There’s a reason I didn’t recognize him right away: unlike last time, my cemetery forager is all dressed up. His white button-down, pairedwith navy suspenders, accentuates the solid span of his chest. The hulk of his shoulders. The pressed chinos and unscuffed Chelsea boots. For a nocturnal lumberjack, he cleans up nice.Realnice. My heart’s beating even faster now—and probably faster than it did when he first found me on Grandma Rose’s grave. I feel as if I’m looking at Hanry for the first time. Except the sparks are even more intense than our first meeting, probably because I’m not distracted with committing a minor crime.
“Samantha!” he calls back. “Or is it Sabby?”
“Sabby,” I confirm. He holds eye contact with me, approaching in an alarmingly short number of strides.
At once, I realize that I am wearing: a black apron, the sparkly Crocs I bought when I was thirteen, and a black turtleneck that covers a cross necklace I found in Grandma Rose’s flamboyant costume jewelry jar. My hair is up in a basic claw clip. Bulan looks slightly more the part of a wedding guest. He insisted on another nice hat—this time a top hat—which I’ve tied firmly around his chin-butt. I never thought I’d be jealous of a head, but here we are.
“I’m leaving right after the ceremony,” I inform Hanry, rather than greeting him like a normal person. “That’s why I’m underdressed.”
“Oh.”
“The venue is supposed to take care of the send-off. Not me. So.”
Hanry seems to accept that. Now that he isn’t weighed down by his forager’s knapsack, he stands at a more impressive height than I remembered. It’s annoying. Rude, even. I was planning to chew him out for foisting this job on me and assuming I’m the type to casually interact with vampires. But the height and the suspenders are too damn distracting.
“A shame you won’t be staying longer,” Hanry says in a congenially towering fashion. “I was looking forward to you being here.”
Again: how annoying.
“Well, I’m here now.”
“As am I.”
Wow. This is a great conversation, not the least bit awkward.
In a moment of unexpected empathy, Bulan rescues me. He asks, “What brought you here early, Hanry? Are you a groomsman?”
In order to see us, Bulan has rolled onto his ear at the expense of his hat. This reveals a strip of tape stuck to the wiry red hair on his upper lip. Neither the presence of a talking head nor its poor sense of hygiene fazes Hanry.
“I came here to check in on you,” Hanry says to me. Then to Bulan: “Hello.”
“Hello,” Bulan says.
I return his top hat to its proper position, to preserve what little there is of Bulan’s dignity. I also consider ripping the tape off his wiry red mustache, but no: I’ve got bigger fish to fry. Bigger ones, even, than the question of how seemingly human Hanry is wrapped up in the paranormal community, and why he was foraging in the graveyard, and how he got so damn tall. I’m here to get this wedding picture-perfect, so I must correct the wonky shape of this cobwebbed branch amid my shriveled fungus kebabs. It’s not a centerpiece if it’s off-center, right?
While I work, Hanry surveys the shabby, near-festive mess of the ballroom. I watch him from the corner of my eye.
“What do you think?” I ask. Because for some reason, I care about his opinion.
“Everything looks great,” he says.
My chest gets unexpectedly warm and fuzzy. “Thanks.”
“Can I help you put anything away?”
I puzzle at him. “We’ve only just started decorating. We need to do finishing touches on the other tables, put together the ceremony room, set out chairs and signage. Then I’ll give the bridal party their bouquets and pin on some boutonnieres…”
“Huh,” says Hanry. “Isn’t everyone arriving in an hour?”
I don’t appreciate that kind of joke, but I still fake-laugh, right until I realize he isn’t teasing. I check my phone. It’s already four.
“Where the hell did the time go?!” I mutter to myself.
Bulan answers from the floor. “Don’t look at me, Sabby. I’m not your timekeeper!”
“Are you going to be okay?” Hanry asks.
Am I?
