Page 139 of Grim

“It is, Mom. Very. It’s been fast and passionate and real. He loves me. He makes me feel it in the mostextraordinary and mundane ways. And I love him. And it’s just the best feeling, Mom. The best.”

How can a single moment be the best and worst of my entire meaningless existence? Nothing has burned brighter or stung more sharply than this moment. Nothing has ever lifted me this high while simultaneously slamming me so hard into the cruel ground. Nothing sings and stings with as much potency as Rue Chamberlain’s unknowing declaration of her love to me.

She talks about me like I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to her. But I am not. I failed her.

The room feels like it’s pressing in.

I feel the strength leave my body through the single tear that falls from my right eye.

“Oooooooooh,” D purrs from his perch in the corner, watching me and the screen simultaneously. “That was juicy.” He extends his hand toward me. “Popcorn?”

My words are failing me in this moment, my vocabulary not doing justice to my emotions, even now, when the stakes are so high.

“I am so happy for you, baby.”

I can feel the smile in my mom’s voice. It feels good.

“Thanks, Mom.”

I sink into one of the old chairs, wincing as it creaks beneath me.I get it, chair; believe me, I get it.

“Anyway,” I say, changing the subject, “I just wanted to hear your voice.”

The kitchen smells faintly like mint and mildew. The old kettle still sits on the stove. The chair across frommine still has the indents from a night I can’t get back. My hand presses over my heart, and I try to memorize the sound of her breathing through the phone.

“Remember when I used to fake fainting to get out of math class?” I do not know where the recollection comes from, but I voice it back into being.

“You didn’t fake it. You committed. Hit the floor like a sack of flour,” Mom says with a light laugh.

“I was a theatre kid at heart.”

“You were a menace.”

“Your menace.”

She exhales, long and shaky. “My fucking menace.”

Now it’s my turn to laugh. “You always did have a mouth on you.”

“Didn’t think you got your vocabulary from your father, did you?”

I chuckle lightly. “He was a fisherman.”

“Yeah, and I taught him a few words that made him blush.”

“Speaking of words,” I begin, pressing my thumb deeply into the soft exterior of my notebook. This is my chance to share my work with Cerulean. I’m not sure I was wholly aware at the time, but this is the thing I need to tell her. I want her to know that I inherited more than just her foul mouth. I got Dad’s broken heart and Mom’s tortured artist soul. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Yes?” Mom asks as I realize I stopped speaking.

I thumb the notebook open to the same page as before. “May I read you some of mine?”

“From your little diary?”

I roll my eyes, but instead of getting frustrated, I own the space and claim this moment. “They are more than journal entries, Mom. I write prose. I have dozens of short stories about love and loss and adventure and regret. I write poems too. And I want to share one with you.”

I can hear the cautious enthusiasm in her voice as she tells me, “Of course, Rue. I would love to hear your words.”

“Okay. This one is called ‘Rue’s Lament.’” I clear my throat and take a fortifying breath. Then voice aloud: