2
Didn’t she think that already?
“No, it’s just me. I’ll put a garbage can by my bed. Problem solved.” There. A smart and rational comment. At least, it sounded rational. Who knew what was coming out of her mouth right now.
“Are you sure? I could call someone for you.” He looked at her with the most sincere gaze she’d ever seen.
Her forehead wrinkled. “Why?”
“To take care of you,” he stated like it was obvious. “The thought of you passing out and hitting your head, or getting sick with no one to help you, or?—”
“Hey, slow down there, teach. I’ll be okay.” She tried to put a hand on his shoulder but missed and grabbed his pec instead. His very firm pec. Not bad. “That won’t happen. I’m goin’ right to bed. I’m only drunk. Nothing crazy is gonna happen to me once I’m at home.”
He exhaled. Was he trying to calm himself down? So sweet.
Oh, for shit’s sake, she needed to invest in a thesaurus. There were adjectives other than ‘sweet’ that she could use to describe this man.
Kind. Caring. Concerned. Pleasant. Good .
“Alright,” he relented. “But you have my number if anything happens. You’ll use it, yeah?”
“Okay,” she nodded, grinning like she’d gotten away with something.
“And not for texts about my fashion choices,” he smiled.
What was it about this man? He was so different from her, but she couldn’t deny the attraction. No guy had ever made her so dopey inside. Like she couldn’t get her act together around him and instead was mooning about like a lovestruck teenager.
They drove the rest of the way in silence—not awkward, weird silence, either—a comfortable silence. She liked the way it wrapped around them. That could also be the alcohol talking…
Spencer said a silent prayer to the universe that things were going as smoothly as they were in her mind, and she wasn’t actually blabbering incoherently like a sailor lost in a vat of rum.
“If you don’t mind, I’ll walk you to your door,” Mr. Monroe said, exiting the driver’s side. He made his way around and opened her door, held out his hand, and helped her out.
“Thanks,” she managed to say, struck at the small but chivalrous action. Had a man—or woman—ever opened a door for her before? She couldn’t remember. Why was she always dating such losers? Aside from Becca, of course .
At her front door, she fumbled for her keys, her fingers as drunk as her brain.
“Let me help. Which one is it?” he asked, taking the ring of keys from her shaky hands.
Was she shaky because the alcohol was coursing through her very drunk body, or for another reason? Mr. Monroe stood awfully close. He smelled like one of those idiotic body washes for men named something like Power or Thunderhead or Atlas. Heaven forbid a man have a scent like an actual scented thing . No, they had to smell like a powerful concept . So stupid.
His body wash was probably called something like Sunburst or Daylight or Brilliance. A happy soap, not a powerful one. Though after his display tonight with Chad, she didn’t doubt that he could be powerful.
“Spencer?” he asked, holding up the key ring. “Your house key?” He pressed his lips together. She could tell he was trying not to laugh at her.
Oh god. She was a walking disaster right now, wasn’t she?
“Shit. The black one. It’s the all-black key.”
Locating the key, he slipped it into the lock and opened the door for her. Stepping back, he gestured for her to go inside.
“Thanks again, Mr. Monroe.”
“Considering the circumstances and how many times you talked about my cock tonight, I think you can call me Brett when we’re outside of the classroom. ”
Her stomach did a ridiculous flutter. She stepped past him and into the foyer of her modest little home.
“Thanks, Brett.”
“You’re welcome, Spencer. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“You will?” Her eyes went wide. He wanted to see her again? Outside of school?
He looked up briefly, shaking his head, before connecting with her gaze once again. “You have my class at noon.”
“Oh, right,” she rubbed her forehead. A headache was building behind her left eye. “See you then.”
“Goodnight.” He smiled one last time at her, turned, and walked down the steps to the street.
Spencer quickly shut and locked the door. What an utter fool she’d made of herself tonight. Banging her head against the wall would knock some sense into her, but the pressure behind the front of her skull told her that was a bad idea.
She shuffled to her bedroom, peeling off her clothes along the way. Now sober enough to understand how ridiculous this whole situation was, she flopped down on her bed and let out a long sigh.
