There’s a guy standing a stone’s throw away. He’s come out of nowhere, a tall, solid-looking guy, rocking a fade haircut and a jawline that’s gift wrapped in either shadow or stubble. His face places him somewhere near my age, early twenties, but his shoulders could rival the wingspan of an eagle’s. Yes, I’ll admit it: graveyard boy is hot. He’s got a great body and “sensitive man” eyebrows, the kind that are currently drawing together with empathetic, masculine whimsy. But what’s he doing hanging out here in the middle of the night, like me?
Oh god, what if he’s a security officer?
In a denim button-down and rolled-up jeans?
Hmm.
“Hey!” I say casually. As if I’m not in the process of committing multiple well-reasoned crimes. “What’s up?”
He gestures to his bespoke leather knapsack. “I’m collecting pine cones.”
Wow, okay.
I feel my shoulders drop with relief at the revelation that he isn’t a security officer in woodsy camouflage. It’s possible he’s a groundskeeper or maybe a lumberjack model-in-training. Yeah, that could be it. Too bad hisVermont Magazinecover-boy body is wasted potential, because I’m 1,000 percent sure “pine cones” is some kind of slang for magic mushrooms.
“Pine cones, huh?” I say. “What are you, a squirrel?”
“Ha. Funny. You out foraging too?” As he closes the bag, he smiles at me the way people do when they’re smiling back at someone. Fun fact: I’m definitely not smiling. I’m offended to my core at the suggestion I might have such a crunchy hobby. Which I don’t, because I’m 100 percent normal and boring. I’ve been working on it for years.
“No,” I say through clenched teeth. “Nothing like that.”
“Uh,” says something behind me. The head?
I push my duffel back, hoping that’ll keep the head from sight—and more importantly,quiet—so naturally the scissors wedge themselves out of the duffel at my rough handling. Okay, technically, they’re a pair of wire cutters. Still not great. I can’t let this guy think I’m the most suspicious person on the planet. Desperately, I explain: “I was arranging the flowers on this grave.”
“Huh. I did think they looked messy earlier.” He nods. “Nice work.”
Wait a second. What kind of person even notices that about a grave? Maybe a grave robber. If this guy’s a criminal, he definitely won’t report me for deviant behavior. But then again: that would mean he’s a criminal. And that means it’s time to nip our conversation in the bud.
“Thanks,” I say. I get down on my knees and hum to myself, gathering the yellow leaves and roses and laying them out in the shape of an inverted pentagram. It’s what Grandma Rose would’ve wanted.
The guy bends to investigate my work. “Is that your job?” he asks. “To arrange flowers?”
Oh my god. Why won’t he just walk away? And why does he smell so good?
“Yeah,” I laugh as I shuffle over to the tombstone. “I’m a florist.”
“A florist? For funerals?”
Why not? I nod. “And other events.”
“Do you do weddings?”
“Oof,” says a voice behind me. A voice from within my duffel bag, presumably, because of course the head won’t let me flirt OR bury him in peace.
The guy cranes his neck, searching for the source of the sound. “Oof?”
I laugh tinnily. “Oofcourse I do weddings! Ha ha. Ha. It was a joke.”
The guy’s confused smile makes my heart beat faster. I feel light and fluttery, like whipped sugar and butter flying out of a hyperactive stand mixer, which is ridiculous. He’s at best a forager, most likely a magic mushroom addict, and at worst a grave robber. Yet all I want is for him to keep taking an interest in me.
Sometimes I really, deeply, truly resent myself.
“So tell me,” Graveyard Guy says. “What kind of weddings do you—”
“Agh!” says the head behind us, louder now.
“Agh!” I echo. In desperation, I grasp onto Grandma’s death-wreath and cough. “Keh, kleh. Something caught in my throat!”
