Chapter 8 #2
“Burgers may be too advanced for you,” Dustin stated.
Greg made a frustrated sound. “Why would you design food that falls apart when you try to consume it?”
“It's part of the experience.”
“You’re supposed to make a mess?”
“You're supposed to use napkins. Before you become a crime scene.”
Greg set the burger down and attempted to clean himself up. He managed to smear the ketchup further across his cheek before Dustin sighed, grabbed a fresh napkin, leaned across the table, and wiped the mess off himself.
Greg went very still.
It wasn't until Dustin was already dabbing at his cheek that he realized what he was doing. How close he'd leaned. How Greg was staring at him with wide eyes. He had nice eyes.
Warm eyes, for someone who claimed to be a reaper.
Dustin made himself sit back. “There.” He put the napkin aside. “All better.”
“I'm not usually…” Greg's voice came out strange. Slightly hoarse. He cleared his throat. “Thank you.”
“Don't mention it.”
Greg picked up a fry with considerably more caution than he'd shown the burger. He bit into it, deemed it safe, and ate three more in quick succession.
Dustin watched him, wondering. Wondering how hot his face would get if Dustin—
No.
He had to get his mind back on track.
He took a sip of his coffee and straightened.
“Okay,” he said. “Let's say I believe your story about reapers.”
Greg perked up. “You do?”
“I said let's say. Hypothetically. You're a reaper. You collect souls. You were assigned to collect mine, except I didn't die when I was supposed to. That's the story?”
“That's not a story. That's what happened.”
“Sure. So explain something to me.” Dustin leaned forward, elbows on the sticky table. “If I was supposed to die three days ago, why am I still here? Why am I having dinner at Lucky's Diner with my own personal grim reaper instead of, what, floating around in the afterlife?”
Greg looked uncomfortable. “I don't know,” he said. “That's what I'm trying to figure out.”
“Great. So you're as clueless as I am.”
“I'm not clueless. I have theories.”
“Like what?”
Greg ate another fry, visibly stalling. “There are several possibilities. Interference from an external force. A clerical error in the records, which has never happened before, but theoretically could. A natural immunity to death, which isn't supposed to exist, but…”
“Natural immunity to death? That's a thing?”
“No. That's why I said it isn't supposed to exist.” Greg frowned. “You're very distracting.”
“I get that a lot.”
“It wasn't a compliment.”
“It's always a compliment.”
Greg's cheeks went pink again. He focused very intently on his fries.
“The point is,” he said, “something is preventing your death. I don't know what. I need to find out.”
“Why?”
“Because it's my job.”
“To kill me?”
“To collect you.” He looked uncomfortable again.
Deeply uncomfortable.
“Must be frustrating,” Dustin observed. “Showing up for work and the work won't cooperate.”
“You have no idea.”
“I've been called difficult before.”
“By whom?”
“Pretty much everyone.” Dustin took a bite of his pie. He barely registered the taste. “Teachers. Coaches. My mom. My—” He stopped.
Greg waited.
“People,” Dustin finished. “Lots of people.”
Silence. Greg didn't push, which was either tactful or oblivious. Dustin couldn't tell which.
He decided to humor Greg a little while longer. “What's it like?” he asked. “Being a reaper?”
Greg considered the question seriously. He picked up the burger again, took a smaller bite this time and chewed while he thought. Only a little sauce escaped.
“It's supposed to be simple,” he said finally. “Normally. You arrive at the appointed time, wait for the death to occur and guide the soul through the transition.”
“And then what?”
“Then you do it again.”
“Forever?”
“There's no 'forever' for reapers. We don't experience time the way you do. We just... continue. Until we don't.”
“Until you don't?”
Greg's hands had gone still around his burger. “We don't die, but we can dissolve.”
“Dissolve?”
“Yes, if we don't want to continue. Or if we spend too long in the mortal world without returning to headquarters. We're not built for prolonged exposure. Eventually we just... come apart.”
Dustin's pie suddenly tasted like cardboard. “That's fucked up.”
“It's just how it is.”
“That doesn't make it less fucked up.”
Greg shrugged. “Humans die. Reapers dissolve. Everything ends eventually. That's what gives it meaning.”
“Is that what they teach you in reaper school?”
“Yes, actually.”
Dustin didn’t know what to do with that information.
