Chapter 1 #2
“Do you like scary movies?” I ask suddenly, leaning forward like a child begging for a bedtime story.
He shrugs. “Some. I saw The Conjuring once. That was pretty creepy.”
I gasp, delighted, nearly bouncing in my seat. “No way! That’s one of my feel good movies. I put it on when I can’t sleep. The possessed mom feels like an old friend now.”
He blinks. “Feel good…movie?”
“Mhm!” I nod earnestly, chugging my wine like it’s water. “I think it’s sweet when families stay together through demonic possession. Shows commitment.”
He doesn’t know how to respond to that. Most people don’t. So I just smile wider, ignoring the feeling of having to force the motion like my lips are plush little puppets performing for an audience.
The truth is, I don’t mean to be off-putting. I like people. I want them to like me back. I just don’t have the same filter other people seem to be born with. When I’m excited, it comes out, and when it comes out…well.
I kick my legs under the table like a kid who’s had too much soda, heels clinking against the chair leg. “You’re cute when you look confused,” I tell him, matter-of-fact.
His ears turn pink. “Thanks, I think.”
“You should smile more,” I add, tilting my head, resting my chin on my hand. “You’ve got a nice mouth. I bet it’d look even nicer covered in frosting. Or blood.”
His eyes widen just a little.
I blink, realizing how that sounded, then burst out laughing. “Oh my God, I meant like Halloween blood! Fake blood! You know, the corn syrup kind that you use when dressing up like a basic sexy vampire?”
I pause. Lower my voice. “Unless…”
He laughs a little too hard, like he’s trying to convince himself it’s funny. His fork rattles against the plate. Poor thing looks like he’s about to pull a hamstring just trying to stay cool.
Adorable.
I swirl another bite of pasta, twirling it like a ribbon in a Halloween parade. The sauce clings, thick and glossy, and for some reason I think about papier-maché guts at a haunted house—the kind some poor teenager got paid minimum wage to stick their hand in.
“So,” he blurts suddenly, with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for sales pitches, “what do you do? For work?”
I blink. He looks so earnest, like the answer might save him. “I write,” I say.
His shoulders relax. “Oh. Books?”
“Yeah, but other things too.” I tap my fork against the plate, considering. “Articles, reviews, spells and potions how-tos, and even obituaries.”
“Obituaries?”
“Mhm.” I smile brightly. “People don’t think of it this way, but obituaries are little love letters to the dead. You get to sum up a whole life in five hundred words or less. Neat and tidy, like trimming the fat from a steak. I make it fun, though. Like a party recap, but with more weeping.”
He stares at me, and I shovel in another bite like that explains everything.
I nod enthusiastically like he asked me another question, continuing my tirade like I’m purging my soul.
Or projectile vomiting like The Exorcist. “My obituary website even went viral like the flu, and you either hate it and think it’s tasteless or you love it and understand laughter is the best medicine for anything.
Even death! Have you heard of it? It’s called ! ”
He blinks. “Mourn…hub?”
“Mourn. With an M. Like grief. Totally classy.” I beam, fork waving like I’m making a PowerPoint presentation.
“The tagline is Obituaries Worth Dying For. Cute, right? It’s supposed to be this space where obituaries feel accessible to younger audiences, but somehow everyone just associates it with…
y’know. That other hub.” I wiggle my brows.
His mouth twitches like he’s trying not to laugh.
“I swear, it wasn’t intentional! Okay, it was a little intentional.
But listen—it’s important work. I take obituaries and make them fun!
Punchy! Shareable! Like…Grandma June survived the Depression, three husbands, and two world wars before losing a final boss battle to a grapefruit-sized blood clot. See? Engaging!”
I stab my pasta triumphantly, grinning like I just solved world hunger.
Across the table, he stares at me like he’s not sure whether to be horrified or impressed. Honestly? I get that a lot.
“The traffic spikes were insane even after people figured out the mix-up. Death has an audience, babe.” I wink at him, my heart pounding excitedly in my chest, like it always does when I talk about my work. I clutch my knife tighter in my fist, bouncing in my seat. “I’m serious. Dead serious.”
He blinks.
“Besides, grief and lust aren’t that far apart. Both involve heavy breathing.”
Silence.
Honestly, am I speaking English? This is brilliant conversation on my end.
“Anyway,” I say around a mouthful of food, ignoring the disappointment flooding in like a plague of locusts with herpes. “Work is boring. Tell me something good. A secret.”
“A secret?” He looks like I asked him to solve long division.
