Magic In the Blood

Chapter Seven

It was strange, but sitting in the backseat of a taxi that stank of spoiled milk and staring out the rainsplotched window at the wet graves made me more relaxed than I had been in days. Something about the rain softly falling made me think maybe it wasn’t going to be so hard to face my dad’s death.

“This is it,” the cabdriver said.

I glanced up at him, caught his gaze in the rearview mirror.

He quickly looked away.

I didn’t know him, or at least I didn’t think I did. Losing my memories had really made for some awkward social situations.

But even though I didn’t recognize him, he probably knew who I was. Maybe he didn’t like the daughter of the recently deceased Daniel Beckstrom in the backseat of his cab. Or maybe he didn’t like the marks magic had burned down the side of my face. I didn’t think the marks were ugly. But scars, all scars-internal and external-drew attention. And I was trying my best to keep a low profile right now.

I self-consciously pulled my hat down a little tighter on my head, hoping the wool would hide the marks on my temple. Then I dug in my coat pocket for cash. I found a twenty.

“Thanks,” I said.

The cabbie glanced in the mirror again and tipped his hand palm up over his shoulder. I pressed the bill into his hand, holding eye contact until he looked away.

Yes, I was petty like that.

I opened the door and stepped out into a world of gray. Icy wind speared down my nose and throat, and I fumbled with my scarf to get it up over the bridge of my nose.

Hells, it was cold out. The temperature had dropped several degrees on the cab ride over here. I wouldn’t be surprised if the rain turned into snow. I stuffed my hands in my pockets, hunched my shoulders, and headed toward the open iron gates of the cemetery, the wind pushing and tugging at me.

The graveyard was set on the east side of the Willamette River, on a hill with a good view of the mountain on fair weather days, not that the buried probably cared about what sort of view was available. It was obvious the graveyard was not off-grid since patented iron and glass glyph-worked conduits caged the mausoleum at the top of the hill and allowed access into the magic that pooled so deeply beneath the city. Still, as most graveyards did, it had the feeling of quiet distance from the rush of real life.

Violet had sent me the invitation to my dad’s funeral, even though I’d been in a coma at the time. On the back of the invitation was a map to his grave. I’d stared at that for days, and had the image of it burned in my brain. His grave was set to the far right of the cemetery, halfway up the hill and out of the way of foot traffic.

It was so unlike him to want to be tucked away out of sight, out of the attention of the masses. It made me wonder if there were things about my father that I would never really understand. Maybe his brutal business persona was not all the man he was. I hadn’t attended his funeral or burial. I hadn’t seen his ex-wives do the “grieving widow” show for the press. I hadn’t seen Violet, who might be the only woman at his grave who actually cared for him, cry. I hadn’t even had a chance to wonder why my own mother, overseas, had refused to attend the service.

I might not have loved my father, but for a long time, I wanted to.

My chest hurt. I swallowed against the tight feeling of tears and sniffed. I was not going to cry over this. Not out here in the cold and wet. There was no way I could change any of my father’s choices, and no reason to change mine now. We had lived our lives as well as we could in regard to each other, arguments, hatred, and all. I had to accept that. Dead is dead. And my dad was definitely dead.

The modern flat-faced gravestones punched rectangular indents into the ground in long, orderly rows to both sides of me. The sound of traffic was muted by distance. I trudged along between graves, toward the older part of the cemetery where headstones carved of marble, granite, and metal stood like bittersweet poems against the cold sky.

Somewhere in this world of carved sorrow was my father’s grave. I squinted against the horizon. The graves seemed to reach out for miles, though I knew that wasn’t true. Up a little farther rose a thin forest of trees beneath which headstones were planted like stone flowers, melancholy angels resting among them like earthbound birds.

Magic stirred in me, this time gently, stroking beneath my skin with soft, sensual pressure. It offered release, respite, anything I wanted. With little more than a strong thought, the right words, and a gesture or two, I could make magic do anything I desired.

