Page 9 of Grim

She crouches beside me, smoothing stray pieces of orange-and-black hair behind my ear. “It’s bad enough I’ll have to see you this way one day far too soon. Let’s not do the dress rehearsal.”

“I’m just figuring out the best arm placement,” I mumble, feigning nonchalance. “Over the chest seems a bit judgy, like I’m eternally disappointed about something.”

She snorts. “You’re right. Maybe this.” She flips up both middle fingers in a neat double salute.

I cackle. “Mom, can you imagine the funeral?”

“I insist. If I have to live through that unimaginable day, I’m gettingsomeartistic input.”

“You’ll be too busy cashing in on my ghost to worry about my corpse pose.”

She clasps her hands to her chest. “You wound me.”

“Ha! You exploit me.”

She pulls me into a careful hug—tight enough to feel like something, gentle enough not to hurt.

“I love you, Rue,” she whispers into my hair.

I freeze, just for a moment. Rarely do Mom and I say that we love each other, not because we don’t. It has just never been our dynamic. That was something Dad and I shared.

I smile. “Feelings make you wrinkle. Careful.”

She pulls back with a watery laugh, and the painbehind her eyes nearly knocks me over. “You are incorrigible.”

“I love you too, Mom.”

She checks her phone. Her ride’s here. I escort her to the door.

She pauses, and the look on her face is almost one of fear. “I could stay.”

“And miss your exhibit? What would the community think?” I smirk playfully.

“Fuck them.” Her words catch me off guard. “Tell me to stay, Rue.”

It’s not a demand; it’s nearly a plea. One I can’t answer because if I look at her and tell her that my heart is racing like a hummingbird’s wings and my literal bones ache, she would stay, and her memories would be forever tainted with the pain I endured every day. No, that’s not the story I want her to tell. I won’t allow it. I just need a couple of weeks to relax in bed, and then she can come back.

“Mom, go,” I insist. “Go mingle and let everyone be dazzled by the great Cerulean Oaks. I’ll be here.”

“You’ll text me?” she urges, ignoring the driver honking his horn.

“I always do.”

“And you’ll eat?”

“Yes. Probably not that soup though.”

She exhales before leaning in and giving me a brief hug. Pulling back, she looks at my hair as she shakes her head. “You and your crazy colors. It looks like a pumpkin vomited.”

“Bold words, coming from the woman who once paid how much to glue faux fur on a canvas and called it a ‘critique on contemporary mores.’”

We share a laugh before the driver honks again.

“Rue,” her voice cracks softly. “You know that I…well—”

Giving her my best smile, I wave with both my hands. “I know. Go. Before your driver leaves and you’re stuck haunting me.”

She grins. “Don’t tempt me,” she calls back as the door clicks shut behind her.