CHAPTER FIFTEEN
MASSACHUSETTS, PRESENT DAY
Somewhere in my mid-twenties, I’d met a girl named Morgan.
She’d bumped into me during my shift at the cemetery. I had just finished weeding the area surrounding my parents’ graves when I spotted the pretty young woman, weeping over the grave of her sister’s stillborn son.
“I feel so weird,” she said through her tears, accepting a tissue from the pack I always kept in my pocket for moments like this. “I didn’t even know him. And it’s such bullshit that I never will.”
“We often mourn for two different reasons,” I replied while thinking about her poor sister, unable to comprehend how it must’ve felt to carry a baby for months, only to bury him before getting the chance to hear him cry. “We mourn what once was, and we mourn the possibility of what could’ve been. Sometimes, we only mourn one or the other, and unfortunately, in your case, it’s obviously the latter. And you’re right; it is bullshit.”
I hadn’t intended anything to come from saying what I had. It’d been as much for her as it was for me, shedding a few tears myself for the parents who’d never been allowed to witness me becoming a somewhat-stable man with a college degree, driver’s license, and steady job. But my words touched something inside of her, and she collapsed into my arms, sobbing for her sister’s pain and the nephew she’d never get the chance to hold and know. I wiped her tears, surprised that I possessed the power to be so brazen with a stranger, especially an attractive member of the opposite sex.
And then, in a moment that was unexpected and unprovoked, she kissed me.
A full-blown make-out session ensued right there in the middle of the cemetery I worked at, only yards away from where my parents eternally lay. A chaotic frenzy of snaking tongues and tangled limbs, the taste of salt and sorrow mingling between our open mouths. She wove her hands into my hair, pulling tightly, holding on for dear life, almost as though if she let go, she’d be the next one to join those in their infinite slumber. In a breathless moment of sheer desperation, she asked if I had a condom, and of course, I didn’t because why would I? Sex with random women wasn’t something I’d engaged in … well, ever.
“Never mind. That’s okay,” she replied, panting as she quickly undid my belt buckle. “I’m on the pill.”
It’d been the most exciting, most careless, most insane thing I’d ever done in my life at that point, having unprotected sex with a woman I didn’t know in the shadows of the cemetery. But I couldn’t find a damn thing wrong in what we’d done together.
We’d needed a release. We’d needed fun. We’d needed the exhilaration of engaging in the most primal of things, the very lifeblood of what it meant to be a living, breathing human. Even if we’d both known we’d never see each other again—and we hadn’t.
And now, this woman—the one I still had yet to know the name of—reminded me of that moment in my life. Of Morgan and that blip of time in which our paths had crossed. Of excitement and scandal and everything good about being alive when there was otherwise nothing good about it at all.
I had felt it the moment her hand grabbed mine and her pointed nail traced the lines embedded into my skin, like her intent was to commit every touch of ink to memory. I hadn’t wanted to feel it—God knew I’d spent long enough resisting this very thing. Connection. Interdependence. Intimacy on any point of the spectrum. But to deny that she’d reignited something that I had long ago left to die would’ve been a waste of time and proverbial breath.
It was there. I didn’t want it to be, but it was.
She sees me.
I had learned early in life that hope was often a foolish thing, meant only for those who hadn’t yet gotten sick of being let down. I knew better, and I couldn’t allow myself to want anything more than this time here, in this yard.
And yet …
It was so nice to sit with her on this bench in Blake’s backyard. To feel her presence, to share the air with someone else. And as the minutes passed, my comfort expanded, and my knees spread further, pressing my thigh deeper against hers almost absentmindedly until the fabric of my jeans was flush with the threads of her dress and the warmth of her body seeped through every fiber to awaken my nerves and heat the life pumping through my guarded heart.
It wasn't good. I knew it as I barely heard what she'd said, too deafened by the blood whooshing through my ears, and still, I nodded, not wanting her to think I'd been ignoring her.
I shouldn't care.
Oh, but, God, I did.