Drinking so much wasn’t a habit, but with the end of her program approaching, she was more stressed than usual. Not to mention dealing with Llewellyn’s absurd antics and her very confusing feelings for her psychology professor.
The overwhelming need to close her eyes settled over her like a weighted blanket. Six shots and four drinks were way too many for her to handle without having some sort of memory lapse. She sent a quick text to herself to read in the morning in case she forgot any of tonight’s events.
You texted Good Butt bout sweater vest things. He drove you home. You are drunk right now and you said stupid things. Cocks. You should say sorry in morning. Sweatpants looked goooood. Like, soooo good. I think Brett likes you likes you?
What.
In the.
Holy.
Hell.
Her head pounded, and her mouth must’ve had a hundred cotton balls shoved inside of it. Reaching for the ever-present glass of water by her bed, she took a huge gulp. Three-day-old water was much more tolerable than her dry mouth.
What happened?
Start at the beginning.
Well, Becca took her out last night. They were at Jack’s Pub. She remembered not stopping after several drinks and continuing on with shots. Lots of shots .
The night was basically a blur. Becca left for home, she stayed to watch horrendous karaoke. Bon Jovi. Madonna. A guy named Chad. Lots of text messages to…
Oh no.
Spencer grabbed her phone, opened up her messages, and found one from herself. She read through it as fast as possible, her face grimacing more and more with every line. The very last one struck a different chord, however. He liked her? What would give her that impression? Any memories after the dreaded text messages refused to surface.
After she finished reading her own message, her finger hovered over Mr. Monroe’s name before tapping into their conversation.
Or should she say Brett.
Apparently, they were on a first-name basis.
Okay. Two hours until class time. She could shower and get ready, have a quick black coffee and scrambled eggs, and still get to campus early. She needed time to apologize to Brett, and his office hours were always before his first class.
Racing through the motions, she readied herself in record time, still managing to look pretty damn hot, if she said so herself. Denim jumpsuit, some gold jewelry, her platform sneakers. Ready for the day. And ready to face her professor and grovel at his feet. She would apologize and look damn good doing it .
She pulled up to the university, found a parking spot, and made it to Mr. Monroe’s office all with forty-five minutes to spare before psych class started. He should still be in office hours for at least another twenty minutes. As long as another student wasn’t talking to him, she’d be able to catch him before they both needed to get to class.
Knocking on his office door, she sent a silent manifestation out into the universe that this would go well and she would not make a bigger fool of herself than she did last night. Damn six-drink Spencer.
“Come in!” Mr. Monroe’s voice called.
Spencer opened the door, and he looked up. When his gaze connected with hers, he beamed and stood up to greet her.
“Hey, Spencer, I was hoping to see you this morning. How’re you doing?” he asked, coming around his desk that sat in the corner of his office.
“Can I be honest?” Spencer said.
He nodded at her.
“A little embarrassed. A lot embarrassed, actually.”
He laughed and motioned for her to take a seat on the green velvet couch on the right side of the room. He shut the door behind him before joining her.
“Well, it’s not every day I have a student text me about my fashion choices, that’s for sure.” Again, that teasing smirk played on his face. He didn’t seem mad at all .
“So you’re not mad at me? What I did was ridiculous.”
“I’m not arguing that. But no, I’m not mad at you. I’m glad I got you home safely.”
“I’m so sorry. I was a sloppy drunk last night, and you didn’t deserve me harassing you at one in the morning. I don’t even remember half the things I said.”
He shrugged. “It’s not a problem. I mean, it was a little funny. I didn’t realize my vests made such an impact.”
“They don’t! They’re fine. There’s nothing wrong with them.” Her face burned. This wasn’t going well. Why couldn’t she keep it together around this man? Resting bitch face was her default, always making her seem untouchable, and the whole working-with-the-dead thing made her feel pretty damn cool. But around Mr. Monroe, she was a bumbling schoolgirl with a crush on her teacher.
