Beautiful Graves(101)

When we go to bed, I wrinkle my nose and ask, “How many women have you . . . ahm, entertained in your bedroom?”

He looks upward, pretending to start counting them with his fingers. One . . . two . . . three . . .

“About thirty-five,” he deadpans. “Some were entertained more than others, but almost all tried to buy a ticket for the next show.”

“Manwhore.” I gag.

“I prefer sexually liberated individual.” He yanks me to him, planting a kiss on my lips. “Don’t pout. Sex is a great distraction. It’s a bulletproof way to forget about your worries.”

“What are you so worried about?” I play with the elastic of his sweatpants. He’s not wearing a shirt. We both kind of gave up on the idea of clothes in his apartment. They serve no purpose, seeing as we have sex on an hourly basis.

“You,” he says, clapping his hand over mine and stopping me from lowering his sweatpants. “This whole thing tastes like goodbye, and I don’t like it.”

I lick my lips. “I haven’t made up my mind yet. I’m still looking at colleges in Boston.”

“What’s stopping you from moving back here?”

“What’s stopping you from moving to San Francisco?” I counter.

“Nothing,” he says matter-of-factly, surprising me. “San Francisco has docks, so I’ll have a day job. It has publishing houses. It has you. But no one’s invited me. That’s my holdup.”

This is my in. My chance to tell him that I want him by my side. But the fear is paralyzing. I’m scared of what our cursed relationship might result in. What if he dies too? I won’t be able to survive. I won’t. And now that Mom is dead, and Dom is dead, I just don’t want to lose him. I’m irrationally scared something’ll happen to Joe. Maybe because I know he is my only shot at happiness, I can’t afford anything happening to him. Ever. Even if—illogically—giving him up means I’ll never be happy.

And perhaps it is the happiness itself that scares me. The idea that I could laugh again, regularly, every day. That I would smile. That I would forget the dark past I’ve left behind.

This is the moment of truth, and in that moment of truth, I find that there’s a part of me that’s still a coward. That still wants to run and hide in an existence full of loneliness and Netflix and a cat who may very well hate me. A comforting, flatlined life where nothing dies but nothing really grows either.

“All right.” I run a finger over his torso, mustering a fake smile. “I’ll think about what to write on the invitation.” I cup his erection. It’s swollen and full in my hand. But when I try to kiss his neck, he withdraws with a cold smile.

“You do that, Ever. I’ll give you some time to write it down.”

He wrestles a tee onto his body, grabs his keys, and leaves.



I don’t know when Joe comes back, but it is sometime in the middle of the night. When he walks inside, the room smells like it has been drenched in whiskey and cigarettes. He falls next to me on the mattress and starts snoring. I lie there, immobile and awake, my heart thudding wildly.

I want to invite him to San Francisco.

I want to be with him.

It is stupid, not to mention unreasonable, to be dismantled by something as crazy as thinking we’re cursed. So irrational I cannot even articulate it to him without sounding like an idiot.

I toss and turn the entire night. My flight back to San Francisco is tonight, and I still don’t know what I’m going to do. Joe expects an answer about where we stand.

Morning washes over the sky. I stand up and walk to the window, looking outside. Joe’s bedroom faces the back of a market. The scents of the catch of the day, herbs, spices, and cooking rise up from the street.

I turn back around and advance toward the bed. I press my palm against his cheek. He is beautiful, warm, and alive. My heart clenches at the sight of him. It’s always been like this. I never could resist the magic in Joseph Graves. And it occurs to me, depressingly, that really, I have nothing to offer to this guy. He is talented, gorgeous, and completely fantastic. He is fully baked, with his own personality, and traits, and ideas, and wishes. Me, I can barely figure out what I want to do with my life. I will only slow him down. And he would let me. Because that is the kind of guy Joe is.

I am doing him a disservice by sleeping with him, by messing with what he has left of his late brother—the precious memories they share together.

And even if I could overcome all my insecurities—which, let’s admit it, is a stretch—I’m still left with one uncomfortable fact: I think something bad will happen if we become a couple.

The universe has rejected the idea of us over and over again. Who am I to defy it?

Quietly, and with a heavy heart, I grab my duffel bag and start gathering my things. I stop only to glance at the wooden boat he took from Dom. I know Joe didn’t take it because he missed those summer vacations. He took it because of me. And the thought of breaking his heart for the second time makes my stomach turn.

When I’m done, I pick up a pen and a notepad in his kitchen and write him a message.

Dear Joe,

I’m sorry I was the bucket of water in our relationship. I’m sorry you were the rat. Most of all, I’m sorry I went with Pippa to that beach party all those years ago. Because that resulted in so much heartache for everyone we know, and two lost lives.