Beautiful Graves(105)

“No, no.” I shake my head, frantic. “I need something sooner.”

“You’re out of luck. I have nothing for you.”

“Please,” I choke out. I’m not above begging. “I really don’t want to turn around and leave this airport. I have to go back.”

She rolls her eyes, then types something into her keyboard. She nods at the screen, like it is talking to her. “There’s a flight boarding in forty minutes. But I only have one seat left.”

“Yes! I’ll take it! I’m one person!”

“. . . it’s business class. Twenty-five hundred dollars.”

“Oh.” I falter before squaring my shoulders. “Yes. I’ll take it.”

No big deal. It’s just a month’s worth of work for me. On a job I don’t currently hold. I hand the ticket agent my credit card and pray to God the payment isn’t declined. I hold my breath as she waits for the confirmation to go through. Then sag in relief when the ticket starts printing.

She hands it to me, still stoic. “Better make a run for it, or your plane will leave without you.”

I run like my ass is on fire. Until I get to security, where I cut the line and explain my situation, frantic and blabbering, to people who protest. Then I run to the gate. Then I run into the plane. And what do you know, I’m on another five-hour flight to Boston.

Only this time, I don’t stew on all the things I’ve done wrong. I think about ways to make them right.

Also, can we talk about how tragic it is that the first and probably last time I’m in business class, I’m too distracted to even take in my surroundings?

I bring my family up to speed in a chat group I create. Consisting of Donna, Renn, Dad, and myself.

Ever: I’m on a plane back to Boston.

Renn: Why? Did you forget your charger there?

Renn: J/k. WTF?

Dad: I second your brother’s (less than eloquent) question.

Ever: I need to do something.

Donna: Could you please be a little less cryptic?

Ever: I need to win Joe back.

Donna: We are proud of you! (and slightly worried . . . )

Dad: Let us know when you land.

Renn: Young love is such a drag. No wonder I want nothing to do with it.



It’s early morning by the time I land at Logan International Airport. Weak rays of sunshine pierce through the clouds, making them look like fluffy pincushions. I feel like I haven’t slept in years. My muscles hurt. My heart beats dully. Still, I’ve never been as ready to do something in my life.

I make my way to the taxi lane. Somewhere over the last twenty-four hours, I’ve lost my duffel bag, and I don’t even care. I have my wallet with me, and that’s all I need. Once I slide inside, I give the woman Joe’s address. It’s five in the morning, and I think I just might catch him before he goes to work if the driver goes over the speed limit.

“Salem, huh? That’s some ride,” she says.

“I’ll double your pay if you floor it,” I tell her from the back seat, yet again channeling my inner Bill Gates. I’m feeling ballsy with my bank account today.

The middle-aged lady eyes me curiously across her shoulder. “Tell you what. How ’bout I don’t get us both killed, and you take a long, deep breath?”

“That’s fair,” I mumble. Meg Ryan would’ve charmed her into agreeing, but whatever.

Traffic from the airport is painfully slow. Then we get into Salem, and there is construction work on the main road. I get to Joe’s apartment building half an hour later than I hoped to. I hit the buzzer, but no one answers. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t want to see me anyway. Unfortunately for him, he doesn’t have a choice.

I pull out my phone and call Gemma, well aware that it is way too early for social calls. She answers on the fourth ring but sounds wide awake.

“Hi, Ever, is everything okay?”

She sounds completely unaware of my drama with Joe. Figures. He isn’t big on sharing.

“Yes. I mean, no. I don’t know yet.” I shake my head. “I was hoping to reach Joe, but I’m trying him at his apartment and he’s not answering.”

“Well, he’s most likely at work by this hour. He starts very early,” Gemma says reasonably. “Why don’t you try him there?”

“Okay. Yeah. I should.” There’s an awkward pause before I ask, “Where does he work on the docks, exactly?”

She gives me the address at Pickering Wharf Marina, and I write it down on the back of my hand before calling an Uber.

It’s yet another journey, but this one is quick and relatively painless. I spend the ride trying to flatten my hair into submission and get rid of the sleep from around my eyes.

Then finally—finally—I’m there. I hop out of the Uber and run toward a cluster of trucks and cargo containers. There are people around wearing orange hard hats and matching safety vests.

“Joseph!” I call out to a few of the men there, completely out of breath. “I’m looking for Joseph Graves. Or just Seph. Or just Joe.”

They lift their eyes from the clipboard one of them holds and scan me. They must think I’m crazy. They’re not completely off base.

“You want Joe?” one of them asks.

“Yes,” I say. “God, yes. Wanting him is an understatement.” But maybe I should save this declaration for the man I came here for, and not this random person. The guy lifts one eyebrow, obviously reassessing if he should disclose his colleague’s whereabouts. For the first time in my life, I feel unabashedly myself. Free and unhinged.