Page 36 of Grim

ButNottheShoes

“Y ou have a dress?” Kane parrots, turning our conversation into a low-rent Abbott and Costello routine.

I try to jump off the carousel before he starts asking me, Who’s on first?

I blink at him. “Yes, Kane, believe it or not, I do own a dress.”

“Right,” he says, narrowing his eyes. “A dress that would suit a ball in the OtherWorld? Or anywhere for that matter.” He mutters the last part, but I hear it. “And where is this dress?”

“It’s in the attic,” I say, not quite meeting Kane’s eyes as I gesture upward. “You know, that room three floors up from here, with the creaky stairs, cobwebs, and window leading to the roof.” I toy with the hem of the shirt I’m wearing, suddenly feeling too small inside my own skin.

“I know what an attic is, Rue. I’ve been inside a multilevel home before.” His lips twitch as he stares down at me. “And I’m very aware of where your attic leads. Believe me, it’s not something I’ll soon forget.”

“Oh,” I answer meekly, not sure exactly what to make of his response.

“Are you ashamed of what happened between us, Ms. Chamberlain? ”

I meet his energy with confidence of my own. “No, I am not.”

“Good. Neither am I. So, don’t turn all meek on me when you mention it, if you mention it. Though I’m not entirely sure there’s a need to mention it at all, if I’m honest. We have loads to do before your official crossover.”

“Do you not want to talk about it?” I ask, unable to keep the hurt out of my voice. Unsure what I’m even truly asking.

He clears his throat, as if he’s trying to stall before giving me an answer. “We’ve got bigger issues that concern us presently, Rue. Tell me about this dress.” The pivot is sharp, surgical.

I can see by the steely look of his eyes that there’s no sense in pursuing that topic right now, so I press on with a story from my childhood I’ve had very few opportunities to tell.

“When I was a kid, I wanted to be a theater girl. Shakespeare, musicals, the whole thing. I used to dream about it every night. From Roxie Hart to Rosalind, I wanted to play them all.” I pause, swallowing past the tightness climbing my throat.

“But Fate had other plans, evidently. I didn’t ‘look like a leading lady.’” I air-quote the refrain heard from countless directors and mean classmates alike.

Kane scowls, but makes no move to speak; in fact, he makes no move at all. He stares at me, still as a statue, eyes locked on my mouth.

Before I can continue, the family clock intones the top of another hour. Kane and I stare at each other silently.

I have never been more aware of the passage of time , I think to myself during the aural backdrop of the metronomic gong.

After the tenth tone, I return to my story.

“In my mind, I knew. Culture and time dictate a community’s sense of beauty and expectation.

A Renaissance queen would be laughed off of a Miami beach, but in her own era, gorgeous.

Try explaining that to Mr. Gladwell or any of the kids at Crestview High.

Anyway, the point was moot in the end. My sophomore year, doctors advised against pursuing activities that would put undue strain on my heart, so that was that.

The only gown I ever got to wear came from a hospital.

” My voice cracks, and I hate it. I force a small laugh, brushing it off like it doesn’t still carve into me.

Kane exhales slowly and deliberately. “That’s awful, Rue. People can be the worst kind sometimes.”

I smile softly at his simple but effective distillation, then press on to my conclusion. “My dad started buying me dresses. Said I’d always be his princess, and if I couldn’t be Juliet on a stage, I could still be her in our backyard.”

My throat clogs. I feel Kane’s stare, heavy and raw.

“Rue …” he says softly.

There’s something in the way he says my name that makes everything inside me splinter a little more. I lift my chin and give him a smile that feels a little too sharp at the edges.

“Anyway, that was my dad. Always meeting me where I was. Always giving me space and encouragement to dream.” After another lengthy silence, I ask, “So, do you want to see it? The dress?”

“No,” Kane answers, taking me by surprise.

“You don’t want to see it? Make sure it’s suitable for a party in the OtherWorld?”

“No,” he says, his voice a gavel. “If your father got it for you, that’s good enough for me.”

“Okay.” I blush. Then a new thought occurs to me, and a small smile creeps onto my face. “However, I do have one problem …” I say, dragging out the word.

“What? I don’t like that look.”

“I don’t have any shoes.”

“You don’t have any shoes?” he repeats.

“Let’s not do this again, Grim. No, I do not have shoes appropriate for an event of this magnitude.”

“There must be something you have here.”

“Unless you want me to wear my hippity-hoppity flipp—”

“Do not finish that sentence,” he cuts me off forcefully, which has me giggling under my breath. His next sentence comes out extremely quickly. “Where does one procure footwear in this town?”

