Page 35

Briar

The old cemetery isn’t exactly what I expected when I suggested the three of us go on a date. Like a normal couple... or whatever the fuck we are.

Warm light and tourists with selfie sticks make it less the haunted island of forgotten souls and more a quaint village of the dead. Not that it matters. The three of us somehow keep our distance from the crowds, finding narrow paths and tangled trees until it truly feels like we’re alone.

I guess we are, in a way.

“He’s smiling,” I say, watching Flint up ahead, boots crunching against gravel.

Damiano laughs, squeezing my hand. “I know. It can’t be real.”

Flint turns back, walking backward for a moment, his grin widening. “You two coming, or what? ”

Damiano releases my hand and drapes his arm over my shoulder, pulling me closer as we catch up to Flint. The path curves around a series of small mausoleums, ornate and crumbling, moss growing over names and dates long worn away.

“Imagine spending all eternity here.” Flint stops to peer into one through a rusted iron gate.

We pass the mausoleums and head deeper into the graveyard. A canopy of twisted branches and Spanish moss shadows us from the sun. Back at the entrance, some enterprising soul had set up a booth selling snacks and cold drinks. It’s good business, considering the heat.

Now Flint reaches into his jacket to pull out a bottle of lemonade, taking a long drink before handing it to me.

“Some date,” I tease, taking a sip. It’s sticky sweet, and the tartness makes my eyes water. “Lemonade and dead people.”

The three of us sharing a bottle seems like the most intimate thing in the world.

“Best one ever,” Flint says. He’s serious, I think. “Damiano loves graveyards and dead things.”

It’s Damiano’s turn to take a drink. “You know me so well.” Our voices have gone quiet. “But maybe we should have done some fancy dinner and a movie for Briar’s sake.”

“I told you. No way. I actually prefer this,” I admit. “Shh... don’t tell anyone. ”

The crowds are behind us, past the broken walls and hanging vines, just a low hum of energy. We stand in a clearing, surrounded by ancient headstones and marble angels with their faces turned down.

This is what I wanted. This is what I want. I don’t know how long it will last, but I don’t care. We have this moment—together—and it’s everything.

“It’s peaceful,” I say, listening to the distant cries of gulls on the wind.

Flint leans against the black bark of an oak tree, surveying the headstones like he can’t get enough of them.

Damiano sits on a low stone bench, kicking at the loose gravel near his feet. Flint joins him, and they watch me, the two of them side by side in the filtered afternoon light. It makes me smile.

“I can’t believe this is what it took to get the two of you relaxing,” I tease, sitting on the ground now, at their feet.

Flint strokes the back of my neck with a callused thumb, and Damiano looks at him, then at me, something genuine and vulnerable, something right.

“Guess we’re not very good at it,” Damiano admits, and I wonder if he’s talking about relaxing or if it’s something else.

“We’re good at this.” Flint’s words are quiet, and he takes my hand first, then Damiano’s, the three of us linking together.

What will the tourists say if they see us here, like this?

At the mouth of hell, three sinners.

I want to know what happens next, how we end.

It doesn’t really matter.

Like I said, this is what I want.

“You’re cold again,” Damiano says, breaking the comfortable silence. He shrugs off his jacket and places it around my shoulders without waiting for my response.

“Thanks.” I pull it closer, breathing in his scent—earth and herbs and something uniquely him.

Flint produces a small flask from his pocket. “This will warm you up better.”

“Let me guess—the good stuff from behind the bar at The Vault?” I ask, accepting it.

“Only the best for you, princess.” There’s no bite to the nickname anymore, only a gentle teasing that makes me smile.

I take a small sip, the whiskey burning pleasantly down my throat. “Definitely better than the lemonade.”

Flint’s laughter is lighter than I’ve ever heard from him. “Don’t tell the tourist trap vendor. He’s charging five bucks for that sugar water.”

Damiano’s fingers find mine, tracing patterns on my palm. “This is the oldest cemetery on the island. Some of these graves date back to the 1700s.”

“History nerd.” Flint bumps Damiano’s shoulder with his own .

“Plant nerd.” Damiano points to a patch of wildflowers growing between two weathered tombstones. “See those? They only grow in soil with high calcium content. From the bones.”

“Romantic,” I say, unable to hide my smile.

“Hey, you picked us,” Flint reminds me. “Could’ve had normal boyfriends who take you to candlelit dinners.”

Boyfriends. The word hangs in the air between us, new and unexplored.

“Normal is overrated.” I lean back against Damiano’s legs. “Besides, I’ve had enough hospital food to last a lifetime. I don’t need fancy restaurants.”

Their expressions soften at the mention of my illness. It’s strange how something that’s defined me for so long feels less significant when I’m with them.

“Speaking of food,” Damiano says, reaching into his backpack. “I brought something more substantial than lemonade.”

