I can’t, not when the memory of her lips and tongue against mine is on replay in my brain.

“You sit on the ground—”

“HA!” I snort, shaking my head. “I already had to return home once because you ruined a good suit. I refuse to allow you to mess up another.”

She rolls her too-pretty eyes at me.

“So, stop wearing a suit! Put on some jeans, unbutton that top button.”

I swat her hand away as it goes to my collar. I’m not ready to answer those questions. My hope is she’ll be gone before the topic can be broached.

Rue acquiesces as she holds out her delicate pinkie. “Fine, one finger?”

I eye her warily while standing up. “Some might say you enjoy touching me, Mayday.”

She shrugs, trying to act nonchalant, but her cheeks flush a pretty pink that is undeniable. Since I’m in such a giving mood, I relent.

I wrap my long finger around hers while pulling her across the street. There it is—the feeling I hate and love. The heat I feel from our connection—it’s more addictive than anything has a right to be. I’m beginning to crave her touch. But I can’t. I won’t allow myself to become attached to her.

Here I am, a centuries-old reaper with a dark past, lounging under the shade of an elm tree, watching Rue shovel bits of medieval-themed ice cream past her decadent lips.

“What’s your favorite color?” she asks out of nowhere.

It’s such a human question. The unexpectedness of it catches me off guard.

I could ask her why she cares. I could ignore the question altogether.

Instead, I repeat back, “Favorite color?” like the concept itself is foreign. Which it is actually. What a pointless thing to ask a reaper.

I glance down at my ever-present black suit, then think of my home in the OtherWorld—a place of countless greys and shadowed light.

Is brown an acceptable favorite color? Would she laugh at me if I said it?

“Purple,” she says suddenly, nodding like she’s just come to a great realization.

I frown. “What about it?”

“I think purple is your favorite color,” she says simply.

I blink at her. “You asked me a question and then proceeded to answer it yourself?”

“Well, you were taking too long,” she teases, licking a stray drop of ice cream from her spoon.

I feel something tighten in my chest and in my pants. Fucking perfect.

I arch a brow. “What makes you think my favorite color would be purple?”

She tilts her head, considering. “Not like standard-crayon-box purple,” she clarifies. “You’re far too sophisticated for that, Grim—I know that.”

I narrow my eyes. “Are you mocking me?”

She grins. “A little.”

I exhale through my nose, already regretting sitting down. “Go on then,” I say dryly. “Enlighten me. What kind of purple am I exactly?”

She hums, tapping her spoon against her chin. “I see you as a deep, dark purple,” she declares. “Not the kind with red undertones—no, that would be too passionate. Yours would have blue undertones. Something cool, controlled, balanced. A color that holds weight, but doesn’t demand attention.”

“That was oddly specific,” I murmur.

“Well, you are oddly specific, Kane,” she counters, stretching out on the grass and looking up at me through thick, dark lashes.

I should look away. Really, I should. I’ve never been good at doing what I should though.

“You’re a man who’s seen every color the world has to offer,” she continues. “For something to be your favorite, it would have to stand out. It would have to be memorable, different.”

She lets the words linger, something unspoken hovering between us.

Something I refuse to name. For a while, I don’t say anything.

Because the truth is, I don’t think she’s wrong.

Purple—deep, cool, regal—is a color that has always drawn my eye. It’s rich without being garish, elegant without demanding.

I clear my throat, tamping down the lingering sensation her words leave behind. “You’re dangerously perceptive,” I say at last.

“It’s a gift.” Her smirk is infuriating.

I shift my focus to her instead, deciding it’s only fair to turn the question back on her.

“So,” I say, leaning in slightly, letting my voice drop into something low and deliberate, “what’s your favorite color, Mayday?”

For the first time since I met her, Rue pauses. Her pupils dilate, and her plush lips part ever so slightly. Does she feel something?

Before I can think too much about it, Rue blinks and clears her throat to answer; her voice is quieter than before.

“The color of the sky before a storm,” she murmurs, watching the clouds roll overhead. “When it’s almost black but still blue. When it looks like it’s holding something wild inside it, something waiting to break loose.”

I stare at her for a long, long moment. Because that is precisely what she looks like to me. Something on the verge of breaking loose. Something beautiful and fleeting and impossible to hold.

Rue turns her head toward me, brows raised slightly.

“You look like there’s a battle being waged behind your eyes,” she observes.

“That’s because there is.” No sense in denying it.

She snickers, tossing her spoon into the now-empty cup. “Good. You deserve some internal struggle.”

I shake my head, exhaling through my nose, hoping this sensation will leave through my nostrils with the effort. But it doesn’t. And as I stand to my full height and brush the earth off my spectral vestments, I cannot help returning to a single, nagging thought— This was nice.