It was already a beautiful night. The perfect example of autumn in New England. But the cinnamon and incense she'd injected into the air, combined with the smokiness of her voice, cocooned me in a serenity I'd never known before. There was an awareness that, once I emerged from this chrysalis, I'd remember this as the most gorgeous night of my life despite the cluster of guests who had just wandered out into the yard, chattering loudly and barking with abrupt bursts of laughter.
Our party of two on the bench fell as silent as my neighbors, both of our attention turned in the direction of the stragglers. And I found that even our silence was comfortable when it shouldn't have been, too comfortable for two people who didn't yet know each other's name, and the warning sirens in my head were ringing louder than any church bell in the city.
The group seemed to take particular interest in one of the flower beds, nodding with approval for a few moments before turning around and heading back inside without sparing a second to notice our presence.
When they were gone, the woman at my side said, “So, this might surprise you because I'm obviously the definition of everything sunshiny and sweet, but I really don't like parties.”
“Neither do I,” I replied.
“And yet you came anyway.” She laughed with a tiny shred of triumph and the tiniest, almost-undetectable bit of disbelief.
“I had nothing better to do,” I replied nonchalantly, trying so hard to act casual and cool while knowing I was probably failing miserably at both.
It was hard to act anything but neurotic and shaken when I knew, as sure as I’d known something terrible would happen the night my parents died, that my world was never going to be the same as it was before I came to this party.
“From saving my life to threatening to kill me to offering stellar compliments.” She added a wistful sigh for good measure. “I don't wanna say anything, but I'm getting some mixed signals over here.”
The words were said in jest, sarcastic, but there was truth to them, and I said nothing, as they were allowed to marinate.
Am I intentionally pushing her away?
The wind answered with a gust of rustling willow branches. Of course I was. I knew myself enough to see that, and I knew myself well enough to know why.
“So, what exactly do you do all the time? I mean, when you’re not … doing whatever it is you do in the graveyard,” she said, stealing me away from my thoughts and changing the subject.
I chuckled quietly, splaying my hands over my knees. “I maintain the grounds. I open the gates, dig the graves, mow the lawn—”
She snorted and nearly choked around a laugh. “That's one big fuckin’ lawn.”
Beneath my mask, I smiled easily. “Keeps me busy.”
“Too busy to work on those social skills—that's for damn sure.”
My smile broadened. “That's kinda always been the idea.”
“But, like … why?”
“Why do you want to know?” I asked, amused.
She shrugged. “I’m curious! You’re, like, a mystery, and now, I finally have my chance to talk to the elusive Spider .” She said it with amazement and awe. “I wanna know more about you, other than how much you love threatening people.”
“I don’t love threatening people,” I corrected, fighting the urge to clench my jaw and grow rigid with the need to defend myself.
She huffed a laugh. “Sure had me fooled.”
“I do what I have to do to get by and do the right thing, but I don't love it.” I snickered, giving my head a slight shake at the audacity.
“Oh, I see.” She nodded, an air of sarcasm fueling the motion. “That makes me feel better. You were about to sever my jugular, but you wouldn't have found pleasure in it.”
“You broke into my house ,” I pointed out for what felt like the thirtieth time. This time though, it was said teasingly with a smile.
“And I said I was sorry !” She laughed, her cheeks darkening beneath the blush she wore.
Shit, she was pretty. Absolutely stunning. She looked like one of those alternative-style models with pale skin, a generous number of piercings glittering in various parts of her face and ears, chaotic black hair, and a certain rebellious quality, carried with every lift of her hand or quirk of her lips.
What she wanted from a loser like me, I had no idea.
“Anyway”—I cleared my throat, attempting to send the unwanted negativity away—“I draw, read … that’s sort of it.”
It seemed pathetic now that I’d said it out loud. But the truth was, a part of what kept me loving my job so much was how little time I had to do anything else. Little downtime meant little time to think. Little time to mourn. Little time to miss people I couldn’t be with.
“You draw?” She seemed intrigued. “Are you any good?”
I shrugged. “My brother always thought so,” I said, already knowing how lame that sounded before it even came out of my mouth.
“Does your brother lie a lot?”
