Beautiful Graves, page 32
It’s early morning by the time I land at Logan International Airport. Weak rays of sunshine pierce through the clouds, making them look like fluffy pincushions. I feel like I haven’t slept in years. My muscles hurt. My heart beats dully. Still, I’ve never been as ready to do something in my life.
I make my way to the taxi lane. Somewhere over the last twenty-four hours, I’ve lost my duffel bag, and I don’t even care. I have my wallet with me, and that’s all I need. Once I slide inside, I give the woman Joe’s address. It’s five in the morning, and I think I just might catch him before he goes to work if the driver goes over the speed limit.
“Salem, huh? That’s some ride,” she says.
“I’ll double your pay if you floor it,” I tell her from the back seat, yet again channeling my inner Bill Gates. I’m feeling ballsy with my bank account today.
The middle-aged lady eyes me curiously across her shoulder. “Tell you what. How ’bout I don’t get us both killed, and you take a long, deep breath?”
“That’s fair,” I mumble. Meg Ryan would’ve charmed her into agreeing, but whatever.
Traffic from the airport is painfully slow. Then we get into Salem, and there is construction work on the main road. I get to Joe’s apartment building half an hour later than I hoped to. I hit the buzzer, but no one answers. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t want to see me anyway. Unfortunately for him, he doesn’t have a choice.
I pull out my phone and call Gemma, well aware that it is way too early for social calls. She answers on the fourth ring but sounds wide awake.
“Hi, Ever, is everything okay?”
She sounds completely unaware of my drama with Joe. Figures. He isn’t big on sharing.
“Yes. I mean, no. I don’t know yet.” I shake my head. “I was hoping to reach Joe, but I’m trying him at his apartment and he’s not answering.”
“Well, he’s most likely at work by this hour. He starts very early,” Gemma says reasonably. “Why don’t you try him there?”
“Okay. Yeah. I should.” There’s an awkward pause before I ask, “Where does he work on the docks, exactly?”
She gives me the address at Pickering Wharf Marina, and I write it down on the back of my hand before calling an Uber.
It’s yet another journey, but this one is quick and relatively painless. I spend the ride trying to flatten my hair into submission and get rid of the sleep from around my eyes.
Then finally—finally—I’m there. I hop out of the Uber and run toward a cluster of trucks and cargo containers. There are people around wearing orange hard hats and matching safety vests.
“Joseph!” I call out to a few of the men there, completely out of breath. “I’m looking for Joseph Graves. Or just Seph. Or just Joe.”
They lift their eyes from the clipboard one of them holds and scan me. They must think I’m crazy. They’re not completely off base.
“You want Joe?” one of them asks.
“Yes,” I say. “God, yes. Wanting him is an understatement.” But maybe I should save this declaration for the man I came here for, and not this random person. The guy lifts one eyebrow, obviously reassessing if he should disclose his colleague’s whereabouts. For the first time in my life, I feel unabashedly myself. Free and unhinged.
“Who’s asking?”
“His late brother’s fiancé.” I pause. “Oh! And his ex-girlfriend.” I stop and frown. “Hopefully, his current girlfriend too. If things go right for me.”
One of the men turns to the other two. “I knew he liked eccentric, but this is laying it on thick.”
They laugh. I don’t care. I just want to find him.
Finally, the guy with the clipboard tilts his chin toward the water. “See the forklift over there?”
“Yeah.”
“He’s inside. Good luck catching his attention. He listens to rock music on full blast.”
I jog there with a huge smile on my face, because it is such a Joe thing to do. Listen to angry music while lifting heavy shit. I catch a glimpse of the yellow forklift before I see Joe. The closer I get, the more he comes into view. He looks miserable, his frown deep, his lips flat. He’s never been more beautiful in his life. He’s on the dock, in front of a ship, unloading giant crates. I’m about to approach him when a woman steps between the forklift and me.
“Excuse me, this is private property.”
“I understand, but see this guy behind you?” I point over her shoulder. “He is the love of my life, and I need to tell him that.”
I am bursting with excitement, expecting her to Aww and Why didn’t you say that? To get out of my way. Can someone please finally grant me one perfect movie moment?
