Page 25 of Melancholia

“He’s right.”

She snorts. “And he cares about nice cars, not necessarily fast cars.” For a few moments she just watches me as I suck coffee through the straw, cheeks hollowed as the cold, caffeinated liquid fills my mouth. “You like him?”

No.

But I just give her a tiny smile, then shrug. “He’s different,” I allow, not lying about that. “He’s interesting. I’ve never met anyone like him, and I like his dogs.”

Though I might have a small grudge against Umbra, even if she hadn’t hurt me.

“Oh, I will happily help you two.” Hestia gets to her feet, her smile wide. “It’s been years since he’s been in a relationship. He’s actually pretty sensitive. Don’t tell him I said that, but he takes things to heart way too easily⁠—”

“Please don’t help⁠—”

“I can make up some excuses to have him around more?”

“Really, you don’t need to⁠—”

“And I’ll make sure to bully him into bringing the dogs since you like them.”

Somehow, this has gotten woefully out of hand. I just stare at her, flabbergasted, my coffee forgotten in my hand as Hestia goes on about all the ways she’ll help me get a date with her cousin.

But all I can do is sit there and wonder what the hell I’ve done to deserve such a ‘helpful’ friend. And whether her help will kill me faster than I would die otherwise.

10

No matter how much I beg or joke or anything, Hestia doesn’t back down. She assures me there’s nothing to be afraid of. That Amir isn’t cruel by any means. She even tells me she thinks I might be his type.

I don’t have the courage to tell her I’d rather be anything but his type. Finally, after she leaves a second message for him while meeting my gaze with undisguised amusement, I decide to give up. If he didn’t like me before, he won’t now. But now I’ll have to contend with him knowing I asked about him.

My stomach churns with that knowledge, and as I leave the coffee shop with my favorite iced latte in my hand, I wonder what I recently did in my life to deserve this.

You discovered Andrew was murdered, an unfriendly, mocking voice in my head reminds me. You should’ve just left well enough alone, Nell.

Yeah. Well, that ship has sailed, and I mentally shoo the unfriendly presence away. It’s getting a bit too real for my liking, and I have gone four days without seeing any ghosts.

I will not ruin my streak today, damn it.

Being awake in the early afternoon and not having to go into the mortuary always feels so weird. Like I’m doing something wrong, or living in a parallel universe only vaguely similar to my own. I like my schedule, my routine, and my comfort places. Unfortunately, I’m awful at actually finding and making places comfortable for me, which leaves me with…not many.

Technically, Still Pines is a bit too big and spread out to walk to everything. But having an apartment just off the main square provides me with some walkability, even if my choices are limited. Today I just walk. Up one side of the square, then down the other. I’m not interested in the two boutiques that have somehow remained open for the last few decades, or the thrift store with a huge neon NOW HIRING sign on the big window out front.

They’re always hiring, though, so I pass that without much interest. If the Good Deed could keep people for longer than a month, maybe I’d have a better opinion of the cranky old lady who runs it. Having been in there all of one time, I can comfortably say I won’t be going back unless I’m under threat of death.

And even then, I think I’d rather deal with Umbra’s teeth snapping near my face than the squinting woman who likes to throw out random, backhanded insults like most old ladies hand out hard candy.

I regret choosing not to drive to the next town over, almost halfway between here and Philly. I could really go for an egg salad sandwich, but as I near the Honey Clove diner, I pause, frowning. There’s nothing wrong with it. And Betty is the best gossip this side of the city when I’m looking for something to entertain me.

But diner food isn’t tea company sandwich-level food. With one more silent lament for my lack of motivation to drive anywhere, I duck into the small diner, letting the door close hard behind me. Obviously, Betty hasn’t had anyone in to fix the hinges yet, and it clangs hard against the frame, bouncing a couple times against the metal.

The red vinyl booths are just as lurid as ever, and I swear my eyes have to take a moment to adjust to the garish colors that would fit better in an eighties stage play than here. Part of me wonders if the owner, who might be Betty, though I’ve never been sure how many people are involved in this enterprise, ever intends on modernizing the place, or if it’s just some weird relic of the past.

Betty pushes through the double doors and gives me a dazzlingly wide grin when she sees me. “Nell,” she greets. “Sit anywhere. I’ll get you a menu if you need it?” I shake my head at the question.

“Nah, I’m predictable today.” My voice is quiet, almost lost under the sound of conversation from the five booths stuffed with people. Two of them are next to each other, with high schoolers moaning about the start of school next week. They mourn the end of summer as I sit down clear across the diner, hoping it’ll at least give me a bit of a buffer from their loud-ass conversations.

It does not.

Instead, I get to listen to them for the next few minutes while waiting for Betty. They aren’t mean, or really screaming. They just don’t understand how acoustics work. Or how their voices echo. By the time she appears, with a Cherry Coke in one hand and toast in the other, I’m ready to fall to my knees and thank her for it.