I wait until we’re a few drinks deep and almost done with our meals to bring up what went down earlier in the day. It’s killed me to hold off this long. I’ve been itching to interrogate him since Mom filled me in.
“So, you actually thought my mom pooped her pants, huh?” I am snickering over my plate of shrimp alfredo, just imagining the way it all went down.
His face turns beet red. “I knew it wasn’t me… I assumed there was only one other option.”
“When a person dies, their muscles relax,” I explain, sucking my tongue to my front teeth. “All the muscles.”
“Disgusting.”
“It’s no bed of roses, that’s for sure… Sometimes they leak so much that Daddy has to pack ’em with cotton.”
His eyes get big and round. “Their butts?”
I nod. “Uh-huh.”
His face starts to look a little green as he stares down at what’s left of his ribeye smothered in crawfish etouffee.
“How ‘bout a change in subject,” I offer, starting to feel bad for ruining his dinner.
“I’m good,” he assures me, pushing his plate away. “I’ll just take the rest of this to go.”
“Oh, come on, if you’re gonna be hanging around the Daigles, you’re gonna need a stronger stomach.” I twirl my fork in my plate, loading it with pasta, and pop it into my mouth, before shielding my lips with a hand to speak. “Besides, we haven’t even gotten to the part where you took out three mailboxes.”
“Didn’t say I was ready to go.” He sets his utensils down, ready to indulge my antics. “You really should have warned me.”
I finish chewing and swallow before shrugging a shoulder. “Didn’t dawn on me. We’re all so used to it.”
“Well, next time you send a guy out to fetch a body, I suggest mentioning the deceased have a tendency to groan and gurgle.” He outwardly cringes. “Pretty sure you’re responsible for shaving ten years off my life.”
“Oh, my God. I wish I could have been a fly on that windshield.”
He dips his head into his hand, giving it a good shake. “I’m never gonna live this down, am I?”
“Not a chance.”
We order another round of drinks and continue chatting. Wash, rinse, repeat, and before I know it, we’re closing the place down.
I haven’t laughed this hard in ages. It was totally worth having to suffer through a date with Mr. Hot Stuff over here to have a night of normalcy. To feel like an actual person—like a woman—not just a mom.
And by suffer, I’m being a total drama queen. I don’t think a better view exists than Wyatt Landry in a baby blue button down, cuffed at the elbows, and thigh hugging blue jeans. And that smile of his. Good Lord Almighty. It sends my hormones into overdrive.
I’m still giggling when he pulls up to the house to drop me off.
“Thanks for tonight,” he says, reaching across the bench seat to squeeze my hand. “It was fun.”
“Yeah,” I agree, shocking myself. “Surprisingly, I had a really great time.”
“Ah-ah,” he reprimands when I reach for the door handle. “We’re gonna end this night right.”
Nervous energy starts bubbling in my chest as I try to decipher what exactly he means by that comment. I’m admittedly a bit trigger shy and will be devastated if he ruins what by my estimation was the perfect night, by taking things too far.
When the door swings open, my throat squeezes. I hope he can’t see the hearts in my eyes when I look at him, because if he makes a move, I’m already too far gone to refuse it. The last thing I need is to wake up with more regret. Lord knows I’ve got enough of that to last a lifetime.
“Come on,” he says, taking my hand, and once again helping me down from his truck. This time I’m just buzzed enough that I think I actually need the assistance.
He walks me all the way to the door and waits for me to unlock it before tipping my chin with his finger.
This is it, I think. Butterflies flutter in my tummy and I run my tongue over my lips, preparing myself for the wreckage.
“Thank you,” he says, placing a kiss to my forehead.
He withdraws his hand, and I’m filled with… disappointment? This can’t be right.
He gives me one final look before turning for his truck and calling back, “See you tomorrow!”
“How’s it going, Wyatt?”
Prissy’s loud greeting echoes throughout the empty chapel, nearly knocking me off the ladder where I’m applying the first coat of paint to the new crown moldings I installed yesterday. “Hey,” I say, after regaining my balance. “It’s Monday. Shouldn’t you be at school?”
“Thanksgiving break.”
I glance to the date on my watch. “So it is.”
She places a hand on the third rung of the ladder to hold it steady. “Did you know over 300 people die each year from falling off ladders in the United States alone?”
This kid here… “No, Miss Priss, I sure didn’t.”
“Now ya do.” She beams, like she’s just offered me lifesaving information.
“I guess I do… You always so morbid?” I ask, climbing the rest of the way down.
She shrugs. “Just curious. I researched construction death stats when we started the renovations on the chapel a few months ago. Paw-Paw says I’m like a sponge for useless information.”
“Is that right?”
She nods, fiddling with something in the pocket of her hoodie. “You need something, or just stopping by to say hi and put the fear of death into me?”
“Momma told me I had to go find something to do with myself cuz there’s a wake today and I’m being too loud.”
Poor kid looks bored out of her mind.
“That’s why I’m stuck painting. She told me I can’t use my power tools.” I hang my lip to the floor in a sign of solidarity.
“Think I could hang out in here with you?”
“Sure.” I give my shoulders a shrug. Misery loves company, right? “Whatcha got in there?”
“Thought you’d never ask.” With a shit grin, she retrieves something small and furry from her pocket. “Name’s Squishy.” She lifts the little fuzzball to her face, placing a kiss on the top of its head. “He’s a flying squirrel, and he’s top-secret, so don’t tell Momma.”
“You have a pet squirrel your mother knows nothing about?”
Prissy nods, stroking its back with a finger. “She says the funeral home is not the place for animals, so I can’t have any pets.” She follows that statement with a drawn-out sigh. “But Paw-Paw says what she doesn’t know can’t hurt, and he lets me keep him in a birdcage in the climate-controlled shed where he stores his embalming stuff. Momma never goes in there.”
“I’m not sure I wanna be in on this secret, Priss. I’m already walking on thin ice with your mother.”
She waves me off. “No worries. I won’t tell. Wanna hold him?”
Knowing about this classified rodent is one thing…coddling it feels like a whole other level of deceit I want no part of. Plausible deniability is important. “Nah,” I say. “I’m good. Why don’t you go put him in his cage before you get us both into trouble? Then you can come back and help me paint those moldings on the floor over there.”