Page 46 of Mourner for Hire

THIRTY-EIGHT

VADA

Instead of giving in to temptation, I throw on a hoodie and leggings and head to the supermarket to buy ice cream.

When I return to the cottage, I toss the bag on the couch, and its contents spill onto the floral kitchen tablecloth.

I throw off my hoodie and pull out the Phish Food ice cream and dig in.

The chocolate and the caramel melt on my tongue, sweet and sinful.

I moan.

Sugar really is the worst drug.

I take another large spoonful and slide it into my mouth, closing my eyes and enjoying the indulgence until I hear the loud creak of the front door opening.

My eyes shoot open, and I see Dominic walking over the threshold and slamming the door behind him.

“I don’t remember saying you could come in.” I don’t even yell; my tone is just exhausted and bored with his dramatics. I drop the spoon with a loud clang on the counter.

“I’m not done talking to you,” he says.

“I’m done talking to you ,” I cut back. “I don’t want to fight. I don’t want to discuss anything about the cottage. I don’t ever want to see you again. Okay? Get out. Leave me alone. I will be gone soon anyway. ”

His forehead is a maze of lines, each one angrier than the next. Until the hinge of his jaw pulses and his gaze lands on the exposed floorboards—the ones I’ve spent weeks sanding—and I realize every line on his face is grief, not anger. Though in this stage it can be so painfully both.

The hinge of his jaw pulses. “Tell me why.”

“Why what?”

“Why’d you take this job?”

“She hired me.”

“And what about me?”

“I didn’t know you were her son. I swear.”

He searches the room for the answer he wants. The one that makes me the villain. The problem. The thing he can point to and say, “This is what hurts.”

But he can’t do that. Unfortunately, grief has no shortcuts or martyrs.

I run my hands down my face. “I’m sorry, Dominic, but I made a promise to your?—”

“Fuck that. She’s dead.”

I don’t miss the crack of his voice on the last word.

“She won’t even know you broke it.”

She would, though. She absolutely would.

“I can take care of the rest of the shit on your list and you can pretend you found whatever it is you’re supposed to find. We can just walk away from each other.”

I shake my head slowly. I can’t tell him that his mother haunts me, or he will really think I’m crazy.

“Dominic, just go.”

“Why won’t you be honest?” he shouts, stepping close to me.

“I am!” I shout back, taking a step myself.

Both our chests heave, just six inches from each other.

“I can’t have you here,” he says, voice low. “I need you to get out of this town, Vada. I don’t know how to deal with my shit with you here. ”

“Oh, running me out with your pitchforks and holy water, are you?”

“I guess, if that’s what it takes.”

I let out a breath of a laugh. “You arrogant son of a?—”

“Don’t finish that sentence, Vada,” he taunts, and I swallow.

I hesitate, but only for a moment, running my tongue over my teeth before the next words fall out of my mouth. “You know what, Dominic? I think you’re just really sad.”

“Oh, don’t fucking patronize me?—”

“And on top of that, I think you’re scared of me. You’re scared because your mom, who knew me for a moment, trusted me more than she trusted you.”

The blow is low… Almost too low.

He grits his teeth and then collects himself, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

“Oh, poor Vada. You think you can hurt me by talking about my mom? Here’s something you don’t know.

My mom was a genius, but she was a master manipulator, and she is pulling all your strings from beyond the grave.

You’re just lonely, pathetic, and abandoned enough to not know the difference. ”

I step closer. “Oh, wow, say it with your whole chest, Dominic.”

He matches my step. “I just did.”

I roll my eyes. “Fuck off.”

He laughs. “You fuck off, Vada. When you leave, you will be screaming your goodbye, knowing nothing in your life loves you like you want this town to.”

Screw playing nice.

“Fuck you!” I shout, stepping close to his face.

I don’t care if I have to look up to stare him down.

I don’t care about being polite or fighting with intellectual tact.

The rage this man causes finally makes me explode.

“I’m so sick of your shit. The way you demonize me and talk down to me and act like I’m the scum of the earth when not that long ago, you kissed me! ”

He tosses back his head and lets out a low chuckle. “Still on your mind?”

I glare at him, moving even closer. “As a matter of fact, yes.”

We’re practically chest to chest, breath to breath. His gaze drops to the shirt I’m wearing.

“You’re still wearing my shirt.”

I don’t even look down. I know what I’m wearing. “And it looks like you found another one.”

“And you probably wish I didn’t.”

“Oh, fuck you.” I toss my head back slightly, and he laughs, low, deep, and obnoxious.

“You like to say that.”

My jaw tightens. This burning need to slap him, scream at him, or burn him alive fumes inside me. I don’t say anything. I don’t break eye contact. I hold his gaze, challenging him. What the dare is, I don’t know, but something in his eyes tells me I’m going to lose.

I inhale before speaking. “I hate you,” I whisper.

He moves even closer until we’re heartbeat to heartbeat. We aren’t quite touching, but I can feel the heat of his skin radiating against mine.

“You don’t,” he says.

I open my mouth to protest or admit that he’s right, but I don’t have the chance to say anything.

He cups my neck with his hand, pressing me against the wall, and I grip the back of his shirt, pulling him closer to me, letting my body ride up against his.

I’m elevated off the floor, legs wrapped around his waist. He has one hand wrapped around my neck and jaw and the other pressed against my hip bone, pinning me against the wall right next to the hole in the wall.

Before I can process our hate turning to physical need, his mouth is on mine, and our tongues tangle together in a synchronized yet angry rhythm. His tantalizing fingers grip the hem of my shirt— his shirt— and he glides his fingertips under the soft cotton of my shorts.

The pressure from his body against mine, mixed with the faulty strength of the broken drywall behind me, causes the plaster to crack, and my entire body falls two inches into the wall.

I let out a laugh, and the rumble of his laugh grazes the sensitive flesh of my neck.

It does nothing to deter us from practically devouring each other. I can feel him harden against me with every kiss and touch as I pull at his shirt. His lips move to my neck, trailing my skin with wet, hot kisses, making me pant into the night air.

You hate him, my mind protests while my body says, No, you absolutely don’t.

I grip his hair and yank his head back. We stare at each other for a moment, a dare passing between our gaze. Me daring him to do it. Him daring me to stop it.

It would seem he loses the bet, claiming my mouth again. Hard, wet kisses. Large, strong hands. One single pulse between us. The need for him is primal, and I pull at his shirt, slipping it off his head and tossing it on the kitchen counter.

His mouth barely leaves mine, and his hands rake over my body like he is committing every curve to memory.

I run my hands over his shoulders, gripping his back muscles and pulling him closer.

“Dominic.” I breathe his name with a heavy pant and unbutton the top of his jeans.

He jerks back, setting me down with a movement so swift, it makes me feel like I was just dropped in a cold plunge. His gaze is glued to the ceiling. His jaw is pulsing. I can physically feel the restraint in his fingertips.

“I can’t—” He shakes his head. “I can’t do this.”

“Relax, dude. I’m not going to ask you to marry me,” I say, breathing heavily and swiping my thumb over my wet lower lip.

He steps over to me with heavy footsteps. “That wasn’t how our next kiss was supposed to go.”

I inhale sharply, wishing I had words to respond, but I don’t. Our next kiss… like he’s been planning that and not how to drive me out of town.

“I have to go,” he says, his voice low.

He doesn’t even look at me before turning and leaving out the front door.