“A snail?”
I nod. “We don’t judge over here. Snails are friends too.”
“Yeah, of course.” He clears his throat. “Not to sound like a wanker, but you make a living from this?” he asks, completely blown away.
“Yup, quite a good living.”
“Wow, that’s . . . different.”
I look away, hiding my smirk.
Professional mourner? Yeah, that’s so not me. I read an article about it today while conducting my real job, social media expert for Frankie Donuts, Chicago’s premier donut shop. I was attempting to write a blog post that matched donuts to professions. For instance, I paired our famous cherry donut with a police officer because the flashing light on the roof of their car is called a cherry. And for the nurses out there, I gave them our scrumptious rocky road donut because they might have a rocky road at work, but they can indulge in something sweet to bring some joy to their day. At the end of the article, I wanted to throw in an odd job, just to make people laugh, and that’s when I came across professional mourners. I found it quite interesting and a little odd, but as I said it in my article, there’s always room in this world for people to offer their best self. Crying just very well might be in someone’s wheelhouse. Who are we to judge?
It’s just not one of my abilities.
“So, you’ve cried all day today?”
“Three times. I shed some tears and listened. There are people who actually go to funerals to fill out the space, but I’ve taken a different approach and try to connect with the people who might not be getting that level of connection from family or friends.”
“Never would’ve guessed,” he says, and then his eyes connect with mine. “Thank you for telling me.”
I shrug casually and pick up my phone. I lean back on the bed and scroll through social media. This is going to be fun.
Greer: You told him you did what?
Cora: Professional mourner. People hire me to cry with them. It’s all the rage.
Stella: Is it really?
Cora: No, but that’s what I convinced him of.
Greer: What did he say?
Cora: He was quite surprised but then listened and nodded. I told him I do it more for people who lost animals.
Stella: I’m not sure if I’m proud or worried.
Greer: Are we sure lying is the way to go? I mean, have we thought about having an honest conversation? You know, telling him “Hey, you’re a nice guy, but maybe we’re just friends”？
Cora: I tried that, and guess what, he’s still living with me.
Stella: Did he sleep in the bed last night?
Cora: Yes. In just his boxer briefs. I’m telling you, I find myself moving closer and closer to him every night. I need to challenge him to the stairs again.
The doorbell rings, and I glance toward the entryway.
That’s odd. It’s the middle of the day. I’m not expecting anyone.
I hop off the bed, tiptoe over to the door, and look out the peephole. No one is at the door, but there is a delivery.
Carefully I open the door, you know, just in case someone pops out of nowhere, and then quickly grab the brown bag, which is stapled shut at the top. I carry it to the dining area table and pop it open. A box of tissues, a bar of dark chocolate, and a card. I pick up the card and read it.
Dearest wife,
To get you through the mourning today. Looking forward to talking to you tonight.
Xoxo – your dutiful husband
Uh-oh.
This is not good.
That’s not supposed to happen. He’s supposed to be thrown off by my job, not offering me comfort. I don’t need to know that the incredibly hot Englishman I’m sharing a bed with has a sensitive side.
Grabbing my phone, I snap a picture of the tissues and chocolate—and the note—and send it to the girls.
Cora: I’m in trouble.
It takes them only seconds to reply, and I don’t even have to look at their responses to know what they’re going to say.
Greer: You’re screwed.
Stella: I say throw in the towel now.
Cora: I can’t. This just means I have to step it up a notch.
“Thank you for dinner,” Pike says as he takes my plate to the kitchen, just like every night.
I labored over a meal tonight fit only for murderers and ruffians, and yet, he eats every last morsel, and then he cleans up and does the dishes.
Does the man not have any tastebuds?
Does he really think it’s good?
I nearly choked on my own scalloped potatoes tonight from the amount of salt in them. But there he was, eating them up with a freaking jolly look on his face. And I’ve thought about ending the whole “bad cooking” thing, but then what happens? All of a sudden I start cooking better? Maybe if I put a cooking show on in the background, so when he gets home it seems like I’m trying to learn, and slowly I can get better. Because I can’t stomach this shit every day.