He laughed again. A deep chuckle that shot straight to her panties. Shit, even him laughing got her going.
“They’re my teaching clothes. I like to separate my work life and personal life. So, I dress one way here and another in my downtime. It helps keep things defined.”
Spencer nodded along with him. Clothing was part of her personal armour. She used it to project confidence and control how she was seen. Something she’d learned to do when she couldn’t control things at home with her mother.
“You don’t have to justify anything to me, Mr. Monroe?—”
“Brett,” he interjected.
She looked at him. Really looked at him. His gaze was serious now. A fuzzy memory cleared in her mind. “I thought Brett was for outside of the classroom?”
“Are we in the classroom now?” His voice was low and deep.
There was a charge in the air. She didn’t know where it came from, but it was here now. The hair on the back of her neck stood up. Goosebumps pebbled the skin up and down her arms.
“No…”
“Then call me Brett.” He tucked a stray curl behind her ear. “I don’t want to be your professor right now.”
Hold on. What in the ever-loving shit was happening? Was this sunbeam of a man coming onto her? If he was, she liked it. Was he like this last night? It’s not that she couldn’t tell when someone was flirting with her, but Mr. Monroe was so opposite her typical partner that everything threw her off.
Shit. This wasn’t something she’d anticipated after acting a fool.
But it made sense, didn’t it?
Case in point: He answered her texts at one in the morning. He drove down to the bar to get her when she mentioned another guy would take her home. Another hazy memory appeared: he walked her to her door.
Most people wouldn’t even do that for a girl they were on an actual date with. Yet Brett did that for her at the drop of a hat.
Sure, he was a nice guy, but no one was that nice.
He was into her.
Holy shit.
“You don’t have to justify anything to me, Brett ,” she started. Time to take a risk and see if her hunch was right. “You can wear whatever you want. But last night…those sweatpants…” she let the sentiment hang in the air between them.
Every person on the face of the earth knew what grey sweatpants did for a man. No way he threw them on in a rush to pick her up.
“Yeah? What about them?” he coaxed, his voice taking a dangerous edge.
“Let’s just say I much prefer them to these stuffy corduroy numbers you always wear,” she said, taking the fabric on his thigh and rubbing it between her fingers.
His hand matched hers, resting on her thigh, stroking the fabric of her jumpsuit. “You could come over tonight. I could take these corduroys off, put the sweats back on…” His face moved closer to hers .
“Why put anything back on?” Her heartbeat kicked up, and she moved to close the gap between their lips.
Finally, she was going to kiss him.
Touch him.
Taste him.
“Mr. Monroe!”
There was a sharp knock on the office door before it swung wide open. Llewellyn came flying in, backpack half open, books threatening to spill all over the place, an energy drink in hand.
Spencer slid to the opposite end of the couch. Brett did the same. How much did Llewellyn see? Hopefully, they’d disengaged in time. Disengaged from what, though? What would have happened if Llewellyn hadn’t barged in?
Fucking Llewellyn.
“Oh, sorry there, Professor. I didn’t realize you were already busy with a student,” Llewellyn squeaked out.
Spencer rolled her eyes so forcefully they almost spun right out of her head. “That’s why you knock, Llewellyn.”
“I did!”
“No, you knocked at the same time you opened the door.” She rubbed her right temple. She didn’t have the patience for Llewellyn’s antics today. “Can you get the fuck out so I can finish my conversation with Mr. Monroe?”
“Okay,” Brett stood up, holding his hands out in a gesture of peace. “No need for anyone to get mad at anyone here. Llewellyn, what do you need?”
“Well, sir,” he pushed his too-big glasses up his too-small nose. “I wanted to ask for an extension on my funeral process essay?”
“It’s already two weeks overdue.”
“I know. But my cat, Roddenberry, ate my bird last week, and I had to have the vet extract him from his stomach. And then I had to have a funeral, but the dirt in my yard was too difficult to dig up, so I went to the park beside my house to dig a hole there, and someone called the police, and I was briefly arrested for vandalizing the park, but then?—”
Brett cleared his throat. “That’s a lot of information all at once, Llewellyn.”