I huffed a laugh, thinking of all the blunt truths Luke had thrown my way. “No. Not particularly,” I said, even as I thought about all the promises he’d unintentionally broken.
She quirked a half smile, bumped her shoulder against mine, then said, “Well, you must be pretty good then.”
I swallowed at the thought and replied, “Maybe.”
“I hope you’ll show me sometime.”
My half smile matched hers as I muttered once again, “Maybe.”
***
She was from Connecticut, not too far from where I’d lived up until several years ago. But I didn't tell her that.
She had a younger sister and a couple of nephews, and I thought about how nice it would’ve been to be an uncle. Not that it was likely for me to be a cool one. I was too weird and reclusive for that, and then the thought of being the weird uncle seemed all at once fitting and shitty. But I would’ve loved whatever kids Luke might’ve had in a different, better life, in my own weird, crappy way, and the pain twisted like a dull knife to know it would never ever happen.
I told her none of that either.
In response to her talk of where she'd been and who she'd left behind, I nodded and threw in various sounds of acknowledgment. Just so she knew I was listening with the hope that it would be enough. In the same way that the simple joy of sitting beside her in an intoxicating cloud of smokiness and cinnamon was enough for me.
“Do you like living at the cemetery?” she asked, steering the conversation away from herself for the first time in about a half hour.
“I do,” I replied, keeping it simple.
“Seriously?” Her eyes twinkled with delight, her voice incredulous.
I nodded. “It’s peaceful—well …” I paused, unsure if I wanted to continue. Unsure if I wanted to be so brazen—unsure that I even possessed the ability. But then, after taking a moment to carefully choose my words, I continued, “Except for when mysterious women show up, looking for me in unethical ways.”
It sounded rehearsed and cautious, almost robotic in tone. I hated myself for it immediately. Hated myself for thinking I could actually talk to her in a way that teetered on the edge of flirtatious.
But it didn’t seem to bother her as she snorted with amusement.
“Does that happen often?”
“I can say with confidence that you were the first.”
She turned to me, narrowing her eyes with skepticism, like she had a hard time believing that I didn't have women lined up at my door.
“What?” I chuckled, diverting my gaze even though she couldn’t see through the mask I still wore.
“I just can't believe nobody has ever tried to get their hands on you yet.”
It was her own attempt at flirtation, and it was far more effective than mine. My face heated as my collar made the abrupt decision to strangle the life out of me, leaving little room for a response. And when it was obvious that I wasn't saying anything, she cleared her throat, as if to close the door on another awkward exchange.
Nice job, moron.
She turned away and said, “I love cemeteries. Like, what they stand for. I appreciate them. But I don’t know that I could live in one.”
I huffed a laugh as one side of my mouth twitched upward. She couldn't have known, but Luke had said roughly the same thing to me when I told him about the job in Salem.
“Dude, I know you've always been into the cemetery thing, but, like, I don't know how you could live in one. It gives me the fuckin' creeps, just thinking about it.”
I could hear him now and the incredulity in his tone, like he had legitimately thought I'd finally lost my damn mind.
I had told him I had already accepted the job. I watched the furrow of his brow as I worried my bottom lip, my hands shaking and my legs jouncing wildly beneath the table. I waited for what felt like years for him to beg me not to go, even though it was his idea in the first place for me to get the fuck out of Connecticut. I desperately wanted him to take it all back … but he hadn't.
I released a morose sigh, and my shoulders hunched against the bench. The black-haired woman at my side turned to study me with the strangest blend of curiosity, pity, understanding, and an affection I felt was undeserved. I half expected her to ask what was wrong, what had once again shifted my demeanor, but what I was noticing about her was that maybe, just maybe, she had the same ability to read people and situations as I did.
So, she said nothing about that and instead continued to talk. And I sat on that bench, reluctantly allowing my lips to smile again, as I listened to her go on about nothing against the backdrop of crickets and muffled chatter coming from the house.
Shows she had been watching on the hotel TV.
A brand of cereal she’d been craving for weeks, but would never be able to find because it’d been discontinued for years.
