“Every real teacher in the world knows that, but that’s not the point. Stevie Rae, you need to listen to me—I do not think Z is okay.”
Stevie Rae motioned for Stark to join her on an ornately carved iron bench perfectly situated near the goddess statue.
“Now, tell me what’s stuck in your craw about Z.”
Stark blew out a long breath as he sat beside her. “She’s going to Heath’s grave. Every day. And she’s lying about it.”
Stevie Rae hiked her shoulders. “That’s not real bad. I mean, Z misses him. We all know that, and maybe she’s not telling the truth because she doesn’t want you to feel bad. And if she’s lying how do you know where she’s going?”
“I followed her. And before you give me crap about that let me say that I only did it because I’m worried. Real worried.”
Stevie Rae held up her hands in surrender. “Hey, I’m not judging. And if you say there’s something to be real worried about, you have my full attention.”
Stark ran his fingers through his thick hair and sighed again. “So, I followed her,” he repeated. “And watched her. She sits there. On his grave. And talks to him. A lot.”
“She talks to his gravestone?”
Stark shook his head. “No. She leans against his gravestone, but she stares to the side of it, like he’s sitting there—beside her—somewhere close. And by close I don’t mean Nyx’s Grove.”
“Well, okay, so it’s weird and sad, but maybe that’s how Z deals with her grief. You know it took a long time for her to even go to his grave. Maybe this is actually a good sign. How’s she been acting otherwise? And let me say sorry that I’ve been so dang busy moving here that I can’t answer that question myself, which as her bestie is something I should be able to do.”
Stark waved away her apology. “This isn’t on you. It’s on all of us. I think we’ve left her alone too much since Kevin went back to the Other World.”
“But we were givin’ her space. And she’s been seeing a lot of her brother. The one who isn’t a red vampyre. I thought that was helping her deal with Other Kevin not being here.” Stevie Rae chewed her bottom lip. “I haven’t asked her hardly anything about how she’s been feelin’. Like Kramisha always says, it’s not cool to be all up in Z’s business.”
“Yeah, well, space time is over. Since she’s starting ‘talking,’” he air quoted, “to Heath, she’s stopped actually talking to me. And, obviously, you.”
“Z’s not talkin’ to Damien or Aphrodite, either?” Stevie Rae asked.
“Oh, sure. Z talks to Damien and Aphrodite, me and you. But she never says how she’s feeling. She never says anything that isn’t just surface crap. Stevie Rae, she’s pulling away from me. And from you, Aphrodite, and Damien. She’s only really talking to dead Heath.”
“You seriously don’t think this is just Z dealing with her grief?”
“No, because this dead Heath talking crap didn’t start until after Other Kevin came from the Other World and—”
“And told her about Heath being alive over there,” Stevie Rae finished for him, eyes widening with understanding.
“Exactly,” Stark nodded.
Stevie Rae sucked in a huge breath. “Ohmygoodness, Z’s gonna go to the Other World!”
“Exactly!” Stark repeated.
“Ah, hell!”
Zoey
I pulled my bug off Seventy-First Street onto Aspen, and took the immediate left to enter through the somber gates of Floral Haven Cemetery. It wasn’t long after dusk, but I’d timed it perfectly so that I could slip into the cemetery after most visitors had left, but before the gates were officially closed.
“I guess practice does make perfect,” I muttered.
As if it knew the way without me steering, my little aqua-colored bug wound around the curving roadways to what had become a familiar section of the graveyard. I stopped where I always did—by the big juniper tree that marked the beginning of the path I followed almost daily.
It always felt sad when I first got here. Floral Haven wouldn’t have been Heath’s first choice. Not because it was a bad cemetery or anything like that. I just knew that Heath would have liked somewhere more … well … colorful. Heath had liked crazy, and Floral Haven was immaculate, structured, organized, and well regulated. The opposite of crazy.
But as I walked down the path to the Luck family plot, my sadness lifted a little—then more than a little when I caught sight of my neighborly addition to the grounds. I went to Heath’s proper, modest, boring tombstone and sat right on top of his grave, which I knew he would’ve appreciated. I leaned against the cold gray stone that said in block letters: HEATH REGINALD LUCK—BELOVED SON, and looked to the side at the family plot closest to the Luck’s. There was only one tombstone—the one I’d purchased immediately after I’d purchased the family plot. It was as unboring as the very proper rules of the cemetery had allowed. I’d commissioned a stone made from smooth blue marble, the exact color of a perfect fishing hole. The artist, who had been more than mildly confused by my unorthodox idea, had carved a scene of Heath sitting on a small wooden dock casting his rod out into the water. I’d had him make it so that Heath was looking right at me, grinning like he always did when he went fishing.
“Hey there. How ya doin’?” I asked the carving of Heath. “Yep, it was one of those awesome Oklahoma spring days today. Not too hot, not too much ragweed and pollen, and not too ticky. Yet. You’d say it was good fishing weather, but then again you thought every day was good fishing weather.”
Okay, let me be clear. I haven’t lost my mind—at least not totally. I am not under any delusion that Heath is actually here, listening to me. I know where he is—or at least one version of him. Heath Luck is hanging out where I last saw him, with Nyx. He was probably fishing right now up there somewhere.
But I like pretending to talk to him.
I need to pretend to talk to him.
Especially now.
“Zoey? It is you! I thought I saw your bug turn in here.”
I jumped at the voice and spun around on my butt.
“Kev! Sheesh, you scared the bejezzus outta me. Make some sound next time.”
“How about you tell me when you’re gonna visit Heath’s grave next time and I’ll meet you here?” Kevin said, settling in beside me. “You don’t ever find this creepy?”
“What? Sitting on his grave? Heath would love it,” I smiled.