Page 37 of Mourner for Hire

“Oh! Did you like it here?”

“I don’t remember it!”

The wind continues to whip through my hair and create a vortex-like vacuum around my ears. I can hardly hear him. We’re shouting just inches from each other. I’m shifting all over the saddle, gripping his flannel tightly.

“Can you slow down?” I ask, but when I say it, I can hear a much younger version of my voice.

“Slow down, Mommy!” I’m saying, racing toward the water—my mother’s blond hair whipping in the wind.

She whirls around. “Never!” she teases, but she does slow down, and I jump into her arms.

My toes break the surface of a wave as she spins me around in circles.

I’ve never remembered her face. The lines around her eyes when she smiles.

The beauty mark next to her mouth. The yellow in her eyes.

The softness of her hands as she holds me close.

The very few pictures I have of hers are not very high-quality.

Looking at them always felt like being told a memory, but this—whatever it is that’s happening in my brain—is like experiencing it, knowing it, and remembering it all at once.

“Gotcha!” I declare in her arms.

She gives me a butterfly kiss and squeezes my arm.

Wait, no. That’s Connor squeezing my arm.

“You okay? Sorry, I didn’t mean to spook you,” he says, twisting in the saddle as he holds my arm and covers me with a look of concern.

I clear my throat, realizing how deeply I was lost in a daydream—a memory, I guess .

“Sorry, I just got a little dizzy—I haven’t been sleeping well,” I lie, exhaling.

“Renovating can really take it out of you,” he reasons, and I nod.

We spend the remainder of the hour at a slow walk while he does most of the chatting. He points out several deer eating the tall grass along the dunes, a small cove that is best for tide-pool hunting, and shows me the line of coast that took out Sully’s home during the storm of ’03.

Fifteen minutes after returning Elsa to her owner, we make the short trek through the sand to Something Sweet and order apple cider donuts and two hot chocolates.

My second donut of the day. There aren’t many coffee shops in Shellport, but it’s clear this one, and Marylou in all her pashminas, is a port favorite.

Cupping the hot chocolate between my hands reminds me of just how much my body temperature dropped while out on the beach.

Connor wraps an arm around me, rubbing my arm. “Fall has arrived, hasn’t it?”

“It has,” I agree.

There isn’t anything wrong with Connor or the way he converses, but it would seem all my earlier anticipation about this date has fallen flat on its face. It’s comparable to a work lunch with a co-worker, and I’m desperate to clock out.

“You feeling better?”

I know he’s referencing my space-out on the horse ride.

“I am,” I admit. “But I think I need to head back to the cottage. It was an early morning for me.”

“Let me walk you.”

“No need.” I offer a smile to lessen the blow and toss a finger over my shoulder toward the boardwalk that leads to the cottage. “Well, I’m this way. Thank you for the ride.”

“My pleasure, Vada,” he says, pausing for effect.

I like Connor. He’s very handsome. And kind.

Then, it happens fast and slow at the same time. Connor leans down and sinks his mouth against mine. His lips are plump and soft, and his stubble just barely scratches my nose. It is neither moving nor terrible, landing somewhere along the lines of nice .

I pull back, realizing I am not the target audience for Connor.

Making it clear I don’t want the kiss to be anything else, I simply say goodnight, adding, “And thank you for being so nice to me. You have no idea how much that means to me.”

He gives me a sheepish nod. “If Ms. Annabelle wants you here, then that means you’re good people.”

His smile cuts through his tanned face, and for a flash, I can see him as a young boy. It makes me wonder if I knew him once and that somehow unlocked the memory for me.

“Well, goodnight,” I say again and turn to head back to the cottage.

And as I do, I see Dominic, staring at me with a brown paper bag in his arms.

He strides toward me. I freeze—his gaze holding me in place. I should still be mad about the condoms and the vibrator, but for some inexplicable reason, seeing him is a relief.

“Hi.” My voice is barely above a whisper.

“I don’t like it.” He stares down at me.

I know what he is referring to.

“So do something about it,” I dare. He keeps his gaze fixed on me—his honey-colored eyes ablaze. When he doesn’t speak, I play dumb. “Me and Connor sitting on a horsie. K-I-S-S-I-N-G.”

“Stop.” His jaw pulses, and a low laugh tumbles out of me. Then softer, “Vada.”

The command of my name in an almost whimper shuts me up, and I hate myself for it.

“You didn’t mention you were going out with him.”

“Did I need to?”

His eyes search my face. “No, but if I knew, I would?—”

“You’d what? Be nice to me? Because you’ve had every opportunity to be kind, and you continually demonize me. ”

I watch him swallow, a nervous flush creeping up his neck. Similar to the one that climbed up his throat before he kissed me.

“I just don’t like it.”

“Fine,” I say, turning to walk away as if his words don’t unsteady me.

But in truth, the ache on the back end of the words he says is a prickling reminder of how he still wants me. And if I’m honest, I still want him.