My right arm itched, and I scratched at it-rubbed it really-with my stiff left hand. Magic here pooled deep beneath the ground, much deeper than the graves. Ever since I’d changed, ever since magic had decided to use me as a vessel, an open channel, I felt like the tables had turned.

I didn’t struggle to use magic. I struggled not to use it.

And it was possible it was affecting my mind too. Like seeing the watercolor people, the magic on the wall. And my dad’s ghost.

I tipped my face to the sky and took several calming, deep breaths as rain flicked wet against my exposed skin.

Magic was not as strong here, despite, or perhaps because of, the graves. But it felt slightly different, old with the scent of heavy minerals, like rich soil. Grave rich. I wondered if using magic left a residual in the flesh. If perhaps, even after we died, the scent of magic lingered within our bones or leaked out of spent flesh to flow back to the natural reservoirs deep in the earth.

I wiped rain off my cheeks and headed toward the trees.

I knew my father’s grave before I was near enough to read the headstone. For one thing, the headstone was the tallest and most elaborate thing on this side of the cemetery. But mostly I knew it was his because it resembled a spindly, rune-carved Beckstrom Storm Rod more than a proper monolith. In a way I was relieved. Even in death he had to show the world that he alone had mastered the way to pull magic from the earth and sky. Total ego case, my father. He would be appalled at a humble marker above his head.

However, he might also be disappointed that the Storm Rod headstone was positioned so it was hidden from the majority of the graveyard. Blocking it from the rest of the graveyard was an old bare-leafed oak, trunk black as an artery, roots sunk into the soil, venous limbs spread against the gray flesh of the winter sky.

I tromped around the tree and stood at the foot of my father’s grave.

I tried to get it into my head that my dad was dead. Gone. Buried. Murdered. And if it had been his ghost I had seen, his ghost should be here, graveside.

The sound of traffic bled away, the startled call of a crow smothered out beneath the rush of blood in my ears. My breath, my heartbeat were suddenly too loud.

My father was gone.

Really gone.

We hadn’t been close-he too distant in his pursuit of wealth and power, me too young and grieving the loss of my mother and absence of him. And with age, I traded grief for anger. Now that could never be different, could never change between us.

And I didn’t even know if I’d lost the small bits of him most people got to keep-memories, maybe memories of us together, maybe memories of the good moments. I searched my thoughts, tried to dredge up images of him smiling, of times we’d spent not angry at each other. But all that came to me was his stern disapproval. If we’d ever been happy or gentle with each other, it was lost to me. And now that he was gone, I’d never have a chance to get those times back or to make new ones.

How could I say good-bye when he never gave me the chance to say hello?

I sniffed even though I couldn’t feel my nose, and blinked hard until I could see the grave clearly again. Finally I stepped up next to his grave and knelt.

“Good-bye, Dad.” I pressed my palms against his grave, pushing through the scrubby grass to the wet soil.

Magic shifted in me, maybe responding to the connection between my hands and the ground, and I realized I could use it, use a small bit of magic to reach out to my dad one last time and feel the physical presence of his life in this world. I could connect with him before finally and totally letting go of him.

I whispered a mantra and spoke the words of a Disbursement. I’d have a bigger headache later today or tomorrow, but that was okay with me. I traced a glyph for Sight and for Touch. I put only the smallest hint of need behind my action. I still didn’t have the best control over all this magic, and I did not want to suddenly find myself feeling as though I were actually in the coffin with him.

A light touch was all I was looking for.

Magic responded with an almost sexual tingle, lifting into my senses, heightening my sight and sense of touch. Faded colors, like Christmas lights through fog, moved at the corners of my vision. I looked around me, looked at the graves. A watercolor haze lay over them like an aura. I expected watercolor people to pop up out of that haze, out of the graves, but nothing. And more important, no one moved.

