“It’s just that . . . ,” I start, shifting Loki’s carrier from one hand to the other. “I’m still kind of hung up on someone.”
“An ex-boyfriend?”
“Yeah.” None of this is a lie—I am still hung up on Joe, and he is technically my ex-boyfriend. But I can’t help but feel a little stupid, talking about something that ended six years ago. “Sorry,” I add awkwardly.
Dom shakes his head. “No hard feelings. Have a good life, EverlynneL.”
“You, too, DominicG.”
When I check my phone in the car, there are a few messages from Nora.
Nora: I just Google Earthed the address. I think Loki is looking for a new sugar daddy.
Nora: Okay, it’s been twenty minutes. Answer me.
Nora: Thirty now. Did sugar daddy kidnap you???
Nora: Forty. I’m sending help.
Nora: FIFTY. And I really don’t want to be that Karen who overreacts by calling the cops but OH MY GOD, SHOULD I?
I laugh and text her back.
Ever: It’s me. I’m fine. Loki is fine. Everything is fine.
Nora: I don’t believe you. Say something Ever would say so I know that it’s you and not your sadistic capturer trying to throw me off scent because really he killed you and got rid of your body and wants it to decompose before I send out a search party.
Have I mentioned that I got Nora into true-crime podcasts? We sometimes spend weekends binge-listening to them in our pajamas, working on fifteen-hundred-piece jigsaws.
Ever: Cakes that look like burgers or poop or soccer fields aren’t cute. They’re disturbing. The dissonance between the visual and the taste buds makes the whole eating experience chaotic and unpleasant. I want my cake to look like a cake. Not like a Doritos bag. This is my truth. Thanks for coming to my TED talk.
Her answer comes promptly.
Nora: Okay, weirdo. See you at home.
FIVE
Later that day, when I get back home from a shift at the witchcraft store, Nora is there, sans Colt. It shouldn’t make me happy. There is nothing wrong with Colt. He’s a great guy. But I still find myself giddy that we have some alone time.
“Well!” Nora is perched on our threadbare sofa, feet propped on the coffee table, Loki in her lap. She scratches his lower back, by his tail. His butt is arched right in her face. “Tell me all about the guy you picked up Sir Meows-a-Lot from.”
I drop my backpack by the door and make my way to her, then throw myself on the couch. “He is twenty-nine. A nurse. Super nice, super hot, super the opposite of me in every way . . . which made the fact he asked me out pretty shocking.”
“Shut up!” Nora sits upright, shrieking. The sudden movement makes Loki jump from her lap to the floor. “When are you going? What are you wearing? Do you have his last name so we can cyberstalk him?”
Shaking my head, I laugh. “I said he asked me out. I didn’t say I said yes.”
“Of course you didn’t.” Her shoulders sag in disappointment. “Why, I ask? Why!”
Nora is in the same vein of Pippa—funny, eccentric, cup-half-full kind of girl—only not as crazy, impulsive, and daring as my former best friend. I can see the two of them hitting it off, and it makes me sad they’ll never know each other. Despite Nora’s bubbly, outgoing nature, what she does for a living is pretty intense. She is a mortuary makeup artist. She works for Saint Mary’s Funeral Home. I once asked her what made her choose this line of work. I needed to know if she had a Cousin Shauna story that had turned her life upside down too.
But she just shrugged and said, Nothing really happened. Originally, I wanted to go to beauty school. Then my mom told me she knows a cosmetologist and that she makes good money, works few hours, and is basically helping people and making a change. This was exactly what I wanted for myself. Not many people are drawn to this profession, but someone’s gotta do it. It’s an honor to prepare people for their last journey. Make sure the last time their loved ones see them, they don’t see the horrors they’ve been through.
It surprised me. I couldn’t shake the feeling that death chased me, even when I tried to run away from it.
“Well?” Nora demands. “You still haven’t answered me.”
I’m trying to remember what we were talking about. Oh. Dom. Right.
I shrug. “You know I don’t date.”
“No, what I know is you’re still hung up on this random fuckboy you met on vacation six years ago. It’s nuts, Ever. Even with everything that happened. It’s time to move on. I feel like I need to stage an intervention or something.”