Page 81 of (My Accidental) Killer Summer
God help us both.
I shove my shovel into the ground and immediately hit a root. “Shit.” The jolt travels up my arm like it’s personal, and I wince. “This is going to take forever.”
Amy gives me a sympathetic look and starts digging next to me. “We’ll trade off. Fifteen-minute shifts. Like graveyard CrossFit.”
“That’s not funny.”
“It’s a little funny,” she says.
The dirt is uncooperative—too dry in some places, too clay-packed in others. Every time I lift a shovelful I imagine Doug’s smug face judging me from beyond the grave. Which is ironic, because if things go according to plan, he’s not getting a headstone.
Sweat drips down my back, and I’m already regretting wearing my“World’s Okayest Mom”t-shirt and leggings as opposed to a tank and shorts. I switch with Amy after ten minutes, not even pretending to have the stamina for fifteen. She takes over, grunting dramatically as she stabs at the earth.
“You know,” she pants, “I thought my night was going to end with a bath bomb and an episode ofNaked and Afraid. Not this.”
I smirk, using my sleeve to wipe my forehead. “We’re basically starring in our own version.”
“True,” she says. “Except with more bodies and less blur censorship.”
Another ten minutes pass in silence, broken only by the sound of metal scraping dirt and the occasional swear word from Amy when her foot slips. I take the shovel back and keep going. We trade off like that—dig, complain, switch—until we’ve carved out a shallow grave about five feet long and two feet deep. It’s not perfect, but neither is our life right now.
“My mother always said, “Never have a pet you can’t flush down the toilet, Elle, because digging graves is a pain in the ass” and she was right about one part, I suppose,” I say.
Amy laughs, half-heartedly. “I adore your mother, but she’s a bitch.”
“Yeah,” I chuckle just as half-heartedly. “That’s probably deep enough, right?” I ask, leaning on the shovel like it might hold me up emotionally too.
Amy peers down into the hole, hands on her hips. “I mean, it’s not six feet, but Doug’s not exactly royalty.”
I shoot her a look. “Talk about esoteric.”
“Kidding,” she mutters.
We walk back across the yard to where Doug is laid out on a tarp like some kind of clearance sale meat bundle. One shoe’s missing, his mouth slightly ajar. He doesn’t look peaceful so much as inconvenienced.
“This is so fucked up,” I say.
Amy nods. “On a scale of one to ten, it’s like… a seventeen.”
“How are we even supposed to lift him?”
“We do it fast. Like yanking off a wax strip. One, two, three—heave.”
We each grab a corner of the tarp and start dragging. Doug is still heavier than either of us expected—like dead-weightactually means something. Every step feels like we’re pulling a couch full of regret.
“Oh God, what did this guy eat?” I gasp, adjusting my grip. “Rocks?”
“He looks like someone who never said no to double meat,” Amy says.
Halfway to the grave, my foot catches on a tree root, and I nearly face plant right into Doug, catching myself with a grunt.
“Jesus!” I hiss. I shudder to think what that landing would have looked like.
We finally reach the grave and position the tarp beside it. “Okay,” I say, catching my breath. “How do we get him in?”
“Roll him.”
“Roll him?”