Weird. I mean, if there was ever a place I expected to find a ghost, it would be here, in a cemetery. The hazy, faded colors shifted a little, as if an unseen wind stirred them. But that was all.

Good.

I directed the magic into my hands, into my tactile sense. I felt rather than saw magic wrap around my hands like liquid ribbons of warmth. I sent those ribbons down into the earth where my father’s body lay at rest.

Maybe it was a creepy idea. Death makes people do creepy things. But I needed to acknowledge his life one last time. Maybe more than that, I needed to acknowledge the cold, hard reality of his death.

Then hopefully there would be no more of this ghost stuff for me.

I braced for the awareness of his flesh and bone, well on their way to decay and collapse. I braced for the sensation of a once-living man now reduced to an inert lump of tissue. I braced for the feeling of a body completely absent of life, of soul.

What I did not brace for was to feel nothing.

Nothing.

I frowned. I could sense the weight of dirt and stone around the casket. I could sense the casket, made of wood, still strong and whole.

And I could sense the emptiness within it.

There was no body in that casket. No decay. Not even a single bug. Nothing but stale air.

Was this the wrong grave? I glanced at the headstone, read my father’s name, his date of birth, date of death. This was the right grave. His grave.

It couldn’t be empty.

Wishful thinking? Delusional thinking? I closed my eyes, tipped my head down, and whispered a Seeking spell. My headache would last twice as long now, but I didn’t care.

Magic jumped in intensity, spooled out of me, plunging deep into the frozen earth, brushing like hands around the casket. Wood and metal, smooth, whole. I sent it deeper. Soft, cushioned lining, silk casket dressing. I sent it deeper. Stagnant, stale air.

And nothing more. Nothing.

They told me he had not been cremated. They told me it had been an open-casket viewing. People-a lot of people-had seen him dead and had seen him lowered into the grave. This grave.

So where the hells was he?

Dad, I thought. Is this why you came to me? Were you trying to tell me something about being buried or not being buried?

“You picked a cold day to say good-bye,” a man’s voice said from behind me.

I’ll admit it-I jumped. I hadn’t seen anyone else in the graveyard, hadn’t heard anyone walk through the soggy, noisy grass.

I spun where I crouched and pulled magic up into my fingertips, ready to weave an entirely different kind of spell.

Black ski cap pulled tight over his head only made his golden brown eyes larger and warmer against the darkness of his skin. High-arched cheekbones, strong wide nose, and an undefinable cut to his features made me think Native or Asian flavored his family’s blood.

Zayvion Jones, the man I might love.

He wasn’t wearing a scarf, just that ratty blue ski jacket zipped up to beneath his jaw, jeans, and sneakers. Against the stark gray of the day, I found myself drawn toward him, toward a forgotten warmth.

I couldn’t remember it, but I’d risked my life to save him once. Knocked myself into a coma. Still, emotional echoes of him remained within my subconscious. I remembered him being there when I found out my dad had put a hit on Boy in St. Johns. I remembered him following me to my dad’s office the day my dad was killed. And then, all I remembered was finding him a couple weeks ago at a diner and asking him why the hells he’d left me a Dear John note.

We hadn’t seen each other since then. I thought he’d givien up on us. Or that maybe there was no “us” to give up on.

Still, those echoes of emotional memory, of what his touch had made me feel like, resonated through me like a deep-tolling bell.

Oh, I had it bad for him once.

Maybe I still did.

“What are you doing here?” I tried to sound annoyed but it came out a little breathless and husky. Hells, I wanted him. Wanted him to touch me. Needed him to touch me. Not just because I was feeling a little alone and a lot spooked right now.

Okay, maybe just because of that.

Zay shrugged. “Lucky coincidence?” he said in that damn voice of his, low and easy, delivered with that damn Zen calm. “I was driving by and saw you get out of the cab. I thought you might need help finding his grave. It’s out of the way over here.”

