Page 56 of Grim
“Do you want to spend the next several days together?” I ask with a small level of surprise in my voice.
“Well …” she hedges.
“Not that I was complaining,” I clarify.
“I just mean, how can I do earthbound activities with someone who is invisible to all but the undead?”
“No, I got it.”
“I’ll look like a crazy person, talking to myself.”
“That does seem to be a potential side effect,” I admit.
A light bulb goes off behind Rue’s eyes. “I have an idea.”
“What?” I ask, intrigued.
“I’ll put my earbuds in. People walk around all day long, looking like they’re talking to themselves. No one will blink twice.”
“Okay, there’s one crisis averted. Now to figure out how to actually spend that time …” I offer, and there is that light-bulb moment again. She’s like the Christmas tree in Rockefeller Center.
“Come on,” she says, her voice soft. “Let’s go sit under the tree.”
I look from her outstretched hand to the large tree across the street. “There’s no bench, and I’m not holding your hand.” I can’t, not when the memory of her lips and tongue against mine is on replay in my brain.
“You sit on the ground—”
“HA!” I snort, shaking my head. “I already had to return home once because you ruined a good suit. I refuse to allow you to mess up another.”
She rolls her too-pretty eyes at me.
“So, stop wearing a suit! Put on some jeans, unbutton that top button.”
I swat her hand away as it goes to my collar. I’m not ready to answer those questions. My hope is she’ll be gone before the topic can be broached.
Rue acquiesces as she holds out her delicate pinkie. “Fine, one finger?”
I eye her warily while standing up. “Some might say you enjoy touching me, Mayday.”
She shrugs, trying to act nonchalant, but her cheeks flush a pretty pink that is undeniable. Since I’m in such a giving mood, I relent.
I wrap my long finger around hers while pulling her across the street. There it is—the feeling I hate and love. The heat I feel from our connection—it’s more addictive than anything has a right to be. I’m beginning to crave her touch. But I can’t. I won’t allow myself to become attached to her.
Here I am, a centuries-old reaper with a dark past, lounging under the shade of an elm tree, watching Rue shovel bits of medieval-themed ice cream past her decadent lips.
“What’s your favorite color?” she asks out of nowhere.
It’s such a human question. The unexpectedness of it catches me off guard.
I could ask her why she cares. I could ignore the question altogether.
Instead, I repeat back, “Favorite color?” like the concept itself is foreign. Which it is actually. What a pointless thing to ask a reaper.
I glance down at my ever-present black suit, then think of my home in the OtherWorld—a place of countless greys and shadowed light.
Is brown an acceptable favorite color? Would she laugh at me if I said it?
“Purple,” she says suddenly, nodding like she’s just come to a great realization.