“Yes sir, sorry. I’ve had a lot going on, and that was only last week. This week my neighbour Jerry started a fire when he tried to cook a steak in his toaster, and we had to call the fire department and?—”
“Llewellyn!” Spencer called out.
Llewellyn turned his attention to her, eyes going wide like a deer in headlights.
“Fucking cool it, man. Take a breath.”
“Right, yes, a breath.” Llewellyn took a deep breath in through his nose and exhaled loudly through his mouth.
“You can have an extension, but only until the end of the week,” Brett said. “I need it by this Friday. The term is almost over. Your program is almost over. This paper must be turned in to give you a final grade, and I want to pass you. You’re a dedicated student, Llewellyn.”
Spencer shook her head in disbelief. How could he be so patient with this walking asthma attack of a human being? It was like no one rattled him or got under his skin. He always gave everyone the benefit of the doubt. If it were her, she’d be exhausted. She already was exhausted, and she only had to deal with Llewellyn, not an entire class of future embalmers and whoever else he taught on the regular.
“Oh, thank you, Professor. Thank you! I will have it for you by Friday, I promise.” A grin took over his entire face, showing the gap in his front teeth. “I won’t let you down!”
“I look forward to reading it. I’m sorry about your bird. Losing a pet is never easy.” He placed a gentle hand on Llewellyn’s shoulder.
“It was, sir. Thank you. Jean-Luc Beakard has been properly laid to rest with the help of the Whitehill Police Department,” Llewellyn sniffed.
“I’m glad to hear it,” Brett said, his sincerity evident. “I’ll see you in class in fifteen, okay? Go use that time to work on your paper.”
“Yes, sir!” Llewellyn gave a brief salute, frowned at Spencer, and left the office in a full-out sprint .
Brett shut the door behind him and turned back to Spencer.
“Sorry about that,” he said, scratching the back of his head. “It was a good thing he interrupted when he did, though.”
“Why do you say that?” She knew exactly what the response would be but still wanted to hear it for herself.
“You’re still my student for three more weeks, Spencer. So I shouldn’t have said what I did. Last night or now.”
She clicked her tongue. “I figured that’s what you were going to say. You’re too good.”
Getting up from the couch, she grabbed her bag and made her way to the door where Brett was still standing.
“So, in twenty-one days, things could be different for you?” She was directly in front of him now. They were almost the same height when she had her platforms on. She could see right into his smokey grey eyes. Since when did she notice sappy shit like eye colour?
“In what way?” he asked.
“Meaning, in three weeks, I’ll no longer be your student, and you’ll no longer be my professor. So you could say anything you wanted to me then, right?”
“I can wait three weeks.” He took her hand in his own. “Can you? ”
“Depends on what I’m waiting for. What is this to you?”
“What do you mean?” he asked, his brows pinching together.
She stared him down. “Well, is this going to be a quick fuck, or do you want it to be something more? It’s not like we know each other well. So what are we waiting for?”
Blunt . That was another word her mother used to describe her. Snippy and blunt. She didn’t mean to be an asshole, but she hated dancing around topics that were easier to understand if everyone was straight with each other.
“Well,” Brett started, dropping her hand to drag his own through his blond waves. “I like you. I know we don’t really know each other, but I like you.”
“Why? We couldn’t be more opposite,” she argued, gesturing to herself and then to him, not sure why she was putting up a fight.
“So? You’re smart and funny. I see that in you in class all the time. You work hard, there’s no doubt about that. You’re a straight shooter, and you aren’t afraid to be honest with people. And it doesn’t hurt that you’re gorgeous.”
She felt her cheeks deepen in colour. Who didn’t like to be called gorgeous? And all those other things, of course .
“What about you? Would this simply be a quick fuck for you?” he asked.
“Normally, I would say yes. But—cards on the table here—I’ve been pining after you for months.” She looked at the ground, embarrassed of her unabashed honesty. That was new.
“Even though we’re so different?” he quipped, throwing her words right back at her. He knew he had her.