“Who, Joe?” She throws a look at the forklift, popping her gum. “Well, you can tell him that from where you’re standing. No trespassing, ma’am. We’re unloading expensive things here.”
“Seriously?” I growl. “I’m not going to steal anything.”
“And I wasn’t going to eat an entire sleeve of RITZ Crackers yesterday. But then I did. Fickle is human nature. Stay here and call him.”
When I see there is no reasoning with her, I resort to acting fully insane. I guess I deserve it, after everything I’ve put Joe through.
I cup my mouth and go at it.
“Joe! Joseph!”
He doesn’t hear me. He has massive headphones on.
“Joe! Hey! Over here! Joe! Joe!”
I start jogging in a line parallel with the direction the forklift takes. He continues about his day, oblivious. Lifting crates with the forklift. Putting them somewhere else. Then again. And again.
“Joe! Hey! Hey!”
I’m aware of the dozens of pairs of eyes looking at me in amusement. Every longshoreman around who isn’t Joe has caught up on the fact that I am trying to grab his attention. I continue jogging in the same line as Joe, my eyes on him, until I collide with a huge crate and fall on the ground.
“Aww.”
That, of all things, gets his attention. Maybe it was the thud I made as I hit the metal crate. Joe pushes one headphone down and turns his head. He squints, then frowns. I don’t think he is too happy to see me. My heart sinks.
“Ever?” he asks coldly.
“Joe!” I moan.
I’m still lying flat on the ground. Joe turns off the forklift but doesn’t make a move toward me. I have a feeling he still suspects I came here just to tell him in another creative way that we can never be together. I get up and dust myself off, ignoring our growing audience and the embarrassment I must be causing him.
“Joe, I came back.” I open my arms in the air, smiling like an idiot.
“I can see that.” His expression is grim.
“Can we talk?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Are you not going to run off on me in the middle of our chat? It seems to be your expertise.”
“Burn.” The woman who gave me trouble laughs.
I shake my head, knowing I deserve all of this and more. “I promise not to run away unless you try to kill me, which . . . honestly? I wouldn’t blame you for doing. Even then, I’d give you a head start.”
“The bad news is you’re not out of the doghouse. But my interest is piqued.” He hops off the forklift, knotting his arms over his chest.
He sounds cold. Distant. Gone. I can’t blame him. I have been an absolute nightmare to love. And he loved me anyway.
“I bought a first-class ticket here.” I chuckle awkwardly, covering my face with my hands.
“All right.” He quirks a brow. “Brownie points for determination. Why?”
“Why!” I laugh to myself, frantic, and desperate, and so far gone for him. “Because I love you. Because I don’t want to lose you again. Not ever again. I read about that Curt Richter experiment on my way here,” I tell him. “And I know all about the rats. The wild rats fought for their survival. They were savages. They didn’t give up. You’re my rat, Joe. I want you to be my rat. I promise not to land you in deep water ever again. From now on we’ll swim together.”
I’m searching his face. All I care about is his reaction, not the massive public declaration I’ve just made. He blinks a few times, taking me in. He is still by the forklift. A good twenty feet away from me, at least.
“How is this time different from all the others?” he insists. “How do I know you won’t walk away tomorrow? Or the day after? Or in a month? I can’t do this anymore, Ever. I can’t put my heart in your slippery hands.”
“They’re no longer slippery!” I half beg, throwing my arms upward. “I swear. Sturdy as a surgeon’s. My only hang-up wasn’t about loving you—there was never any doubt in my mind that I loved you. It was about sparing you from the heartache of being with me. I thought I was cursed or something and didn’t want you to . . . I don’t know, I didn’t want anything happening to you, I guess. Like Mom and Dom.”
Every single person staring at us looks lost, entertained, and a little disturbed on Joe’s behalf. Joe, himself, looks mostly exhausted.
“Ever, you’ve put me through hell.”
“I know.”
“And you chose my brother over me.”
“No. No, I didn’t. I never would have moved forward with the wedding; I can see that now. I know this in my bones, Joe. It was always you. Always.”
“You’ve been flaky, indecisive, and torn about me from the get-go.”