Her love for a pair of platform boots she’d seen at a local clothing shop and not stopped thinking about since.
It was all so mundane and pointless. I had no idea why she was talking to me about any of it. But I sat there and took it all in because I was also listening to what she wasn’t saying.
She was anxious and nervous, displayed only in her penchant for rambling and bouncing her legs beneath the full, lacy skirt. Her words flowed easily enough; she didn’t stutter the way I sometimes had a tendency to do, but there was something about the night that left her feeling uneasy.
Is it me?
I speculated as she went on about her appreciation for Luke’s bike and how she’d always wanted a motorcycle, but never gotten around to getting one.
No , I thought, narrowing my eyes. If it were me, she wouldn’t have invited me. She wouldn’t have allowed me to sit with her all this time .
I wondered if there was one person inside who made her feel this way—nervous, internally on edge. I wondered who it might be and if there was anything I could say—or do—to put her at ease, finding that I wanted to be that person to make it better.
But then again, maybe it was everyone who made her anxious. After all, she had mentioned that she hated parties, so perhaps that was all it was.
Do I make her feel better? I wondered as she laughed at something she'd said, something I'd missed while navigating through the twists and turns of my stupid brain. Am I arrogant enough to believe that I could?
I wasn't sure about that, but as I watched the jittering of her knee, concealed only a little by the layers of black and tulle, I was sure about something.
She was far more like me than I’d initially expected.
And perhaps not allowing this to develop into anything more was going to be harder than I’d thought.
***
Blake wandered outside with the blonde Dorothy in tow. She was on the phone, veering off to stand in a quiet corner of the yard while Blake approached. He walked in a way that reminded me instantly of Luke—casual and effortlessly cool—with his hands tucked deep into the pockets of his leather jacket. He stopped beside the mystery woman I'd spent the night with and playfully patted the bouncy, knotted mess of hair on the top of her head.
“You good out here, Stormy girl?”
My eyes narrowed beneath the cover of my mask while my heart galloped at an alarming speed as another bit of information fell into my lap. I curled my fist at my side, as if to hold on to the nickname, pressing the letters and syllables against my palm and forcing them to burrow beneath my skin.
Stormy girl.
“You came out to check up on me, huh?” she replied, tipping her head back to look up at the man who looked as at home in the shadows as I did.
“Me? Never,” he denied, shaking his head, then flicking his eyes in my direction. “Just needed to get some air.”
She jabbed her elbow against his thigh. “I'm a big girl, Blakey boy. You don't need to watch over me.”
Their penchant to use nicknames— pet names—bristled a part of me that had no reason to be bristled at all. Jealousy was swift to kick in though, and I didn't have time to tamp it down before it reared its ugly head. I didn't like how close they seemed, how familiar and openly affectionate. Questions of what their relationship entailed bit ferociously at my tongue while my brain screamed reminders of how it was none of my damn business, and why the hell did I care anyway?
Blake pulled in a deep breath and pressed his lips into a flat, thin line. He wasn't happy with her response. He wanted to protect her, like she needed to be guarded at all costs. Whether it was for romantic or platonic reasons, I couldn't tell, but there was something in the way he glared at me with question and skepticism that made me realize he didn't trust me.
He was right not to, yet, suddenly, there was nothing in this world I wanted more than for this guy to know I wasn't someone he needed to worry about. So, in a fleeting moment of furious determination, I pulled off my mask and was greeted by a flurry of crackling static as the knitted material ran over my mess of ponytailed hair.
The mystery woman— Stormy girl —stared intently while her body remained still; even the jitters of her legs had ceased through the duration of my unveiling.
Blake watched, too, but his stare was less excited and more satisfied.
The night air was cool on my face, and my skin began to breathe again, even as my lungs were already on their way to anxiety-induced failure. Now bare and vulnerable, I forced my gaze to meet Blake’s, and he acknowledged the gesture with a subtle nod of his chin.
A man up to no good was unlikely to reveal himself to witnesses.
“There you are,” Stormy girl said, finally introducing a voice to the moment.
I felt her green gaze on me, and my eyes dodged toward hers before looking down at the mask wrenched between my hands.