“Can I ask you something?” Greg said. “Something personal.”
Dustin tensed. He kept his face casual, his posture loose, but something in his chest tightened. “Depends on what it is.”
“The day you were supposed to die. The jump. Were you scared at all?”
“I'm never scared.”
“But how?” Greg seemed genuinely puzzled.
“I've watched humans face death hundreds of times during my internship.
Almost everyone is scared at the end, even if they've made peace with it.
There's a moment, right before, when they understand what's happening. But you just jump like it doesn’t matter.”
“It's my job.”
“Jumping off cliffs is your job?”
“Entertainment. Content creation. Whatever you want to call it.” Dustin pushed his pie around with his fork. “People watch. I jump. Everyone's happy.”
“Are you?”
“Am I what?”
“Happy.”
The question hung in the air. Dustin should have deflected. He was good at deflecting. A joke, a flirtation, a smooth change of subject—he had a hundred ways to avoid questions he didn't want to answer.
Instead, he heard himself say, “I don't think about it.”
Greg tilted his head. Watching. Waiting.
“I used to,” Dustin continued, not sure why he was still talking. “Think about it, I mean. Whether I was happy. What I wanted. All that stuff. But it's easier not to. You just keep moving. Keep jumping. Eventually you run out of time to wonder.”
“Run out of time?”
“Everyone does, right? That's what you're telling me. Death comes for everyone. So why waste the time I have worrying about whether I'm using it right?”
Greg was quiet for a long moment. “Oh,” he said then, “that's very sad.”
“You've witnessed hundreds of deaths. I'm sure you've heard worse.”
“It just seems wrong.” Greg's voice was soft. “To be sad about living rather than dying.”
Dustin's throat tightened. He took a sip of coffee to cover it. The mug was nearly empty.
“We should get the check,” he said.
Greg looked down at his plate. He'd eaten most of the burger and all of the fries. The wreckage of his meal was impressive—ketchup smears, stray lettuce, an abandoned pickle that had fallen off his burger. “You wanted me to pay, right?”
“Do you have money?”
“I—” Greg hesitated. “No.”
“Reapers don't get paid?”
“We don't need money. Everything at headquarters is provided. I didn't think about—” He stopped, looking genuinely distressed. “I'm sorry. I've made this awkward.”
“It was already awkward. You're a supernatural entity who stalked me to my motel room.”
Greg’s cheeks went red. Because of course they did.
“It’s okay,” Dustin said. “I’ll pay.”
“I’ll find money,” Greg promised. “Before next time.”
“Next time?”
The red deepened. “If there's a next time. I didn't mean to presume. I just thought…for research purposes…”
“Research purposes.”
“You're a very unusual case!” Greg insisted. “And I still don’t know why you’re still alive.”
“What a romantic thing to say.”
Greg looked as if steam would come out of his ears if Dustin said any more.
“Well, it is,” Dustin said. “You’re asking me on a second date so you can research why you can’t kill me.”
“It's not a date,” Greg said quickly. “It's an observation session.” He paused. “Is it a date?”
“It could be,” Dustin teased—which he really shouldn’t do. He should walk away from this and never think about it again. That would be the smart thing to do.
Greg was clearly delusional. And a stalker.
And adorable.
“I’d like to see you again,” Greg said with all the earnestness in the world. “If that’s acceptable.”
“Okay,” Dustin said.
Dustin had never been good at doing the smart thing.
They stood outside the diner in the cooling evening air.
Dustin's motel was a five-minute walk. Greg's destination was wherever reapers went when they weren't stalking their assignments.
“So,” Dustin said.
“So,” Greg echoed.
“This was weird.”
“Yes.”
“I still don't believe you're a reaper.”
“I know.”
“But—” Dustin hesitated, gave himself a push. “Thanks for dinner. Even though I paid for it.”
Greg's face softened. “Thank you for talking to me. It was nice.”
“It was,” Dustin agreed.
Greg clutched his clipboard a little tighter. “I should go. I got some messages. Things I need to deal with.”
“You got messages on your death phone?”
“Yes.”
“Cool.”
They stood there a moment too long. Neither of them moved.
“See you around, Greg,” Dustin said finally.
He turned and walked toward the motel. He didn't look back.
But he could feel Greg watching him until he disappeared from sight.