Page 41 of Melancholia

I don’t respond. Complimenting the bread feels too easy. Like a trap he’s waiting to spring shut around me, though I’m not sure how my enjoyment of gluten could be used against me.

“You haven’t been in Still Pines very long.”

It isn’t a question, so I don’t dignify it with an answer. Instead, I push some stray hair back from my face, and I snatch a few quick looks at my dinner partner as I do. Trying to read him, maybe, but that feels impossible.

“You’ve been gone from Still Pines for very long—” I retort, then wince at how that is incredibly incorrect. “No, that’s not what I meant to say. You’ve been gone for…” but I trail off. The retort is ruined, and it’s never coming back. Still, when I look at him again, Amir is looking at me with something that definitely feels a bit like pity.

And really, I deserve that. I was trying too hard to be coy and confident, instead of sticking with disturbed and dismal.

“I grew up in Still Pines with my parents.” I’m momentarily surprised when he’s the one who answers first. “But I moved away when I got into college.”

“Where did you go?”

Why do I care?

“Northwestern.”

“Well, that’s certainly better than my stint in community college.” When Amir glances up at me, a little perplexed, I add without thinking, “My dad was a bit of a college snob. Raised us with Ivy League dreams and a trade school budget.” My mouth hitches in a crooked, dry grin.

“Oh? And what does your father think of you becoming a mortician all the way out here? It’s quite far from Chicago. I’m sure there were jobs like this available⁠—”

“I have no idea what he thinks,” I cut him off before he can finish, then I rest my head on the back of my hand. This is a conversation I’ve had before. Usually with therapists, doctors, or insurance people.

The insurance people are always the worst, and I’m thankful Amir doesn’t react with the same fake pity I get as they scan their memories and their computers for a way to get out of giving me a payout. Amir opens his mouth again, but I beat him to it.

“Dad left after Elaina died. Really, he could be dead for all I know. And before you find either a very blunt or a very creative way of asking, my mother is dead. And no, I didn’t embalm her. That would be creepy. Also, I was sixteen.”

Amir’s head tilts, and a small smile touches his lips. “I was going to be tactful and ask you what you studied at college,” he admits finally with a small chuckle. “But I won’t lie and say I wasn’t curious.”

Oh.

There I go again, aiming for coy and confident and absolutely failing.

“What did you major in?” he asks more formally, nudging me out of my sudden staring contest with the salt shaker.

This time I hesitate. A small, almost grimace twists my lips before I finally say, “Legal and Paralegal studies. My dad was a paralegal. I guess I thought…” I trail off. “Anyway. Finished my mandatory two years. Didn’t go any farther until mortuary school last year. What about you? Med? Pre-med? Psychology?”

When my brain tries to tell me I shouldn’t be so curious about him, I immediately block out any guilt by telling myself that this is research.

I’m researching how to get rid of him.

“Risk Management.”

It’s definitely not what I’m expecting, and I have to take a moment, eyes narrowing. “Seriously?”

Instead of answering, he tears off another piece of bread and spins it in the olive oil, his gaze holding mine. It’s very mature, I think to myself. Way more mature than anything I’ve ever done with my life. And judging by everything I’ve seen about him, he certainly makes more than I’ll ever see.

Before I can get much more in the way of information, our waitress appears again, this time with our food and another glass of wine for Amir. When she notices I’ve barely touched my tea, she looks at me with a frown while setting my plate in front of me. “Do you want something else?”

“Hm? No, I—” I definitely don’t want to say that I’ve just forgotten about it. When I tunnel vision into something interesting, I really do forget almost everything else. “No. It’s fine. It’s good,” I promise. Thankfully, that convinces her, as does Amir’s smile as he murmurs an agreement and assures her everything looks good.

The rest of dinner isn’t that exciting. There’s not much else he really gives me in terms of interesting information, but I can’t help thinking that’s because I’m trying to be careful about what I give him.

Our drive home is just as inconsequential. I ask him about the music, and Amir spends a few minutes explaining the merits of whatever it is he’s listening to, while turning his lip up at my mortuary playlist.

Not that I wanted his approval.

But by the time he’s pulling up next to my car in the mortuary parking lot, I’m exhausted. Literally, figuratively, and spiritually exhausted.