“Yeah,” I say, leaning in like I’m about to swap campfire stories. “Something no one else knows. Don’t worry, I won’t tell. I’m practically a grave.”
He fumbles, then says, “I…uhh…cheated on a math test in high school?”
I gasp, clutching my chest. “Scandal.”
His ears turn pink, but he looks relieved, like he just passed a pop quiz.
I grin at him, leaning back in my chair and crossing my legs.
My dress slides higher, fabric tugging like it has its own agenda.
I catch him glancing down, then away, then down again.
They always do. Doesn’t matter if it’s my neckline, my thighs, the random treasures that hide in my hair, or the fact that I have tiny jack-o’-lanterns painted on my toenails.
There’s always too much to look at, and they never know where to land.
I spear another bite of pasta. “I love scary movies,” I announce suddenly, really wanting to veer back to that conversation. I feel like we missed some things there, and I need him to understand me. “They’re like my safety blanket. Like…comforting”
He blinks. “Comforting?”
“Mmhm.” I nod, swallowing. “It’s nice, you know? You always know who’s going to die. You always know the rules. Don’t have sex, don’t say you’ll be right back, don’t investigate weird noises, don’t split up.” I tick them off on my fingers. “It’s practically a survival guide.”
“You…find that comforting.”
“Of course!” I beam at him. “It’s structure. Real life doesn’t have that. People just die whenever. Totally unfair. At least in slashers, the slutty best friend gets her moment to shine before the machete.”
His fork hovers midair. “Slutty best friend?”
“That’s me,” I say cheerfully, sipping my wine. “Except I refuse to die before Act Four. I will break that trope if it kills me. Final girl energy, but slutty. Like Laurie Strode if she wore fishnets and flashed her tits at least once.”
He stares at me like he’s not sure if that’s a compliment or a confession.
I grin wider, twirling my glass by the stem.
“Besides, being the slutty best friend is way more fun. We get the jokes, the cute outfits, the dramatic screaming… Oh! And we get the fanboys who rewind and replay our scenes at least a dozen times before their dicks go raw. The virgins just cry in cardigans and run up the stairs instead of out the door. Boring.”
My date laughs, thin and nervous, but it’s still a laugh. He’s trying. I’ll give him that.
“Don’t worry,” I add, leaning forward conspiratorially, my voice dropping like I’m letting him in on a secret. “If we were in a slasher movie right now, I’d totally save you. For at least the first half.”
He laughs, but his fork wobbles as he sets it down. His eyes flicker down to my neckline again, then back up to my face, then down again. It’s like watching a tennis match where the ball is my cleavage.
Ah. There it is. The conflict.
I push my empty plate aside and take another sip of wine like I don’t notice. But I notice. They always get this look, this twitchy, restless energy, like their brains are split into two halves: one half wants to run, the other half wants to bend me over the table.
I lean back in my chair, arching my back just so. Slowly. Deliberately. The plunging neckline of my dress slides farther apart, the fabric pulling like it’s trying to get in on the seduction game. His breath hitches, so faint I almost miss it.
“See?” I say brightly, as though we were still discussing horror movies. “Structure is sexy. You always know what you’re getting. But horror movies really need to stop slut-shaming, right?”
He blinks at me, hard, like he’s trying to process both the words and the way my thighs just shifted in the candlelight. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.
Adorable.
“Do you…” he starts, then clears his throat. “Do you always talk about…death? On dates?”
“Not always,” I chirp. “Sometimes I talk about my hobbies.”
His eyes narrow cautiously. “Which are?”
“Oh! Scare pranks, for sure. I love coming up with new and inventive ways to scare the piss out of my mailman—or anyone really—but he is my main tester. It’s basically cardio for everyone involved. Community service, if you will.” I wave my fork like this is a public service announcement.
“And I review Ouija boards—garage sale finds, mostly. I grade them on spelling, ghost responsiveness, and ease of glide. You’d be shocked how many don’t pass basic quality control. Last week one spelled out butt three times in a row. One star.”
He blinks. I barrel on.
“Also, candy corn experiments. I’m on year three of trying to make it into something edible. Candy corn cookies? Disaster. Candy corn bread? Toothpaste and shame. Candy corn lasagna? We don’t talk about that one. I swear this year it’s happening, I’m committed!”
He actually winces.
“Oh, and pumpkin adoption! Every October I adopt as many pumpkins as will fit on my porch, give them names and take care of them like family. Then I smash them all on November first in a passover ritual. It’s cathartic. Like a funeral with snacks.”
His fork freezes midair.