Page 72 of Dead Love
“Is that your costume?” I asked, motioning to the dirt on his skin. He looked too old for Halloween, but I didn’t know what else to say.
“I was working.” His voice was rough and cold, like a winter night.
“What do you do?”
“I dig graves.”
I wrapped my arms around myself. Graves? That explained the dirt on his skin. A flash of heat covered me from head to toe, then disappeared.
“I didn’t know they still dug graves by hand,” I said.
“Most don’t.”
I bit my lip, trying to keep myself together. I glanced back at Poppies & Wheat; theClosed!sign was in the window now, but the lights were still on. My stomach clenched. When I turned back, the man’s eyes were still roaming me, unrelenting. My cheeks flamed, and my head pulsed with pain. I cringed. It was all of this stupid hair. I pulled out the ties and pins, letting my hair shake down my back.
“Maybe I should just cut it all off,” I muttered.
“That will show them,” he said, a hint of laughter in his voice, like he was mocking me. What was his problem?
But I realized something then: the sadness was there, but it seemed lighter than before. And I could actually move without being afraid of getting sick.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Kora.” I tucked a lock of hair behind my ear. He seemed trustworthy, though I had no idea why—only pure instinct. “Kora Nova. My mother owns the flower shop. You might know my father—he’s the sheriff?” My words were so fast, I sounded desperate. I scrunched my eyes closed.He didn’t ask about your family history, stupid,I told myself.No one cares.
But he was the only person who wasn’t treating me like a child right then.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
The door to the shop opened and closed. My father spoke into his radio, then headed to his squad car parked down the street. I shook my head. Even when your family was falling apart, duty always came first. At least he was reliable.
Once my father was gone, the strange man turned back to me.
“Why were you crying?” he asked.
“My parents.” I must have seemed like such a baby right then, but maybe that was the point. Maybe at eighteen, Iwasstill a child in their eyes, and that was the problem. Like my father had said. But how could I grow up if they never let me go?
“They won’t let me go anywhere,” I continued. “This,” I slapped my hands onto the railing, “Thisis the first time I’ve ever been truly left alone. Why did I think they would let me go to college? I’m just their precious little flower.” I closed my fists, my nails digging into my palms. “But you don’t help a flower grow by blocking out the sunlight.”
He stared at me, then moved his body so that his entire focus was on me, completely enraptured. My knees were weak, my cheeks burning, but his gaze still magnified closer. As if he knew he had a hold on me.
“Your life isn’t over because you can’t go to college,” he said. “You’re—what, eighteen? Your life has barely begun.”
That’s what they always said. That there were more years. That this wasn’t the end. But that never seemed like a good enough reason to keep going. To try harder. To do more. I had to bottle it up. Had to be the daughter they wanted. The child my mother needed.
Because I would never be enough.
“It’s not just that,” my voice quivered. I squeezed the railing. My breathing hitched and I shielded my body from him. My father’s words blasted in my mind: why couldn’t I be grateful? Why couldn’t I be happy with what I had? Sheriff Mike was right. I had everything, and I would live and die here like my mother wanted me to. I hated that. My body trembled as the realization came to the surface: “No matter what I do, I’m stuck here.”
“And you always will be,” he said. Finally, his eyes left me, glancing at the moon over the water. In a softer voice, he added, “This world traps all of us.”
The tears stopped. I had this instinct that he was trying to make me feel better somehow, by showing the reality of the situation. No one was ever satisfied. We were all stuck here. Even him.
The man came closer and locked eyes with me. His eyes were black, the moon shining in them like flecks of gold. Earth and ripe sweat floated in the air. He needed a shower, but I didn’t mind his scent, because it seemed real. More real than the perfume my mother used in the morning. More real than the way my father’s uniform constantly smelled freshly laundered, as if nothing bad ever happened during his shift.
Because this man, covered in dirt and sweat,wasreal.
The man grabbed my chin. My skin tingled, my body instantly flushing, my heart thumping in my chest. It seemed so intimate. His eyes shined like rocks at the bottom of a well, beautiful and haunting, like he could see so much more than I exposed.
