Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
Josh
Am I dreaming?
I set aside my half-empty Edgar Allan Poe coffee mug and rubbed my eyes before blinking blearily at my phone screen.
Definitely dreaming.
The profile picture was fairly standard for this section of the H2H app: A scantily-clad ass taking up most of the foreground, with enough exposed skin elsewhere to suggest the person taking the selfie hit up the gym at least a few times a week.
The neon lighting was aesthetically pleasing—almost like what you’d find in a nightclub—along with the pouty lips on an otherwise unidentifiable face, artfully cropped in the same way a mask might shield a superhero’s identity.
However, it wasn’t just the photo that had stopped my scroll. It was the profile itself.
Shay
Male, 28, he/him/they/them
Blond hair, gray eyes, slim build but so caked-up, the devil knows when my feet hit the floor for the day.
The sass made me smile in a dreamy, half-awake sort of way, but Shay’s reason for being on the app was what made me wonder if my brain was still lost in dreamland.
Seeking +1 for a hot date with death. Male-presenting is preferred to sell the story, but don’t get any ideas. This is a one-time arrangement.
Is this an invite to a funeral or a murder?
It wasn’t unheard of for the Brief Connections section to feature desperate pleas for “plus ones” among the booty calls and one-night stands, but this was the first time I could remember anyone offering death up for grabs.
Wait.
What if he’s a serial killer who prefers being watched while murdering someone?
What if the victim will be whoever answers this ad?!
My morbid thoughts were probably thanks to the true crime podcast I’d been listening to lately when I couldn’t sleep, but I was snapped out of my unfounded suspicions by an insistent tap-tap-tapping on my nineteenth-story window.
The lady’s right on time.
Turning in my chair, I found a familiar pair of black eyes observing me shrewdly, framed by gorgeous, caramel-colored feathers.
“Good morning, Lenore,” I murmured, carefully cracking open the window just enough for the unusually pigmented crow to poke her head inside. “I have your peanuts right here…”
Trailing off, realizing I did not have the usual pinch bowl of unsalted nuts ready to go for my daily breakfast guest.
I could have sworn I filled it…
Lenore produced a throaty sound, clearly judging my hosting abilities as I leaped to my feet and hustled to the pantry closet for the peanuts.
“S-sorry,” I stammered, nearly knocking over the easel I’d left leaning against the wall yesterday. “Fuck, I’m sorry!”
Who am I apologizing to?
The crow or the easel?
I blamed my increased flightiness on my insomnia, which had only gotten worse lately. There was no good explanation for it, since nothing in particular was stressing me out. I’d simply woken up in a cold sweat at 3 am about a week ago, and hadn’t slept through the night since.
I worked from home, and only had to be coherent during client meetings, so while my chronic exhaustion was annoying, it was manageable.
And I’m always up for a funeral.
If that’s what this is about…
My thoughts wandered to the strange Brief Connections post, and I found myself seriously considering replying. It wasn’t just the sass—or the ass—of the OP, but the idea of a “date with death” was… intriguing.
Death and I went way back. I’d lost both my parents when I was eight, and the only family who could take me in had been a distant aunt who owned a funeral parlor outside the city.
Aunt Bea was a no-nonsense kind of woman—not mean, but certainly not nice. Her first words when I showed up crying on her doorstep didn’t consist of condolences or comfort. Instead, she peered down her nose at me and said, “the best way through grief is to make friends with death.”
So that's what I did.
I started by being as useful as possible around the funeral parlor, partly to distract myself but also to earn my keep. As I grew from a scrawny kid to a brawny young man, my role with the business changed, but that didn’t mean Bea just had me lifting heavy things.
My aunt appreciated hard work and efficiency, but she also had a sharp eye for the customer experience. After noticing how an unnatural calm would fall over the bereaved when I entered the room, she started involving me in the delicate task of meeting with the families to go over arrangements.
She called me her “little Prince Valium.”
I didn’t mind the nickname. It made me feel special—like a superhero with the power to help others find peace in their pain.
But I didn’t stop there. I would secretly haul my easel into the viewing room after hours to paint the recently deceased—like the mourning portraits of the 17th and 18th century or Victorian death photography.
Memento mori.
“Remember you must die.”
I’d had no intention of doing anything with these paintings at the time. They were simply a way for me to pay my respects while practicing my craft. This all changed the day an immediate family member stumbled upon me at work as they dropped off a personal item for the next day’s memorial service.