“Yes, and I don’t know what it is, but I feel some kind of pull toward you.”
He nodded. “I feel the same. So, let’s get to know each other a bit, yeah?”
She crossed her arms. “How are we going to do that? We can’t exactly go on dates and be seen together on or off campus.”
“Fair point,” Brett said, a pensive look coming over his face. “Hold on.”
He walked over to his desk and grabbed one of his cards. He scrawled something on the back and handed it to her.
“My personal email. You already have my phone number. Call, text, email, whatever you want. Let’s talk and see if there could be something here.”
“No in-person contact?”
“I’ll still see you in class every week. My office hours are always available, too. Sometimes, you have to be a little sneaky,” he winked at her .
Being this close to him, she could see the tiny flecks of silver beginning to pepper his stubble. The colour made him look distinguished. She wondered what his beard would look like if he let his stubble grow out.
Spencer slipped the card into her bag. “Alright. We’ll try it your way.”
“Now get to class. I hear your professor looks great in sweater vests, and he’s rocking a fantastic one today.” He flashed that megawatt grin at her, and her heart melted a bit as he spun in a circle to show off his purple and green argyle vest.
She left his office and made her way to the lecture hall. The renovations had been completed the other day, and they were back in the classroom they were supposed to be in.
The entire walk there, she couldn’t wipe the happiness off her face. It physically hurt to smile so big. How did normal people do it all the time?
Psychos.
But she was beginning to like the feeling. This positivity, this giddiness. This sunshine in her life.
After class, she sent Brett an email.
From: Spencer Williams
To: Brett Monroe
It’s weird emailing you when I see you in person every week. We should just be able to have a normal conversation, but I’ll give this a go. Let’s get to know each other. And I guess if that doesn’t go so well, we can always resort to a quick fuck. That wouldn’t be the worst thing, would it? A consolation prize.
She was surprised to see that by the time she got home, she had a reply.
From: Brett Monroe
To: Spencer Williams
As much as I know I would enjoy that consolation prize…
Tell me a bit about yourself. Oof, even writing that felt vague and not super helpful. Why don’t I ask you three questions and you can ask me three questions?
1. What made you want to be an embalmer?
2. What’s your favourite karaoke song to sing?
3. How do you keep your hair so shiny? It’s mesmerizing.
Alright. Ask and answer questions. She could do that .
From: Spencer Williams
To: Brett Monroe
1. After seeing my grandmother at her memorial service, I knew this profession was for me. I was nine. She looked so peaceful. Beautiful, even though she was gone. I wanted to make people look that way so their loved ones could be a bit less sad on one of the worst days of their lives.
2. I prefer to laugh my ass off at the people singing karaoke, not be the one singing it. Listening to terrible renditions of pop songs is the perfect way to spend a night.
3. I have a wide array of silk bonnets I sleep in. My mom taught me to use them to protect my hair when I was little, and I never looked back. One of the few decent things she did for me.
Okay. Three questions for you.
1. What made you want to be a psychology professor?
2. How many sweater vests do you own?
3. How old are you? This is probably important to know. Seems like pretty basic information we should have about each other.
From: Brett Monroe
To: Spencer Williams
1. This is heavy, so I’ll give you the gist. My brother died when I was 16. He was 14. I wanted to learn more about death and dying and became obsessed with finding answers. That led to me getting a degree in Thanatology followed by a Master’s degree in Counselling Psychology. I’m happy I can help people come to terms with such a difficult topic.
2. Please don’t hold this against me. I own 52 sweater vests. Enough for a different one every week of the year.
3. I’m 36 and really hope that’s not too old for you.
From: Spencer Williams
To: Brett Monroe
I’m sorry about your brother. I can’t imagine how heartbreaking that was to go through, especially at such a young age. It’s good to hear that it led you to discovering your passion. Wait, is teaching about death and dying your passion? Also, I’m going to need to see your closet. You must be lying to me. No man, woman, or child owns 52 sweater vests. That’s an obscene number and I won’t stand for it. And 36? You’re only nine years older than me. It’s not that big of a difference. I won’t hold it against you. Although I wouldn’t mind holding something else against you…
From: Brett Monroe
To: Spencer Williams
I may need to see you after class next week.