I stared at his handsome face and didn’t believe a word he was saying. Oh, he may have seen me get out of the cab. Probably because he had been following me. Maybe he’d been following me since I saw him outside the bus this morning. I had a feeling nothing was quite as it seemed with Mr. Jones.

If he’d told me he was stalking me, that I might believe.

“Why don’t I think anything is a coincidence with you?”

He tipped his head to the side, giving me a nod. “Because you have trust issues.”

“I don’t think you know me well enough to say things like that.”

He pulled his head back as if I’d just slapped him. His breathing changed, and I suddenly realized that Mr. Jones was a very dangerous man beneath that Zen calm.

I stood up, not liking the dynamic of me crouched down with him towering over me. And besides that, magic was pushing in me, filling me again too full, and I was having a hard time keeping control of it.

Even though I am six feet tall, Zayvion still had a couple inches on me. And standing this close to him, I could see he had width too. Though he managed to hide it, he was built like a brick wall under that ski coat-wide shoulders tapering down into a narrow waist, and all that relaxed body language doing little to conceal that that body knew how to fight, and did it often.

“My apologies,” he said stiffly. “I see you didn’t need help finding it.”

I had no idea what we were talking about.

“Your father’s grave?” he reminded me.

Right. He was talking about my dad’s grave. What I was doing was trying to figure out why he was here, and getting all frickin’ dizzy again. Magic was still filling me, filling me too full. I had tapped into it, used it to look for my dad’s body, and now I couldn’t seem to make it stop filling me up.

This was something I’d been dealing with a lot since I came back to Portland. Keeping a close hold on the magic in my body so it didn’t just escape me and do something stupid like burn down a city block was getting to be a real pain.

I was a walking time bomb. But I really was getting good at keeping my finger off the trigger.

Well, except for right now.

Maybe the whole weird morning was starting to catch up with me. Maybe the magic-sucking watercolor people had damaged me in a way I didn’t know. Maybe the price for the magic I’d used today was coming due.

Whatever. I felt like hell.

The gray day went dark at the edges, and the ringing in my ears harmonized with the thrum of my blood. Oh, hells. There was no way I could handle this much magic. Magic pulsed and slid, pulsed and slid, filling me full, too full, too tight.

I held my breath against it, bit the inside of my cheek, and tried to think calm thoughts.

I am a river. Magic pours through me and back into the ground. It does not shape me. I do not shape it.

“Allie?”

What were we just talking about? I blinked. It felt like my eyes stayed closed for a long time. When I opened them again, I was on my knees.

Weird.

“Allie?” Zayvion’s voice floated down to me from far, far away. “Don’t try to stand. Lie back and take slower breaths. It’s going to be okay. I got you.”

That didn’t sound good. Still, I had apparently lost the ability to speak, or breathe out, or really do much else, so Zayvion’s suggestions were helpful in their way.

Even more helpful were his hands.

I exhaled as minty heat from his palms soaked through my heavy coat. Mint spread down through me, like water against a fire. The mint calmed the magic pouring through me, blanketed it, pushed it back to my muscles, my bones, and then down deeper-pushed the magic back into the ground from where it came. Zayvion’s touch eased the ache of magic, giving me room in my own body to breathe again.

“Excellent,” Zayvion said. “Slower breaths. Good.”

I did as he told me, let the mint fill me, cool me, stroke soft and sweetly through me, leaving shivers of pleasure across my skin. Sensual. I wondered if he was like this in bed.

Now there was a memory I wished I still had.

“Can you open your eyes?”

I could and I did.

Zayvion’s face filled my vision. His eyes were brown and burning with gold I did not remember seeing before. And beyond that, beyond the tiger brightness, was a vast, vast feeling of emptiness, of space. I could suck up all the magic in the world, pour it all out into him, and never be able to fill him up.

Nice.

“I don’t know if you remember,” he said, “about this. About us. I’m Grounding you, Allie. If you want to help, just clear your mind and think calm thoughts. Meditate.”