They took one look at the portrait and burst into tears. I assumed I’d majorly fucked up, but before I could apologize, they’d asked if they could buy the painting once I was done.
Word spread after that, and Aunt Bea encouraged me to offer my artistic services to every grieving family who walked through her doors.
As long as she got a cut, of course.
It may have sounded exploitative to an outsider, but my aunt’s natural-born hustle never bothered me. I was grateful she’d not only taken me in—fed and clothed me and got me on the school bus on time—but chauffeured me to art lessons on top of everything else.
As she was an important part of my artistic development, giving her a percentage of my sales was a no-brainer. It also prepared me for negotiating with agents and gallery owners later on—though I hadn’t bothered with either for long.
After Bea’s death a few years ago, I sold off the funeral home she’d left to me in the will and used the funds to expand my business—to free myself from any middlemen.
It hadn’t felt disrespectful to reject my inheritance.
If anything, I believed my aunt would’ve appreciated my own entrepreneurial spirit.
I’d finally made friends with death.
At first, I rented a workspace downtown in the arts district, but often found myself sleeping in my studio cot more than my own bed across town.
When a particularly wealthy client insisted on grossly overpaying for a set of memento portraits of his cats, I used that as the down payment on a nineteenth-floor apartment facing the city’s largest park.
For the best, unobstructed natural light an artist could hope for.
The location, coupled with my early morning strolls, also ensured the murder of crows who roosted nearby decided I was one of their own.
And that a rare caramel crow decided I was her mate.
I could think of worse fates.
Lenore cawed impatiently from the windowsill, reminding me I was a terrible waiter and an even worse life partner—at least by corvid terms.
“I disagree, dearest!” I called back, snatching a fresh can of peanuts from the pantry closet. “I’ll make the perfect human husband for someone someday.”
Assuming they’re cool with my existing commitment to a crow.
And my morbid line of work…
As I grabbed a pinch bowl off the counter, my gaze snagged on the phone I’d abandoned on the table.
I should answer that plus-one ad.
If anyone is the ideal candidate for a date with death—
My thoughts were cut short as something big flew by my window so fast, the pane rattled. Lenore squawked in alarm, clambering inside and onto the table, almost sending my Poe mug to an early grave.
“Hey, I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” I soothed, reaching over the table to close the window as the crow grumbled and paced the wooden surface. “It was probably just a hawk zeroing in on its breakfast.”
Or the Angel of Death.
That wayward thought sealed the deal. As soon as I got Lenore set up with her nuts, I grabbed my phone, and fired off a private message to Shay before I lost my nerve.
Greetings! If you are still seeking a plus one, may I throw my hat in the ring? A date with death is something I’m uniquely qualified for.
It only took a minute for my message to be read, but the reply didn’t come through until a good twenty minutes later.
Shay: While I’m not opposed to scandalizing my family with a much older man as my fake boyfriend, I need to know… Are you old enough to make people whisper or so ancient that my mother will think I’m in it for whatever you’re leaving me in the will?
What?
I squinted at my profile picture, wondering why a sunset over the Bay would make him think I was old.
I’m 31.
Shay: Oh.
Shay: Well why the hell do you talk like you’re 80?
I laughed so abruptly, Lenore nearly upended the pinch bowl, and no one had made me laugh like that in a while.
Because I was raised by my 80-year-old great-aunt.
Then, because it was suddenly imperative that I secure this date with death, I slyly tacked on a clarifying addendum.
In her funeral home.
Again, Shay made me wait for his reply, but I had the sense I’d piqued his interest.
Shay: You understand this isn’t an actual date, right?
I do. I fear I’m allergic to cake anyway.
There was another delay in response, which was understandable. It was an obscure reference to his original listing, and I was well aware my sense of humor was an acquired taste.
People either get me or they don’t.
Let’s hope he does…
Shay: Okay, that was funny, even for an old man. Let’s meet for coffee to make sure we vibe enough to pull this off. Captain’s Cafe on 23rd at 1 pm this Saturday.
Shay: Wear something nice. In black.
Good thing black is all I own.
The excitement that zipped down my spine surprised me. Aside from my short-lived romantic relationships, my life was fairly solitary, and I liked it that way.
Mostly.
So why am I going out of my way to… people?
The truth was, this was the most interesting thing to appear on my radar in a while. I completely understood I wasn’t meeting this “caked-up” spitfire for a date, but I still felt called to see it through—even if I wasn’t entirely sure what the plus one was for.
Looks like it’s time for Prince Valium to rise from the dead.