He pulls out a small bundle wrapped in cloth. Inside are slices of crusty bread, wedges of cheese, and dark purple grapes that glisten in the dappled light.

“A picnic in a graveyard.” I laugh. “You two really know how to show a girl a good time.”

“Only the best for you.” Flint echoes his earlier words, but there’s sincerity beneath the playfulness now.

We eat with our fingers, passing food between us, the simple meal somehow tasting better here among the quiet stones than any five-star restaurant could offer.

“I used to come here as a kid,” Damiano says, breaking a piece of bread. “When things got too loud at home. It was the only place nobody looked for me.”

“I came here to steal,” Flint admits with a half-smile. “Metal from the gates, flowers people left that I could resell. Not my proudest moments.”

“And now?” I ask.

“Now we’re here with you,” Damiano says.

Flint nods, his expression unusually open. “Different circumstances.”

“Better ones,” I say, and they both look at me like I’ve said something profound.

For a moment, I forget what brought us together—the blood, the grave, the secrets we keep. For a moment, we’re simply three people finding comfort in each other’s company, sharing food and whiskey in the afternoon sun.

Flint lies back on the bench, his head resting in Damiano’s lap. It’s such a casual intimacy, something I never thought I’d see between them. Damiano automatically starts finger combing Flint’s hair, unsnarling the strands, the white streak stark against the black.

I watch them, these two men who have somehow become my entire world in the span of a chaotic week. There’s still tension between them—years of history don’t disappear overnight—but there’s something else, too. Something healing.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” Flint teases, catching me staring.

“I left my camera at home,” I say, wishing I hadn’t. This is a moment I want to preserve.

“Next time,” Damiano promises, as if reading my mind.

Next time. The promise of a future, however uncertain, makes warmth bloom in my chest.

I stand up, brushing crumbs from my jeans. “Come on,” I say, holding out my hands to both of them. “Show me more of this place.”

They rise in unison, each taking one of my hands. We go deeper into the cemetery, past stones weathered by time and salt air, our footsteps falling into a rhythm that feels like we’ve been doing this forever.

Damiano points out plants growing wild between the graves, explaining their medicinal properties. Flint tells stories about island legends, ghosts that supposedly haunt the older sections. I soak in their voices, their knowledge, their presence.

We stop before a massive oak, its branches creating a natural canopy over a small section of graves.

“This is my favorite spot,” Damiano says. “The tree’s probably older than any of the stones.”

“It’s seen some shit,” Flint agrees, running his hand along the rough bark .

“Like us,” I say softly.

They both look at me, understanding in their eyes.

“Yeah,” Flint says. “Like us.”

Damiano tugs me closer, his arm slipping around my waist. Flint moves to my other side, mirroring the gesture. Standing between them, I feel anchored in a way I never have before.

“So this is what normal feels like,” I muse.

Flint snorts. “Hate to break it to you, but three people making out in a graveyard isn’t most people’s definition of normal.”

“Making out?” I raise an eyebrow. “Getting ahead of yourself, Bishop.”

“Am I?” His eyes darken with challenge and promise.

Damiano’s laugh rumbles through his chest against my back. “He’s always been impatient.”

“Some things are worth rushing for,” Flint counters, his gaze never leaving mine.

I look from one to the other, these beautiful, broken men who’ve somehow become mine. “And some things are worth savoring.”

The sun is starting to sink lower, casting long shadows across the graves. We should head back soon, before darkness makes the uneven ground treacherous, but I’m reluctant to leave this moment, this perfect bubble where nothing exists except the three of us .

“We should come back,” I say. “Make it a tradition.”

“A cemetery date tradition?” Flint asks, but he’s smiling.

“Why not?” I shrug. “Most couples have ‘their restaurant’ or ‘their beach.’ We can have ‘our graveyard.’”

“Most couples aren’t hiding a body either,” Damiano says quietly.

The reminder should chill me, but somehow it doesn’t. It’s just another thread in the tapestry that binds us together—dark, yes, but no less real than the feelings growing between us.

“All the more reason to embrace the unconventional,” I say.

Flint seeks my hand, his fingers lacing through mine. “I’m in.”

“Me, too,” Damiano agrees, his other hand settling on Flint’s shoulder, completing our circle.

As we stand there, connected, I realize that maybe this is what I’ve been searching for all along—not safety or certainty, but this. Belonging. Understanding. Acceptance of all my broken pieces, matched with theirs to create something whole.

The light fades, but we remain, three shadows becoming one in the gathering dusk.

Maybe we’re damned.

Maybe we’re saved.

Maybe we’re just three people finding our way through the darkness together.

Whatever we are, in this moment, it feels like enough.

“Come on,” I say. “Back to reality.”

They both groan, and I feel the same way. Reality fucking sucks. But reality that involves the two of them…