Right. And after I did that I’d jump up and sing some show tunes.

That also must have shown on my face because Zayvion’s lips quirked. “Whatever you’re thinking-it’s not helping.”

Well, it was good to know he couldn’t read my mind. I licked my lips, or at least I thought I did. I actually couldn’t feel my mouth, couldn’t feel my body other than in a distant, half-asleep, still-room-for-breathing sort of way.

That worried me.

But instead of panicking, I took a nice, deep breath and focused on Zayvion’s gold, gold eyes.

I am a channel, a river. Magic flows through me but does not fill me, does not change me.

Zayvion could fill me, could change me. And I’d like it. That didn’t help clear my mind either, so I went back to the river thing, repeated it to myself until it became a mantra, a meditation. Repeated it until I could feel my body-cold and wet down my back, butt, and legs; warm and dry down my front from Zayvion leaning across me, his wide back sheltering me from the falling rain.

Until I could feel the heat of him more than the heat of magic.

The mint sensation grew stronger, like I’d just been rubbed down with wintergreen leaves. Tingly, cool, and warm everywhere, inside and out.

“Beautiful,” Zay said, soft and sexy-like.

I licked my lips and felt them this time. “Thanks.” “Sure.” He didn’t move. I didn’t want him to. He was so close, the overpowering pine scent of his cologne mixed nicely with the smell of winter grass and wet jackets. Even though I probably shouldn’t, I liked the combination. I gave myself a heartbeat or two to wonder what his lips would taste like.

Hells.

I kissed him.

I think he was surprised. But it didn’t take him long to get over that.

His lips were soft, thick, and gentle. I opened my mouth for him, and he responded, deepening the kiss, making promises, or maybe just suggestions, that I completely agreed with.

I inhaled the heat of him and my body stirred with sensations and memories that had nothing to do with magic.

Zayvion made a needful sound at the back of his throat, and the magic within me rose up, coaxed higher by Zay’s mouth on my own, his thumb tracing the whorls of magic that pulsed against my throat.

Wait, I thought. Something. Something wasn’t right about this.

Zayvion’s mouth moved to the edge of my jaw, and then his lips, soft, warm, opened against my throat as he sucked, nipped.

I moaned. Magic, oily and hot, pulsed through me, rising to Zayvion’s tongue that gently stroked across the marks on my neck, easing the edge of my need in only the smallest degree and making me want more.

He knew me. Knew what I wanted.

“I’ve missed you,” he breathed across my skin.

Then the rest of it-the reality of it, of where I was, of whom I was with, and why I was here-hit me.

I was making out with a man I couldn’t remember, and wasn’t sure I could trust, on my father’s grave.

Talk about a mood killer.

“Let me up,” I said, my voice a lot stronger than I’d expected. “Up. Now. Off.” My voice rose with each word. “Off me. I can’t. Not here. With you.” I meant to say not on my dad’s grave but I didn’t get the chance.

Zayvion pulled back, studied my face, those gold eyes dark with hurt or anger-I so wasn’t in the mood to suss out the difference. I didn’t have to. He rocked back on his heels away from me.

The rush of cool air between us made me gasp so hard, it hurt. He looked away at the horizon, the muscle at his jaw clenched, while I gathered myself until I was sitting and then standing.

He stood too, with the kind of grace that comes from martial arts training. When he finally looked at me again, his face had settled into Zen calm.

“I’m sorry,” he said. A shadow of hunger shifted in his eyes, gold, then brown, then was extinguished, leaving his gaze emotionless, flat.

I sniffed and rubbed my gloves over my butt, trying to brush off grass and mud, trying to pull myself together. Why did I feel so guilty?

“I needed the… that Grounding. Thank you. Sometimes… magic… It’s not always easy, but usually I’m fine. Today’s been”-horrible, I wanted to say, but instead I said-“long. So don’t apologize for Grounding me.”