“The mall, Grim. ”

He stiffens. “We are not going to the mall,” he declares adamantly.

“Oh, we absolutely are. Now, I’ve got to get dressed and then order us a ride.”

“I’ll open a portal,” he states.

I raise a brow. “You said that portals are for official reaper business.”

“Desperate times, Mayday.”

“No,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest.

“No?” He raises a brow. “Rue, let’s be realistic here. A portal is faster.”

“It’s also nauseating, disorienting, and altogether too draining for a simple trip to get shoes. Sorry to burst your bubble, Grim, but we’re doing this the human way.”

“You’re overexaggerating the portal and romanticizing getting into a stranger’s vehicle, smelling their odor, and trusting them not to kidnap you.”

“I’ll be dead in a couple of days anyway, so what does it matter?

” I shrug, and he scowls, not enjoying my remark.

“Besides, the only romanticizing I’m doing is the part where you, a centuries-old reaper, are about to set foot in a mall with food courts, crowds of teenagers, and fluorescent lighting. ”

He looks at me, genuine pain and discomfort in his voice as he says, “Barbaric.”

“You’ll get over it.”

Kane groans. “Rue …”

“Don’t Rue me,” I say, forcing back a laugh while reaching for my phone. “We’re doing this.” I tap through the app on my phone before smiling up at him and heading to my room to get dressed. “Steve will be here in three minutes. Gotta love these modern conveniences.”

“Steve? Is that the name of the car or a person?”

“The driver, silly. Now let me get ready. He’s almost here!”

Kane follows me to my room, leaning on the doorframe while crossing his arms. “And what car will I be forced into?”

“Can you not stand there while I’m trying to get dressed?” I huff, slipping into my skirt.

“I’ve seen you naked already,” he points out annoyingly .

“And now is not the time for a repeat viewing,” I state while turning my back to him, removing my baggy shirt, and chucking it at his face. “And it’s a Prius.” I turn back around after slipping my tank top on.

“A what?”

“A Prius,” I repeat. “It’s good for the environment.”

“Wear pants,” Kane states sharply.

“Excuse me?” I laugh lightly. “Now you have something negative to say about my skirt?”

“No, I just … never mind, I’ll be in the living room.”

I watch him stalk away, and I cock my head to one side.

“What was that about?” I wonder aloud.

“Prolly not wanting others to look at you!”

“Seek!” I gasp, clutching my heart as the small ghost pokes his head through my wall. “We’ve gone over this. I have a heart condition!”

“Sorry.” He smiles cheekily as I walk to my dresser and pull out leggings. For no other reason than the fact that malls in the summer in New Orleans are cold. And that’s the only reason.

The lie I tell myself gets interrupted by a series of cheerful beeps from outside. I look out the window and see a silver Prius parked at the end of my gravel driveway under the weeping oak.

I head down the stairs and stop in the living room to grab Kane.

“Our noble steed awaits,” I say cheerily.

“Oh joy,” Kane grumps before I grab his hand and drag him outside.

The Prius rolls to a stop in front of the mall’s south entrance. Kane is already straightening his coat like he’s preparing to step onto a battlefield instead of a linoleum-tiled food court.

I open the door and slide out. Kane appears beside me the moment my feet hit the concrete .

Steve leans out his window with a grin. “Stay spiritual, Rue. It’s been real.” He places his hand over his heart and nods with a soft smile.

I give him a salute. “You’re a legend, Steve.”

Steve shoots us the rock on gesture with his left hand, completely unaware of the immortal entity he just shepherded to Atrium 88, New Orleans’ finest mecca to merchandise.

“We should have transported,” Kane grumbles at the retreating vehicle before he turns his glare to the grey structure in front of us, like a general assessing the enemy’s battlements. “So, this is where we make our stand,” he murmurs, voice low and grim.

“Yes. Watch out for the escalators. Avoid the perfume sprayers and try to be brave.” I look directly at Kane with as much seriousness as I can muster.

He ignores me and steps forward with all the reluctant dread of a condemned man. “This entire building is vibrating with chaos and monosodium glutamate.”

“It’s called capitalism,” I whisper, looping my arm through his—just for the comfort of pretending he’s here in a way that people can see. “You’ll be fine.”

The sliding glass doors part, and the fluorescent glow and buffed floors beckon us toward the light. But before we enter the space, Kane clears his throat and removes his arm from mine, stopping me in my tracks.

“Don’t you remember?” he asks condescendingly.

“What?”

“Don’t loop your arm around the spirit no one can see. Put your earbuds in and keep your eyes forward. Otherwise, it looks like you’re talking to a brick wall.”