“Whamhalla. If you hear ‘Last Christmas’ during December, you go to Whamhalla. It’s ridiculously hard to avoid that song, especially if you go shopping in December.” He grins proudly. “I managed it last year. I survived Whamageddon.”
“You’re crazy.”
Quinn shrugs. “I didn’t make the game up.”
“Who did?”
“No clue. It’s fun. You should try it next December.”
“We can try to survive together.”
Quinn’s eyes go wide as he gasps. I catch him as he slumps forward.
“Was it something I said?” I ask once he’s righted himself a few moments later.
“Uh, sort of. You shocked me, that’s all.”
“Shocked you?”
“By talking about the future.” He grins. “In a graveyard of all places!” His smile fades. “December is a long way away.”
I stroke Quinn’s cheek. “Is it?”
“Yes.”
I wrap my arm around his back and slam my mouth to his, kissing him passionately. Within a second or two, I’m supporting Quinn’s weight. “It doesn’t feel that far away when I’m with you.”
“That’s the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me,” Quinn slurs.
I scoop him into my arms and carry him back towards the entrance so we can visit the east side of the cemetery. I’m fairly certain that he regains the ability to walk long before we get there, but neither of us says anything.
The east side of the cemetery is less overgrown, the majority of the graves more recent. I set Quinn on his feet once we get to Douglas Adams’s grave and take a copy ofThe Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxyout of my bag. It’s a well-worn copy, with a cracked spine and dogeared pages. I’m sure true bibliophiles would have a fit if they saw it, but in my opinion, it’s well loved and well read.
The grave is an unassuming rectangle with a very simple epigraph carved into it:
Douglas Adams
Writer
1952-2001
In front of the grave is a clay pot full of pens and pencils that visitors have left behind. I add a pen to the pot and then read the first chapter of the book to Quinn. He has a soft smile as I read and watches me attentively.
“If you wanted a career change, you could do literary tours of author’s graves. I could listen to you read all day.”
My cheeks become warm as his compliment sinks in.
We continue on our journey. At George Eliot’s grave, I read fromSilas Marner.At Anthony Shaffer’s grave, I read fromSleuth. We pause at Karl Marx’s grave, and I read from his manifesto. At Peter Shaffer’s grave, I read from the playAmadeus, putting on different voices for Mozart and Salieri.
“I think if you share a headstone with someone, you were more than just friends,” Quinn muses as he looks at the gravestone.
It was for Robert Leonard first, and then Peter Shaffer was buried beside him later.
“They were more than friends,” I confirm. “Shaffer was gay, but he never officially came out.”
“That’s sad.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to end our tour on a low.”