“I wasn’t.”

Oh.

That flare of heat and desire flickered in his eyes. He blinked once, slowly, and gave me the Zen calm again.

“Oh,” I said. “Good. And you’re really good at that. Grounding,” I clarified. “Studied much?”

His lips tightened at the corner. For some reason, that question brought him pain. “Yes. But Grounding isn’t really my specialty.”

“Really? What is?”

He nodded. “I don’t think you want to know.”

“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want to know.”

Well, could I be more awkward and standoffish? No, I think not. Before things could get worse, I took a deep breath and tried to say something that didn’t sound like I was itching for a fight.

“What are you really doing here?” I asked.

“Looking for you. To ask you out. On a date.” As he said it, his gaze flicked over my shoulder and rested just a little too long on the horizon.

So I turned and looked back there too. Close to the mausoleum at the top of the hill, a figure moved, walking among the graves. Heavy knee-length coat, a hat. It didn’t look like anyone I knew, but from this distance it was hard to tell.

“Is there a problem?” I asked.

See how I bought myself time to think about the whole date thing?

“Not yet.” Zayvion had not moved, had not stopped squinting off into the heavy drizzle. “Maybe not at all.” He wiped rain off his face and pulled his beanie closer to his head. “This place always makes me jumpy.”

“Always? How often do you come here?”

Zayvion finally looked away from the figure, who had stopped walking between graves and was now standing, just standing there, staring in our general direction.

“I was last here at the burial,” he said quietly.

I glanced down at my father’s grave. The press of our bodies had left the image of a broken snow angel in the soft grass and soil. A mud angel. Oregon style.

“You saw him lowered down. Down into that?” Into that empty grave, I wanted to say, but didn’t, couldn’t, yet.

He nodded. “Are you done here?” he asked. “If you want to go, I have my car.”

He didn’t look cold despite the rain. Didn’t look like he was in a hurry. Didn’t look like he might be trying to avoid answering my questions too.

“Maybe,” I said. “Will you tell me about it?”

“About what?”

“Everything.”

“Everything might take some time.” He tipped his head down a bit, his smile warm. More than warm-it was firelight in the damn cold world, a heat I wished I could pull deep within me. Maybe I could overlook the darkness of the rest of the day if I could hold on to a little bit of that fire.

“I have some time,” I said. “Until noon, anyway. You have somewhere you need to be?”

He held very still, so still I didn’t think he was breathing. Finally, “No. Just with you.”

And for no reason at all, those words made my stomach flutter, like he’d just drawn his hand down my back and pulled me close. Oh, yeah. There was a reason I’d been attracted to him. Still was. Even in a graveyard, even in a rainstorm, even after a crappy day like today, he knew what to say to make me feel like there was no one else in the world with him but me.

Well, me and the person standing by the gravestones, staring at us.

We walked toward the car, Zayvion crossing behind to position himself on my right and slightly uphill from me. The way someone would position himself if he wanted to put his body between me and, say, that person up there on the horizon.

“How about you start by telling me why you don’t want whoever that is up there to see me?”

I could see his smile from the corners of my eyes.

“You’re an observant woman, Ms. Beckstrom.”

“You have no idea.”

I let the sound of our boots in the grass take up some time. Zayvion didn’t look worried. I couldn’t smell anyone on the wind, couldn’t smell much over the strong pine of Zayvion’s cologne.

“Might be no one I know,” he finally said.

“Or?”

He shrugged again. “Never hurts to be careful. You’re a public figure right now.”

“I’ve always been a public figure.”

“Not like this,” he said softly. “Not like now. People are watching you, Allie. Closely.”

Like that was news. It would take more than a vague reference to scare me. Hells, as far as I knew Trager’s men waited around every corner and even dead people had suddenly decided to watch my every move.

“I’m just lucky that way. Who do you think is watching me?”

