Page 56 of Mourner for Hire

FORTY-FIVE

DOMINIC

The dew of fall is beaded on the flannel blanket wrapped around our shoulders. Based on the height of the sun, it can’t be later than six a.m., but the warm, bright sun makes it impossible to sleep.

Last night started off feeling like a stupid dare teenagers pull during high school, but by the end of the night, I couldn’t imagine being anywhere but this cemetery, holding on to the woman I am surely falling for, even if I don’t want to.

I could blame my resistance on her weird job and quirky obsession with death, but those are just surface observations.

Now that I stopped being such a damn hot head and pulled back some layers, I realize she may be the kindest, most empathetic person I’ve ever encountered.

No matter how much I hold back, it’s like my soul keeps floating toward hers.

I used to think love was a pull—a magnetic force with undeniable chemistry. But maybe that’s not right; maybe this is what falling in love feels like. A drift. A ship in the night with no anchor, just doing its best to drift back home.

I tip my head down to kiss the top of Vada’s head, causing her to stir. But instead of her jerking awake, her body settles closer to mine, and she makes this noise that heats my skin and makes me pull her closer.

Her phone chimes. The ding wakes her, and she reaches for her phone just as I read what the preview of the email says.

A wire transfer has been initiated…

She arches her back and stretches. “We should get going.”

A helpless groan falls out of my mouth. I can’t explain exactly why.

She turns to face me. “What?”

I tip my head back against my sleeping bag. “I don’t know.”

She leans over me, her hair cascading over her chin and her hand on my chest. “Don’t worry, Dominic. We survived the ghosts.”

I should laugh, but I don’t. Instead, my eyes inadvertently land on her phone and then switch back to her gaze.

Recollection coats her expression.

“It’s a part of it,” she explains, softly.

“It just feels weird.”

“Why? Do you want me to pay you for staying, too, or?—”

“No, I just… Last night felt meaningful and seeing—remembering—there’s money driving the good deed makes it feel inauthentic.” I shrug. “I guess.”

A rush of embarrassment clouds my brain as she straightens her spine and tilts her chin in a way that lets me know she’s about to hand it to me in the most eloquent way, as she often does.

“This is my job. I have turned a passion into an income, and you cannot fault me for that. It doesn’t make it less good or less worthy. It doesn’t make it less meaningful, and it certainly doesn’t mean that I care less about the people I do it for, just because they pay me.”

She stares at me for three beats. When I don’t respond, she stands and starts packing up everything in the basket she brought last night .

“Vada.”

She doesn’t respond. She just keeps placing each item in the basket. I stand so I can say this face-to-face.

“Vada,” I repeat, but she doesn’t look at me. “Would you just look at me?”

I grab her arm, and she wrenches it away, throwing the cups with crusted apple cider into the basket. Then, she drops to her knees and starts rolling the sleeping bag up.

“I’m trying to understand?—”

“No, Dominic. You’re not trying to understand.

You’re trying to place me in a fucking box.

A role. A societally acceptable career so you can reconcile how you feel about me, because how dare you fall in love with someone that’s a little fucking weird.

” She shouts the last bit, and as soon as she says it, her eyes flash with regret and she turns away, marching back to the car with her arms full.

“Vada, wait?—”

“Hurry up, Dominic . The groundskeepers are here.” She doesn’t stop walking, each step making the thermos rattle against the cups in the basket.

I gather the remaining items and jog to catch up to her. She throws the items in the back with a clatter.

“Get in,” she says, staring at me for only a second.

But just as she turns to get in the car, I catch her cheek in my hand, my fingertips dipping into her hair, and I bring her mouth to mine. I kiss her long and hard and feel her body melting into mine. She hums into the kiss, and I’m convinced she will continue to be my undoing.

I pull back. “You’re right.”

“About what?” She breathes out the question.

“Everything,” I breathe. “I am falling in love with someone that is a little fucking weird—” she rolls her eyes, and I rub her cheek with my thumb, gently convincing her to look at me.

“But still the best woman I’ve ever known.

So maybe I want that. The weird. The questionable.

The cryptic. I want the parts of you that don’t make sense—the worst and the best. I want your gray skies, your lost memories, your haunted nights, and your bad days.

Give me your worst—I’ll take it. And I’ll still think you are the very best this world has to offer. ”