From: Spencer Williams
To: Brett Monroe
Why? Have I been a bad girl?
From: Brett Monroe
To: Spencer Williams
Not yet, but I have a feeling you’re going to be.
Shit with a capital S. She had no immediate response to that unless a person was to count the pulsing in her cunt. Brett may be helpful, sweet, and positive on the outside, but she was confident he had a bit of a bad boy hiding on the inside. Perhaps that’s why she was drawn to him. Unleashing him would be a fun project, she had no doubt. How on earth was she going to wait two and a half more weeks?
She wanted him. Now. And she knew he wanted her, too.
The next week, Spencer was at her practicum placement, setting the features of a deceased 89-year-old woman named Loretta. Thankfully, her death was due to natural causes, so the embalming process was straightforward. She placed cotton in the mouth to help give the corpse a more natural appearance. Llewellyn grabbed the modesty cloths to cover her genitals, out of respect, and flexed the limbs to allow the tension to leave the body.
Her favourite part of the preparation process was washing the deceased. Something about it gave her an overwhelming feeling of peace. Taking care of a person in such a vulnerable state and being responsible for their last presentation to the world was an honour. She found the ritual both relaxing and reverent.
Well, usually.
Tonight, Llewellyn was in rare form.
The funeral home’s senior embalmer and co-director, Mr. Hewitt, was upstairs meeting with Ms. Channing, the other co-director, and Spencer was attempting to keep Llewellyn occupied and on task.
“I need you to prep the tools and mix the fluid. Can you do that?” she asked, perhaps with a little too much snark.
“Yes, Spencer. Give me fifteen minutes. ”
She puffed—loudly—and rubbed her temples. “Thank you.” It took genuine effort to be more pleasant.
He was supposed to prepare everything prior to this part of the preparation process, but he got sidetracked doing God knows what. The scent of fryer oil lingered on his person, so she had a pretty good idea of what he had been up to.
Spencer exited the embalming room, entered the cozy staff area, and grabbed her phone. If she didn’t calm down soon, there was no telling how hard she would snap. Llewellyn could breathe wrong, and she might accidentally stab him with a scalpel.
Her mind drifted to Brett. Hearing from him would calm her down, but she wasn’t about to call or text him in the middle of a work day. Instead, she plopped down on the well-worn brown loveseat, opened her email, and read through their first few emails to each other.
Slowly, her annoyance dissipated. She could handle Llewellyn for a few more hours. Going over a list in her head, she made mental notes of what she had left to do. Place the arterial tubes and drain tube. Adjust the embalming machine to regulate pressure and flow. Massage the body for better drainage. She sighed. A long day lay ahead if Llewellyn didn’t pull his weight .
Of course, she’d done this many times before. It was second nature. But lists were always a good way to organize and calm her mind. Llewellyn would have to take care of removing the tubes, tying off the artery and vein, and suturing the incision. He should treat the cavity as well, but last time Llewellyn dropped the trocar and stepped on it. Somehow, it landed pointing straight up, so it embedded in his foot enough to cause a scene. Why Llewellyn was barefoot in the embalming room was beyond her. He didn’t need stitches, but there was enough blood on the floor to make Llewellyn pass out.
Oh yeah. He passed out at the sight of blood. Only his own blood, not other people’s. Otherwise, this really would be the wrong profession for him. Although she already thought it was.
Perhaps the director could oversee him. Then, she could wash Loretta’s body again, comb her hair, and apply cream to prevent her skin from dehydrating.
A loud crash followed by a high-pitched yelp sounded from behind the doors. She jumped.
Fucking Llewellyn. What now?
Spencer burst into the room, having made a beeline in case of another trocar-in-the-foot incident.
Tools. Everywhere.
Arterial tubes, cavity injectors, and hydro aspirator pieces were all over the floor, not to mention the potent scent of formaldehyde in the air—more so than usual. Llewellyn was sprawled on the ground in the middle of the mess.