“A lot of people. People in powerful positions.”

I usually wouldn’t put up with that kind of coy answer. But I had lost weeks to that coma, and a lot of memories. Zayvion had been with me for a lot of what I no longer remembered. He’d been there when I last saw my father. Nola said he’d even been there when I found out my dad was dead and when I’d turned into a living receptacle for magic.

If he had something to say, if he knew something about my life, then I wanted that information.

I could be patient when I had to be.

The raindrops fell, bigger, harder, a cloudburst now instead of a steady drizzle. The wind, which had never really stopped, picked up the pace.

“I’d like to hear more about those people,” I said.

“Then it’s a date?” he asked.

“It could be.”

Zayvion brushed his hand along my bent elbow and guided me forward a little more quickly.

“My car is down by the gate. Let’s get out of the rain first.”

Out of the rain and out of earshot, or eyesight, of whoever was watching. Without looking over my shoulder, without breaking stride, I strained to hear the sound of footsteps, of movement, of breathing in the graveyard. Strained to hear or sense, without the use of magic, anything or anyone other than Zayvion and me.

“The car’s over here.” Zayvion pulled his keys out of his pocket and strode off ahead of me.

I glanced over my shoulder at where the figure had been. He-because I decided it looked more like a man than a woman-was still there, leaning against a tall pillar gravestone, black coat, black figure against a dead sky. And I knew, without using magic, that he was looking for me. Maybe even was one of those powerful people Zayvion said was watching me.

See how well I put two and two together?

Zayvion came back to where I stood and touched my arm. “Come on, Allie.”

The click and thunk of his car door opening, and the promise of warmth and sanctuary it offered, got me moving. I crawled in and had a moment to worry about ruining the black leather seats, but was grateful for the shelter from the cold, the wet, and the overwhelming presence of death. I was freezing, soaked through, and tired. Really, really tired.

Like death warmed over. Ha-ha, not funny.

Zayvion walked around the car and slid in the driver’s side.

“So who do you think that man is? Was he there when my father was buried? Does this all have something to do with his death?”

He put the keys in the ignition, started the car, and, thankfully, the heater.

“How about I drive while I talk?”

“Where are we going?”

Score one for the logical mind.

He looked over at me. Nothing but Zen. Well, a little wet. A lot kissable. And just unreadable enough that I didn’t feel safe enough to risk getting too intimate. Yet.

“Where do you want me to take you?”

“Anywhere you’re going to tell me the truth about that man out there, the powerful people watching me, and my father’s grave.”

He frowned. “What about your father’s grave?”

“Did you actually see his body lowered into it?” I said it like it didn’t freak me out that my dead father was missing in inaction. So to speak.

He looked out the front window like he was looking into his memories. Then took a very deep, loud breath. Let it out. “A lot of… people saw his casket lowered into the grave.”

“Nice hesitation,” I noted.

He put the car in reverse and backed out of the cemetery, out through the iron gates, then put it in drive and pulled onto the street. He didn’t say anything more. I didn’t let that stop me from talking.

“Listen, I know we said we’d try this…”

“This?”

“Us,” I said. “At the deli when I came back to Portland. That we’d try us. But I am so done with the mystery-man bit. If you don’t level with me, there is no way I’m going to trust you like-”

“Like you did before?” Zayvion gave me a sad smile. “Trust wasn’t exactly what our relationship was built on.”

“Really?” I said, not believing him. Trust was a big thing for me, and I didn’t get into a relationship without it. “Then what was it built on?”

“Really good sex.”

I had the unfortunate tendency to blush. And I think Zayvion Jones knew that.

He grinned. “Maybe there was some trust going on too. I know that I trusted you. Trusted in your strength. And your stubbornness.”

“Watch it,” I warned.

“Maybe it’s not me you’re afraid to trust right now,” he said. “Maybe it’s yourself.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. Because he was right. And I was too stubborn to admit it.