Page 99 of Grave Love
He wraps his arms around me, holding me close, his arms like bandages keeping me together, our hearts matching each other’s beat. And I let it go. I cry. I don’t hold back. And Blaze holds me, letting me release all of that tension, letting it wash into the dirt underneath us. He holds me, letting me know that he’s still here. That he still sees me. And when the tears finally dissipate, I accept the fact that I don’t know what’s coming tomorrow.
It’s not so bleak anymore.
I can’t bring my mother back from the dead. I can’t make my grandmother accept me for who I am. I can’t make my ex want to marry me. I can’t change how a client feels about the way his post-mortem wife looks. And I definitely can’t control Blaze.
But I can embrace the ugliness inside of me and see every part of me for what it is. I can choose myself.
Just like Blaze chooses me.
The darkness devours the sea, the barest hint of stars skirting across the water. I rest my head against Blaze’s chest as the night surrounds us too. He kisses the top of my head, sucking in a long breath, inhaling my scent. His pulse beats against my ear, each thump keeping time with the roll of the ocean waves.
And I let it be.
Epilogue
Ren
one year later
“He looks like a clown,”she snaps.
I stare down at the body. There’s a shine to the corpse, too perfect to be natural, and the rose-tint in his cheeks is a tad heavy; I can admit that. But there’s only so much you can do to make a deceased seventy-year-old man look like a picture from his thirties. It’s not perfect; nothing ever is. At least this time, I’ve had practice on a few more corpses. In fact, I’d say this corpse was my best embalming work yet.
The client probably won’t appreciate a comment like that though.
“Well?” she asks, putting a hand on her hip. “Are you going to fix him?”
There are so many things I could do right then. Apologize. Beg for forgiveness. Ask Denise to give her a discount on her funeral package. The truth is that no matter what I do to “fix” her husband, his corpse won’t look like he did when he was alive. Nothing I say or do can change that.
“I’ll get the director,” I say.
She swats my arm.
“No—” she shouts. Embarrassment flushes across her as she realizes that she’s accidentally hit me. She slumps into the folding chair next to the table. “You did great.” Her head falls into her palms, her voice muffled now. “I miss him. The real him, you know? He’ll never come back. I know that.”
I stand there awkwardly, a pole without a sail. She whimpers, and uneasiness drips down my back. This mourning is private, something I’m sure this woman doesn’t want to share with me, but I’ve been around death for so long that I know what to expect.
Some people are afraid of death. They’re scared of the unknown, of that vast emptiness, when they don’t even realize how numb they are to their everyday lives. Others are shocked by death. And still, others refuse to acknowledge mortality until it’s too late.
And then there are those who seek it out, who think that death will give them relief.
I was like that once.
I put a hand on the client’s shoulder. She squeezes my hand, a sob leaking out of her chest. Snot trickles between our fingers, and even though it’s gross, I stand there with her. It’s the only thing I can do right now.
Eventually, Denise finds us, and I head back to the crematory and finish up my orders for the day. After that, I drive to Blountstown. It’s a commute to get to Last Spring now, but I’m more at peace there, in Blaze’s childhood home. It took us a while, but eventually, we dug up his mother, brother, and the others buried in his backyard, and we took them to the funeral home after hours to dispose of them properly.
We’re making the house our own now. A true home.
One day, we’re going to dig up my mother and bury her here instead. I can’t change the way she died, but I can move her body, putting it in a place where I can honor the life she had, and that seems better than pretending she never existed, like Mrs. Richmond wanted. It’s a memorial I can look forward to.
Blaze’s car pulls into the dirt driveway shortly after mine. His job working security at the university in Tallahassee is a commute too, and it comes with benefits for both of us. Marriage is that way, after all. We’re tied together, even if we don’t wear rings to symbolize our love.
Blaze pulls me into his arms, his teeth cutting into my shoulder. I yelp with laughter, and he growls into me, his jaw growing tighter. His teeth break the skin slightly, and he sucks at the wound, my head swirling in the clouds.
No, we don’t need rings. We wear our love in different ways.
He breaks the kiss, then smacks my ass, heading to the backyard to check the shipping containers, bringing a thermos of water—just enough for his victim to survive. He returns, meeting me in the kitchen. He laughs with a sigh.