“It was getting hot in there,” I felt the need to explain, my voice barely above a whispered mutter.
The blonde Dorothy headed in our direction, a wide smile on her face as she came to stand at Blake’s side.
“My mom’s going to be bringing the kids back in about an hour,” she said, looping her arm through his.
“Shit,” he muttered, clapping a hand to his forehead. “I forgot to put their sheets in the dryer before—”
“I’m way ahead of you, babe,” she said, patting her hand against his chest. “I washed Jake’s too.”
I quickly put the pieces together and realized Dorothy must’ve been Blake’s wife or girlfriend. Relief swept over me, as if any of it had any bearing on me at all.
Blake blew out a sigh as Stormy girl jabbed her elbow against his thigh.
“You should thank the universe for thinking you’re worthy of someone like her,” she teased. “She's a saint for putting up with your cranky ass.”
“I fuckin' know it,” he replied before resting his hand over Dorothy’s and kissing the top of her head.
Another rush of jealousy pushed its way into my veins and heated the apples of my cheeks. I looked away from Blake and his significant other and tried to remember when I’d last had any kind of intimate contact with anyone.
I couldn’t.
“Babe, is that your work?” Dorothy asked.
“Yeah, I did those. How long ago was it?”
When nobody else replied for a few seconds, it occurred to me that they were talking about me. With a start, I followed Dorothy’s gaze to my hands lying in my lap.
“O-oh,” I stammered, feeling like a socially inept jackass. “Um … three years maybe?”
I dropped the mask to my thighs and lifted my hands, splaying my fingers for them all to get a better look at the chaotic design of webs embedded into my skin.
“They still look good,” Blake complimented.
“Of course they do,” Dorothy said softly, her voice full of love and adoration and everything I was unlikely to ever know again. “You did them.”
Blake grumbled in protest, then said, “Well, yeah, but that doesn’t mean jack shit if they’re not cared for after the fact. Even the greatest tattoos will look like trash over time if they’re not taken care of properly. But these, they still look really good. Nice job, man.”
“Thanks,” I replied, not knowing how else to react.
“So, is that how you two met then?” Dorothy asked, her eyes volleying between me and the woman at my side. “At the shop?”
She thinks we’re a couple .
A cold, aching panic arose in my gut, and I immediately wanted to correct her. What if she didn’t want anyone to think we were together? Fuck, what if I didn’t?
Do I?
But Stormy girl wasn’t fazed at all by the question as she shook her head. “No, I was never around when Blake did Spider’s tats. But we sort of …” She glanced at me and lifted one shoulder. “We just … kept bumping into each other.”
Her eyes pinned mine as one side of her mouth lifted into a half smile, sickly sweet and painfully adorable, and the thought of kissing her hit me like a punch to the gut.
“Spider? Is that your name?” Dorothy asked.
Stormy girl’s laughter was abrupt and nervous, her eyes never leaving mine. “Actually, that’s just what we call him down at the shop. Um, I don’t, um—”
“Charlie,” I interrupted quickly before I could think better of it. My eyes held Stormy girl’s for a moment before going back to Dorothy’s. “M-my name’s Charlie.”
After all these years, they were the first people in this city, apart from a few colleagues and Ivan, to know my name. I guessed Blake had technically already known it, after doing my tattoos years ago and needing my driver’s license to do the work, but I figured it was unlikely that he’d remember after all this time.
“Ah, that’s right,” he said, proving my assumption correct. “Charlie. Not as badass as Spider, but what can you do?”
He was teasing, offering a friendly smirk. The more of myself I gave, the more at ease he seemed while I stressed that it was all too much, like I was diving in too deep and too fast.
“Anyway, we’d better get back to the party,” Blake said, already beginning to walk back inside. “Don’t keep her up too late, Charlie. She’s got work in the morning.”
The woman beside me groaned lightheartedly. “Whatever, Dad.”
Dorothy tossed a friendly wave over her shoulder while keeping up with Blake, her arm still wrapped around his as they disappeared inside.
