Page 82 of (My Accidental) Killer Summer
“Yeah, like a giant sushi burrito.”
“That’s disgusting.”
“It’s effective.”
With synchronized, awkward teamwork, we tip the tarp and watch Doug slide into the grave with a dull thud. My stomach flips at the sound. Amy crouches down to adjust the tarp, as if getting it just right matters.
“It’s crooked,” she mutters.
“He’s dead.”
“Yeah, but things can still be tidy.”
I start shoveling dirt over him before I can think too hard about it. Amy joins in after a minute, and we fall into another rhythm—this one slower, more final. Each scoop feels heavier than the last. Not just physically. Morally. Existentially.
Halfway through, Amy says, “You know what this reminds me of?”
“If you sayPet Sematary, I swear to God?—”
“No. I was going to say that team-building exercise we did at that yoga-wine retreat. Remember? Where we had to move a log over an obstacle course?”
“This is not the same.”
“It’s a little the same. Except the log didn’t sexually harass anyone.”
I laugh—really laugh—and it feels wrong, but also necessary. Like if we don’t laugh, we’ll break.
By the time we pat the last bit of dirt into place, the moon’s shifted high overhead and my arms feel like jelly. The patch of earth looks mostly undisturbed. Mostly.
“Okay,” I say, stepping back. “If we get caught, we’re going with the ‘landscaping mishap’ excuse.”
Amy brushes dirt off her leggings. “And you accidentally landscaped an almost man-sized trench in the middle of the night?”
“Why not? People aerate their lawns. I’m just very committed.”
We collect the tools and head back to the house, limbs aching and minds buzzing. The kitchen light is on when we walk in, and for a second, I think I might cry just from the sheer normalcy of it.
Amy drops the murder shovel near the back door. “We need a drink.”
I nod, heading straight for the tequila. “To poor decisions,” I say, pouring us each a shot.
“To better follow-through,” she adds, clinking her glass to mine.
We down them in one go.
“Now what?” I ask.
Amy sighs and looks at the clock. “We wait. We pray. And tomorrow, we pretend this was all a fever dream.”
I nod, but deep down I know it’s not over.
Because lately it never is.
And just to prove that point, there’s a knock at the front door.
forty-one
. . .
