Page 47 of Mourner for Hire

THIRTY-NINE

DOMINIC

The yellow dashes on the road pass in a blur as I make my way back to the bar.

There are only a few regulars and, to my surprise, a bachelorette party.

I nod at Chelsey from across the bar to make sure she still has everything under control.

When she offers me a salute, I head straight upstairs to my apartment.

I kick off my shoes and flop back on my bed with one painful thought coursing through my mind: Vada makes me lose control.

I don’t like it. I didn’t ask for it. And it is completely out of my norm. I am measured. I’m prepared. I take care of whatever needs taking care of. She unsteadies me.

I think about it over and over as I will myself to sleep.

But another thought plays back stronger than how much I hate this feeling. It’s the memory of kissing her. Tasting her. Feeling her warm skin under my hand.

Vada, Vada, Vada, pulsing in the undercurrent of my mind like my very own heartbeat.

The following morning, when I see her car parked at the hardware store, I know exactly why. My uncontrolled outburst turned hatred-fueled make-out session has left a hole the size of her ass in the wall.

She’s checking out when I get inside. Before she even gets her wallet out of her purse, I slide over and slip my credit card into the card reader.

She raises her eyebrows. “Can I help you?”

“Truce.”

She doesn’t respond right away, but I watch her swallow hard.

“No, you’re violent,” she deadpans, jaw tight.

“I lost my temper,” I agree, and she lets out a tsk. “I did the damage; let me pay for it.”

She glances at the wall repair materials on the self-checkout counter and sighs. “Fine.”

She picks up the bagged items and then starts walking out before the purchase is authorized.

I tear off the receipt and chase after her. “Where are you going?”

“Home.” The word surprises me as much as it seems to surprise her. “I mean to the cottage.”

I pace next to her, unable to get the use of the word out of my mind. I don’t know if I want to get the last word in or if I’m simply not done talking to her.

“Can I talk to you?”

“You can .”

Her emphasis on the last word reminds me of how my English teacher used to use that phrase when teaching a life lesson that differentiated between the words can and may.

“ May I?” I ask, taking the bag and piece of drywall from her while she pops her hatchback open.

She turns to face me, expressionless, crossing her arms over her blue sundress. “You may.”

“I’m… sorry,” I force out the words, and it’s embarrassing how difficult it is to say them .

“Okay.”

Her voice is small. There is no hint of forgiveness or understanding. Just a guarded acceptance.

“Okay?” I venture, placing the items in her hatchback.

“Was that hard to say? You look like you’re in pain,” she says, slamming the trunk so abruptly, she catches my finger.

“Ouch! Shit!” I suck on my thumb.

“Oops,” she says—a squeak of innocence with zero remorse filtering through her words.

I stare at her, kind of admiring her audacity.

She stares back, only breaking eye contact to put on her sunglasses. “I should go.”

“I’m going to help you fix the wall.”

The demand almost makes me choke. Vada may be graceful with a beautiful face, but she’s also terrifying. It’s almost as if behind her eyes, I can tell that she’s experienced a world of hurt.

Why else would she do what she does?

It’s intriguing and terrifying and gives her a semblance of toughness with a wall of resilience I can’t break through.

“If you must.” She gets in the car, and just before she closes the door, she adds, “I need your approval for wallpaper, anyway.”

Quit marching in the past, Dominic. Life isn’t there anymore. It’s here, my mom told me just before she died. Let life change, okay? Promise me. Even when I’m gone.

I stare at the crushed drywall, a ruler and pencil in hand. The anger I felt last night feels like a distant memory that doesn’t really belong to me. Humiliation bleeds in my gut as I remember how I completely lost my temper in the most petulant way.

I can feel Vada’s gaze on me as she brings the toolbox and places it next to the wall, but I don’t look back at her.

I stare at the hole in the wall. The left side is a clean break, and the right side is jagged and torn with pink insulation stuck to the paint chips.

It doesn’t matter, though—the more I analyze the hole, the more I realize it felt good to hit the wall, because now, I can look at it and say, this is what it feels like to lose someone: a hole where there shouldn’t be.

“I miss my mom.”

“I know you do,” she says gently.

My stubbornness wants me to pull away, but something else burning inside me wants to pull her closer. The war within makes me stand still and simply look at her.

Her chest is rising and falling in steady but deep breaths. Her mouth is soft, and her eyes are swollen with empathy.

“I’m sorry I didn’t realize you wanted to be a part of the renovation,” she offers.

A truce of sorts.

I shake my head, wanting to bite my tongue but refusing to be so obstinate. I don’t want to be a part of the renovation. Not really. I just want to be done with grief, and I know that will never happen.

“No, I’m sorry.” I stare down at her, my eyes drifting down to her lips and back to the hazy color of her eyes.

She reaches out, curling her hand around my bicep. “It’s okay. Someone told me you hurt quietly. I guess I should have listened to you hurting in the silence.”

I nod once in response, crack my neck, and get to work.

I don’t mention that I see Vada smirk out of the corner of my eye. She sees exactly how I’m managing my grief, and she’s going to let me.

But I guarantee she’s going to give me shit for it.