“So, Ch—”
“What was—”
We spoke at the same time, and then we both laughed. Hers a giggle stifled by closed lips, mine a gruff chuckle. Her cheeks deepened in their blush as my face was set on fire.
“What were you gonna say?” I asked.
“No, you go first.”
I shook my head, furrowing my brow. “It wasn’t anything. I, um, I was just wondering what her name was—Blake’s—”
“Audrey. She’s Blake’s wife,” Stormy girl replied. “Sorry. I don’t know why I thought you already knew. I should’ve introduced you, but …” She laughed again, and I reveled far too much in the smokiness of the sound. Like sitting beside a bonfire on a cool autumn evening. “Okay, I thought about it, but I felt a little stupid, not knowing your name. And Blake was already going all big brother on me …”
I shrugged with forced nonchalance. “No big deal.”
“He gets like that. Maybe a little too overprotective for his own good, but … it's nice,” she went on, plucking at a loose thread in her lacy skirt.
She liked to talk. Far more than I did. I wondered if it helped her nerves, to fill the dead air with the sound of something. I was the opposite; I clammed up when I was even remotely anxious. It was for the better, knowing damn well that I was likely to stutter my way through whatever stupid nonsense I was trying to say, only to fuck it up and spend the night in a puddle of sweat while keeping those humiliating moments on repeat in my mind.
But I liked listening to her.
I didn't want to, knowing I would probably spend many sleepless hours replaying the way she’d said certain words in my head. Slowing them down, speeding them up, memorizing the inflections. But it was happening. I knew it in the way my heartbeat hammered an erratic beat at the sound of her voice while my shoulders loosened just a little, relieving the tiniest amount of tension.
She relaxed me, and, fuck, it wasn't good.
But … I liked it.
“Why?” I bit out the one-worded question just to keep her talking, and, sure, I was curious.
She replied with a huffed laugh. “Why what?”
“Why does he, you know”—I gestured with a hand—“get like that?”
I hadn't known it at the time, but I soon learned that it was the wrong thing to ask.
Stormy girl stiffened at my side, her leg frozen mid-bounce. Her hands clenched together; her lips puckered and pulled to one side. She pulled in a deep breath and cleared her throat.
“Never mind,” I was quick to add. “Don't—”
“Let's just say, I don't have a great track record with men,” she replied and released the air in her lungs. “And Blake, Cee—the lady with the dreads—they're my best friends, they're practically family, and they know all about it.”
“Ah.”
It wasn't the answer I'd wanted or expected. My brain automatically envisioned her sleeping with a slew of questionable men. Threesomes. Full-blown orgies. Her body among a massive heap of tangled limbs and nameless faces contorted in immense pleasure. It was ridiculous and irrational, but that never stopped my brain from working itself to death before.
“Maybe I'll tell you about it someday,” she quietly added.
“If you want.”
“A man of many words,” she jabbed, relaxing again with a snarky retort.
“Not a lot to say.”
She sighed wistfully. “Gonna be really awkward when we spend the drive back to the hotel in total silence.”
My brow furrowed as my eyes quickly narrowed with suspicion and protest. I thought about Morgan, that girl in the cemetery all those years ago. It'd been my one and only random hookup, as Luke had called it. I had no intention of doing it again—and especially not with Stormy girl. I couldn't put my finger on why, but she seemed worth more than that.
She deserved more than that.
I shook my head. “I don't—”
“I just meant I don't want to walk through the parking lot alone,” she quietly explained. “Blake's been taking me back every day since … you know … and, um, I just figured since you live across the street, you could—”
“Oh. Sure,” I interrupted brashly, feeling stupid for assuming anything otherwise. “Yeah, I can do that.”
She sighed as her lips curled in a soft smile. “Thanks, Charlie. I appreciate it.”
“Yep,” I replied as I read between her lines, aware of the things she wasn't saying, confirming my earlier suspicions.
Despite not knowing me, I made her feel protected— safe —and I wanted to find comfort in that.
But, God, if she only knew how wrong she was to believe those lies …
Man, she probably wouldn't want to be alone with me at all.