Page 14 of Grave Love
My cheeks redden. I grit my teeth. “What do you mean ‘no’?”
“We need to talk about this…” His upper lip twitches. “Thissituationof ours.”
Ours.
Finally, I meet his eyes—those cold, light blue eyes, like glass shielding against a snowstorm. Except Blazeisthe force of nature that’s going to destroy everything.
I grumble, but it comes out like a growl, and it startles me. I don’tgrowl.Growling is for animals, and I’ve worked hard to get my emotions under control. It’s like another person is taking the reins, almost like my survival instincts know that I have to get out of this predicament as quickly as possible, even if it means growling.
And then what?a voice inside of me asks.What life will you go back to?
The gravedigger grins as if he can read my thoughts, then motions to the side of the building. Reluctantly, I follow him. Keeping my distance. Always wary.
We lean against the exterior of the mortuary, facing the parking lot with a view of the east end of Front Beach Road. The Souvenir Emporium directly across from us is dark; the lights on the gas station illuminate the margarita stand next to it. A bizarre mix of death, tourism, and the beach.
And here we are: a gravedigger and a crematory operator. Recently fucked. And bound by the knowledge that we botharen’tsupposed to be here right now.
Blaze angles toward me. I stay facing forward and stare as intently as I can at the Margarita Shack. I would chug three giant glasses of sugary slush just to pretend like what we did was a dream.
My skin itches at his proximity. I don’t do well with people. Not like this. It just doesn’t work. And Blaze is like everyone else. He will one day realize that he never should’ve wasted his time on me, even if it was only a quick screw at work.
“I’m Blaze,” he says, eyeing me up and down. “You’re Ren, the crematory operator, yes?”
I blink. My stomach tightens. This is our first conversation, and though we’ve been working together for weeks now, this is only the second time I’ve seen him.
He knows my name. Says it like he knows me.
It’s unnerving.
“Is Ren short for anything?” he asks.
I don’t say a word. Why does he want to know?
“Your name means ‘water lily’ in Japanese, doesn’t it?” he asks. “Could mean plenty of other things, but that’s the meaning that fitsyoubest. Do you want to know why, little corpse?”
I narrow my eyes, still focusing on those odd pink and green lights shining from the shack’s windows. It’s in the middle of the night, but you can’t get rid of the tourist theater of this beach town.
“No,” I say.
“Did you know that water lilies can be poisonous?”
I startle, looking at him briefly. His skin is pale, the stark corners of his cheekbones like the caverns of a skull. His eye sockets are in shadow, those light blue irises glimmering like dying candle wicks. I shouldn’t even give him the dignity of a response.
Before I know what I’m doing, I shake my head.
Water lilies are poisonous? Why is he telling me this?
In the sky, a few stars dig themselves out of the darkness. It’s too bright out here, too developed for the rest to share their light.
“What do you want most out of life, little corpse?” he asks.
A diatribe about life from a funeral worker? How original.
Not.
“I don’t know,” I say.
“Try.”
