Page 52 of Grim

“Uh, yeah.” I scratch the back of my head. “It’s better explained in the video during the ‘Which Soul Are You?’ quiz.”

Rue chuckles softly and I can’t help but note how nice it sounds. “I would rather hear it from you.”

“Fine,” I relent. “The Bliss is where the majority of crossovers end up. Your own little peace of happiness. For you I would imagine it would be a library of endless books. Some will have an endless rock concert. Others, a fishing trip that never ends. It’s very personalized.”

“Wow, that sounds amazing,” She pauses and I see the question forming before she asks. “Why would you choose reaping over that?”

“Nothing is given for free, Mayday. Bliss has a heavy cost.”

“What’s the cost?”

“You forget,” I manage while walking toward the window and looking outside at the greying skies.

“Forget what?” She asks.

“Everything,” I turn back to look at her. “Family, friends, loved ones—anything that makes you, you is erased. Some souls are given the option to work, to—for a lack of a better term, ‘live’, in the world they are assigned to. Or they can forget.”

“Wow, I don’t know which is worse, forgetting everything, or remembering and being unable to see your loved ones again.”

“It’s not as bad as you think. You learn fast to remember what you need to in order to do your job and keep your sanity while tucking the rest away.”

“Why?”

I find myself growing tired of her questions.

“Because remembering too much gets you in trouble, and that’s the final question.” I point my finger at her as she opens her mouth to ask another question.

“Fine,” Rue uncrosses her legs, stands gingerly from the couch and heads to the kitchen. “Esther,” she yells over her shoulder and the cat instantly pops its head up, peers toward Rue and saunters after her, but not before glaring back at me with a vicious amount of side-eye.

“Feeling’s mutual, furball, I assure you.”

Rue returns moments later, a new look of determination in her eyes. “Get your coat,” she says.

“I don’t have a coat. Just this suit. I’m impervious to temperature on Earth.”

“Well, that was anticlimactic.”

“Sorry to disappoint. I’m normally quite climactic.”

“Has that line ever worked?” she asks dryly.

“More times than I can count.” I smirk.

“Because you’re so terrible at math?” Rue fires back.

“Exactly.” I give her the verbal-sparring victory and change the subject.

“Where are we off to?”

“I want ice cream.”

I stare at her, brow cocked. “Ice cream?”

“Yes. Ice cream.”

There’s a beat of silence while I try to figure out if she’s being serious.

“That’s what’s keeping you from spiraling into despair? Frozen dairy?”