Page 43 of Mourner for Hire

THIRTY-FIVE

DOMINIC

I’m a goner.

Vada is… Fuck .

I have to get it together. My heartbeat needs to slow, and the blood rushing to my groin needs to head back to my head by the time I make my way to the front door to open it.

But I can’t stop replaying her every curve in my mind. The freckles on her stomach. The tan lines on her hip bones. Her tanned skin. Her perfect?—

Yeah, I can’t go there. Not when I’m trying to calm down and stop straining against my zipper.

Just before I reach the door, I freeze.

The peony wallpaper in the kitchen nook is gone. Replaced by a warm white paint. A bohemian beaded chandelier has taken the brass one’s place, which now sits discarded in a box in the corner.

I step inside and really look.

The pictures are gone. Just patched holes and stacked frames remain. The rose-colored pillows: missing. Carpet: torn up. Hardwood: exposed and barely walkable. Cabinets off their hinges. Trim removed. The wallpaper I specifically asked her to keep is nowhere to be seen.

It doesn’t feel like renovation .

It feels like erasure.

This place is a disaster.

“What the fuck?” I whisper to myself. All elements of charm and memories have been erased and turned into a white room fit for an asylum.

The fresh caulk around the windows is the only small mercy. As I run my fingers along the trim, movement outside catches my eye. A shadow near the beach.

A breeze of a human—a shadow of my mother. I squint, trying to unblur the edges.

It’s not…

It can’t be. I blink hard and shake my head. She remains there, hands behind her back, swaying back and forth in the weird way moms do.

“Are you coming?”

Vada’s shouts through the old front door, breaking the spell.

When I look back… gone.

I storm over to the front door and thrust it open.

“What took you so long?”

“Where the fuck is the wallpaper?” I ask, ignoring her pleas.

The color drains from her face. “Can I get some emotional regulation? This shit is giving me whiplash.”

I take a deep breath, though it’s more or less a huff through my nostrils. “I asked you to keep the wallpaper.” I don’t know why I mention the wallpaper first. I don’t really care about the wallpaper, but the absence of it hits me in the gut.

“Oh. Well, it was peeling really badly, and I saw some mildew underneath. It was nothing serious, but I needed to remove it anyway. I just haven’t decided what to replace it with. I wanted to restore it, but I just couldn’t. I’m trying to restore as much as I can, though?—”

“You don’t own the place.” My jaw stiffens.

“Right,” she starts cautiously. “I just?—”

“You could’ve fucking called me.” My voice rises, just a hair below yelling .

She doesn’t back down. She doesn’t even blink. “I offered to have you come by more than once. You haven’t exactly been forthcoming with help.”

My eyes narrow on the tumbler next to the sink. Shellport: Shell Always Love You. “And that’s my cup.”

There’s nothing like the universe sprinkling in reminders that she and I have a history.

She grabs it and hastily dumps the remnants in the sink, makes her way back over to me, and shoves it against my chest. “Here. Now, do you care to explain why you stopped by?”

“To check on things, and… help!” That was my intention, in all honesty. But now, finding the cottage in such blank disarray feels all wrong. I grip the tumbler I could not care less about tighter.

“Well, it would be so much more helpful if you left.” She shakes her head. “Jesus, Dominic, it’s fresh paint. Say thank you.”

“Do you just whitewash every project you do? I bet you’re a real treat to have as a contractor.”

“I’m renovating!”

“I thought you said you were restoring!”

“There was mold, Dominic!” She plants her hands on her hips and holds her ground.

God, I hate it. It also makes me want to throw her over my shoulder and carry her out of this house.

I refrain, throwing my hands toward the empty, patched up and repainted wall. “And where the hell are the pictures that were on the wall?”

“I took them down to organize them for you!” She’s still yelling, not even trying to calm down, but neither am I.

“Why? I liked them there!” I yell out the question, and she doesn’t hesitate to yell right back at me.

“Because your mom asked me to!”

“But it doesn’t make sense!” I whip my hand out in a pointed gesture and hit the wall next to the kitchen. The brittle 1960s plaster crumbles, leaving a grapefruit-sized hole .

“Great,” Vada says, slapping her hands against her thighs. “Real mature.”

I stare at the hole I just made in the wall. “That was an accident.”

Embarrassment prickles at my spine, but my heart is still racing, and quite frankly, I’m still infuriated about the entire situation.

More than that…

I’m not just angry.

I’m confused.

I’m sad.

I… I… I…

“I have to get out of here,” I say, rushing toward the door.

She follows. “Great. Do some property damage and bounce.”

I whip around. “You know what? It’s a shame you turned out to be this person.”

“What person?” Her chin snaps back, and she winces. “You don’t even remember me.”

“No, Vada. I do. But even the sweetest kids can fall from grace.”

She’s too stunned to speak, eyes narrowing as she tries to absorb what I just told her.

I don’t wait for a response. I turn around, and I don’t look back. I stalk toward my truck, and it isn’t until I’m inside, peeling out of the driveway, glancing in the rearview mirror, that I realize I’m still shirtless.

And Vada is wearing my shirt, glaring at me as I speed away.