Page 30 of The Art of Dying

I went into the kitchen and picked up the phone.

“Breakroom,” Patricia answered.

“Is Mack around?” I asked.

Patricia sighed. “Sure…Mack!It’s Kitsch… again.”

“Hi!” Mack answered, cheerful despite Patricia’s jab. “Can’t talk long, I have a surgery in five.”

“Hi, beautiful. Just called to say I’m taking you out tonight. Wear something pretty. We’re going to The Barrel.”

“The steakhouse?” she squealed.

“Ya damn right.”

“Kitsch! I’ve been wanting to go there since I moved here!”

“Only the best for my girl. Reservations are for five-thrity.”

“Eeek!I’ll be ready. Can’t wait to see you!”

The line clicked, and although I was a bearded, burly, giant of a man, I felt my eyes tear up a little. I was going to miss the shit out of her.

chapter ten.

Mack

“I wish I was a smarter man so I could think of a word to describe how amazing you look right now,” Kitsch said, staring at me from across the table.

The Barrel was Quincy’s oldest steakhouse, and although the idea was that it was exclusive, every townie and transplant alike knew that anyone could eat there. The walls were still covered in brown paneling, dusty framed paintings on the wall that had surely been there since they’d opened, fake flowers and candles, cheap table cloths and matching napkins, and an honest to God salad bar. That was Quincy’s local diamond in the rough, but Kitsch wore a tie and his hair lightly gelled, his eyes full of adoration. I felt like a princess.

I’d chosen a tiny black dress and black heels, just something simple and elegant, inspired by a magazine at work. I’d even curled my hair, freezing it into place with enough hair spray to fog the bathroom. The man across from me watched my every expression and movement like it was the first time he’d seen a sky full of stars. I knew what he was doing, and I loved him for it. We had a few pictures together that he kept in his wallet, but he wanted to memorize every detail of my face, my eyes, my laugh, and every word I said during our last night together before he left for California. Because the hard truth was, neither of us knew when we’d be able to see each other again.

I leaned my cheek on the heel of my palm and smiled. “You were smart enough to snag me.”

“Thank God.”

“Everything you say is perfect,” I said. I meant it. No one had ever treated me like Kitsch had. With him, I never opened a door, never had to wait for a call back or to wonder what he was doing or who he was with, because I was always his first choice; the one he most wanted to spend time with. When his friends invited him, that meant I was invited, too.

“Damn, I’m stuffed,” he said, sitting back.

“I’m so glad you said it. Me, too,” I said, copying his posture. “I did eat an entire fourteen-ounce steak… and the salad bar… and three rolls… and dessert.” My eyes grew wide, wondering if I’d looked like a starving animal.

“It was impressive,” he said, trying to keep a straight face.

We both covered our mouths, trying not to laugh too loud.

“Terrell,” a woman said from behind him. She was middle-aged, her bob-length salt and pepper hair parted in the middle and curled under with not a single stray strand.

When Kitsch turned, his face lit up. “Mrs. Becker,” he said, standing. She looked small in his arms when he greeted her with a hug. I could see the affection in his expression, but I also thought I saw pain.

I stood, and Kitsch gestured to me. “I’m glad we ran into you. There’s someone I’ve been meaning to introduce to you. Mrs. Becker, this is my girlfriend, Karen Mackenzie.”

She reached for my hand. “You can call me Marilyn. Terrell’s just trying to be fancy.”

I smiled, trying to ignore the fact that Kitsch had dared use my first name. “Everyone just calls me Mack.” I looked up at Kitsch. “I prefer it, actually.”

Kitsch didn’t flinch. “Marilyn insists on calling me Terrell. I thought it was only fair.”

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