She wanted to snap. Yelling at him would feel so good right now. All her pent-up annoyance could come roaring out, and she’d feel so much lighter. But she didn’t. She paused, took a breath, and did what she thought Brett would do.
“Get up.” She offered a hand. “Come on. Tell me what happened.”
“R-really? You’re not mad?” Llewellyn’s voice wavered as he accepted her help to get back on two feet.
“Oh, I’m pissed. I think this is ridiculous. But I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt.”
He dusted off his butt and straightened his glasses. “I slipped.”
“On what?”
“Formalin.”
She rubbed her eyebrows. “Why is there formalin on the floor?”
“I spilled.”
“Why did you spill formalin?” she grumbled.
“I was trying to video call my mom.”
Oh, for the love of everything holy. “While you were mixing embalming fluid?”
He shrugged. “I thought she might like to see the process. ”
“So you spilled because you were distracted, and you didn’t clean it up?
“Well…I was talking to my mom. I didn’t want to cut her off.”
“Okay, Llewellyn. You need to get the cleaning supplies and go over the area two times with cold water. Any paper towels you use must be bagged and tagged as hazardous waste. Got it?”
“Yes, ma’am!”
“And put your eyewear and gloves back on. You don’t want that stuff getting all over your skin.”
Llewellyn nodded and headed to the supply closet.
Hesitant to leave Llewellyn alone, she made sure he was covered in personal protective equipment and cleaning efficiently before she made her way to the main floor of the funeral home.
She needed to talk to Mr. Hewitt and Ms. Channing. No way in hell he should be allowed to graduate and become a licensed embalmer. Spencer wasn’t even sure how he was still in the program. Let alone how he made it to his second year. Why was this place taking him on as an apprentice? He was a walking disaster—and disasters didn’t mix well with chemicals and sharp objects.
Kicking off her shoes in her tiny foyer, Spencer headed for the couch and threw herself on it with a thud . Every fucking day with Llewellyn was something she couldn’t make up in her wildest dreams. Who video calls their mom while they’re working? In a morgue ?
It could’ve been worse. She could’ve punched him in the throat and lost her job, but she didn’t. Channeling her inner Brett proved to be the right choice in that scenario. Speaking of Brett…
She missed him. They hadn’t seen each other since class last week. Time to send another email. Spencer needed him to know that she cared for him, not just the potential of getting under him. He’d been so vulnerable with her. She wanted more of that—more of what made Brett Brett . She pulled out her phone and typed up an email.
From: Spencer Williams
To: Brett Monroe
So, we kind of glossed over it the other day, but would you mind telling me more about your brother? I understand if you don’t want to, or if you’d rather save that conversation for when we’re in person. But know that I’m interested in more than just your dick. I’m not trying to ignore the heavy stuff.
There. Her mind felt lighter knowing a return message would be on the way sometime this evening. She closed her eyes, picturing Brett’s golden curls and warm smile, when her phone dinged with an email alert only a few short minutes later.
She skimmed the email. Holy shit, it was a long one. He typed all that in a few minutes? He really wanted to share about his life with her. A warm giddiness spread through her stomach. He meant what he said.
From: Brett Monroe
To: Spencer Williams
I can tell you here. It’s easier than talking about it in person. It’s been almost two decades since it happened, but I still get choked up sometimes.
It was Brad’s first high school party. It was a big deal to him. He was so excited. I drove him there and dropped him off. Told him to call me when he needed a ride home, and I would come get him, no questions asked. I wasn’t stupid—I knew he would end up drinking. Most kids don’t wait until they’re 19. The last thing I wanted was him getting in some random person’s car who was driving drunk.
Well, that’s exactly what happened. He didn’t call me. Normally, I would’ve been at that party with him, but I had physics exam on Monday and pulled an all-nighter trying to study through the entire weekend to make up for not studying earlier in the week.
