Page 84 of Mine

There wasn’t a force strong enough in the universe that could keep me from going to him now. My feet moved, carrying me across the frost-laden graveyard to where he stood alone.

Was he stalking me? That would be absurd, right?

I studied him as I got closer. No, he wasn't watching me. I didn't even think he was aware that I was here. My steps slowed as I approached, the ground crunching underfoot.

“Salt,” I whispered.

He jumped, clearly startled. His dark gaze met mine. Aftera moment of surprise, I saw a flash of anger cross his face.

“What are you doing here?” he bit out.

“I was visiting my mother's grave and saw you,” I said quickly, gesturing toward her headstone. “I’m not stalking you or anything. I was just surprised to see you here.”

Without fail, he always made my heart feel like a bird attempting to escape a cage. My entire body was constantly under his spell. The roses around his neck danced in the sunlight, enchanting me with their inky darkness.

He stared at me with amber eyes, luminescent and unnerving, then turned his attention back to the headstone.

Did I stay? Did I go?

I decided to stay. Slowly stepping up beside him, I looked down at it, reading the engraved letters.

It was newer, I realized. At least not nearly as old as my mother's. A bottle of vodka sat beneath the nameJohn Salt.

Solemn silence settled over us. I swallowed hard, wondering who this person was to him. Salt was his last name—so was this his parent? A grandparent? Someone else? I didn't ask. Instead, I just stood with him, my thoughts racing a million miles a minute.

Today, I didn’t have the strength to be perfect.

Without saying a word, his fingertips brushed mine. Cold and hunting for warmth. Our hands slid together.

I gripped him.

He gripped me back. Squeezing.

“Tell me about your mother.”

I blew out a breath, my entire body deflating. “It's not a good story. It’s pretty typical.”

He tsked softly. “Nothing about you or your life is typical. But I do want to know why she named you Pepper.”

An abrupt laugh bubbled up, echoing through the cemetery loud enough that I glanced around. No one else was here, only us and the dead.

It was such a stupid story, but I told him anyway. “Naming me after a condiment was a choice, but certainly not the worst she ever made. The story I was told was that she saw it on a cooking magazine, which was the first thing she’d ever been allowed to read outside of the Bible.”

Another gentle squeeze. “She wasn’tallowedto read anything else?”

“No. She wasn’t supposed to, anyway. Her purpose wasn’t to be intelligent, it was to serve her husband and the church.”

“I see.”

“She died when I was twenty-one,” I whispered. “And I don’t miss her most of the time.”

“But you still bring her flowers.”

I nodded and glanced back over my shoulder at the white lilies I’d left. “I do every year. Cut flowers make me sad, because they just die anyway. But, lilies were her favorites. On the few occasions she got flowers, that’s what she got. So yes, I bring them to her grave.”

I looked back at him. Salt swallowed hard, looking down at the dirt. “I understand.”

I believed him. I didn’t press for him to tell me anything. I didn’t really need him to.

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