I was told later by someone from the party that Brad didn’t want to bother me by calling at midnight for a ride. He knew I was studying. So he bummed a ride with someone else. Derek Carter. I’ll never forget his name. Derek was a year older than me and absolutely wasted. Yet he decided it would be a good idea to drive a car full of people home. They got in an accident ten minutes from our house.
It was a single-car accident, thank goodness. The only saving grace to come out of the situation. Derek plowed into a tree on the side of the highway. Wrapped the entire front of the car around it. He broke his neck and fractured his spine in three places. Brad was in the passenger seat. He died on impact from a penetrating skull injury. The two other kids in the back had less severe wounds. Mostly superficial cuts. I think one had a broken arm. Derek was a minor and got let off easy. No jail time. No manslaughter conviction. Just a long stint in rehab to think about what he did to my brother.
Brad was my best friend, and he was taken from me that night. It felt unfair, and I didn’t understand why he had to die. And that led me to learning everything I could about death and dying, what different religions said about the afterlife, and how people sought help when dealing with a loss like mine.
I counselled for many years before moving into teaching. It takes a toll on you, dealing with other people’s trauma day after day. Teaching psychology has been a welcome break. Perhaps one day I’ll return to counselling, but for now, I’m comfortable where I am. And I like to think that Brad is happy for me too. I found some sort of meaning in the toughest part of my life. That’s worth something, don’t you think?
She couldn’t stop the tears from trickling down her cheeks. What a fucking awful story. No kid deserved what Brett had gone through. No kid deserved what happened to Brad. Images of what Brett’s brother might look like flashed through her mind. A smiling face. Similar blond curls. Getting ragged on by his brother. Him laying on a cold, steel embalming table. The Monroe family at the funeral.
An icy shiver ran down her spine. The one and only part of the job she found challenging was children. In the last two years, she’d only had to work on one, and it was the worst week of her life. It was also the best damn job she’d ever done.
Brett’s little brother…She shook her head to snap out of the funk. She didn’t want to think about it too much.
Wiping the tears from her eyes, she replied:
From: Spencer Williams
To: Brett Monroe
I didn’t expect to be crying alone on my couch on a Thursday night. I don’t even know what to say. I’m so sorry, Brett. No one deserves to go through that. Nothing I can say can express how shitty that is, but I’m here for you. If you ever want to talk about it more. Any time, any place, any mode of communication.
Is that why you were so concerned the night I got drunk at Jack’s Pub? You were worried something might happen to me?
From: Brett Monroe
To: Spencer Williams
Yeah, that’s exactly why. I can get a little overprotective with alcohol now. I worry a lot about it. Probably something I should go to counselling about. But in all seriousness, I didn’t want to see something bad happen to you. Even if it was just getting sick in your garbage can at home.
Although it was the fact that a guy named Chad was going to take you home. I couldn't, in good conscience, let that happen.
A rumbling laugh poured from her lips. Who was this man? How could he make her cry one minute, and laugh the next? She sniffled. All her hunches over the past semester were correct. Brett was goodness and light and sunshine and hope. Qualities she wouldn’t mind having in a partner to balance out her surly, sarcastic, snippy attitude.
From: Spencer Williams
To: Brett Monroe
So I actually owe Chad a thank you?
From: Brett Monroe
To: Spencer Williams
Let’s not go that far.
Spencer was worn out. Between apprenticing at her practicum full time, an overload of courses this semester, studying for final exams, and dealing with Llewellyn every other day, she had little down time.
“Pass me the popcorn, you snack hog,” Becca called from the brown and cream area rug on the floor of the living room.
Spencer rolled her eyes, leaned over, and handed her the giant red bowl. “How are you going to eat that when your nails are still drying?”
“Carefully.” Becca stuck out her tongue and made a big show of gingerly grabbing a single piece of popcorn between her thumb and pointer finger. Opening her jaw as wide as it could go, she dropped it in from above. “See?”
“What did I ever see in you?” Spencer ribbed her best friend.
“My super cute personality and outstanding tits?” Becca offered, placing more popcorn into her mouth.
“You’re not far off. You do have nice tits.”