“Whoa.” I lift my hands up in the air. “That part’s not true. I’ve always loved you. I was just not always sure that love was enough to get over our obstacles. But I am now. I’m sure.”
“One hundred percent?” he asks.
“One hundred and ten,” I assure him.
There’s a beat of silence. Clipboard Guy throws his hands in the air. “For Pete’s sake, kiss her already. We have three more deliveries to unload before ten!”
With a rush of laughter, Joe runs toward me, and I run toward him—yes, trespassing—and we crash together, our lips finding one another. The kiss gets salty, fast. With my tears. With his tears. We laugh into it, our teeth knocking together. I haven’t brushed my teeth in twenty-four hours, but I doubt he cares. Being awkward and a little gross around him seems to be the theme, and I’m embracing it.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him. “I’m really sorry.”
“For what?” He can’t stop kissing me.
“All of it. I should’ve always chosen you. I should’ve never turned my back on you. Even when Mom died.”
“Good thing I know how you can make it up to me.” He picks me up by the backs of my thighs, laces my legs around his waist, and carries me away from the wharf.
Clipboard Guy is yelling after him that his shift has just started, but Joe and I both know that he is handing in his resignation before the day is over.
“How do I make it up to you?” I murmur into his mouth.
“Never leave again.”
EPILOGUE
One year later.
“Don’t be nervous.” I press my cheek against Joe’s back, embracing him from behind. He fumbles with the nicotine gum pack in his hand before popping two into his mouth.
“What the hell is nervous, anyway? The word sounds familiar. Alas . . .”
This is the biggest lie he’s ever told me. The only one he may have told me in our lifetime. Because in a few short minutes, we are both going to leave this hotel room, take the elevator down to the Vine, a swanky restaurant in one of New York’s most prestigious hotels, and celebrate his book release with an official dinner.
For Ever will be published tomorrow—Tuesday—and available in all major retailers. It has a new title, a gorgeous cover, and front-to-back superlatives from the biggest newspapers.
“Of course you’re not.” I turn him around, making him look me in the eye. “I’m just projecting.”
“That you are.” He kisses me softly as he collects my face in his big palms. He tastes of nicotine gum. “Shit. I hate not smoking.”
“And I hate the idea of you dying on me from cancer.” I tug at his tie playfully, biting on his lower lip. “So deal.”
It was on the second anniversary of Dom’s death that Joe decided to quit smoking to honor his brother’s fight against cancer. It’s been three months now, and Joe is still bitter about the whole thing.
I pick up the book sitting on the nightstand next to us. For Ever is literary fiction with a dash of mystery, a few twists and turns, and a lot of self-search. Joe changed the hero’s name to Ever—Everett—but every time I think about the new title, I know that it was a nod to me. We helped each other create when birthing something new seemed as wild as learning how to fly.
I run my palm over the hardcover. It’s blue and red, with the New Orleans landscape in the background. “I love everything about this book.”
“Of course you do.” Joe kisses my cheek, then takes the book and shoves it into a drawer. He is still embarrassed to call himself an author. “It is an elaborate love letter to you.”
“It’s about a guy who has one year to live, and he fucks the entire world in the process.” I frown.
“Yeah, well.” Joe waves a hand. “All the rest of it.”
We go down in the elevators. A maître d’ greets us at the front of the Vine. A black-and-gold room with elevator music and utensil-clicking sounds. Joe’s fingers float over the small of my back, which is exposed through a backless black dress. The hostess shows us to a long table, where, already waiting, are Gemma, Brad, Dad, Donna, Renn, Sarah, her husband, Rich, Nora (happily married), Colt (obviously ditto), and Pippa, who brought along a brand-new boyfriend whose name I refuse to remember until he passes the three-week test.
There is also Joe’s agent, Bianca, and a suit from his publishing house, who came with his wife and a monstrous stack of books for Joe to sign.
When they see my boyfriend, they all stand up and clap. Our table draws curious glances from other diners. I take Joe’s hand and raise it in the air in triumph, because it is a huge win that he managed to get his book published. He has already signed another book deal with the same publisher.
The New York Minute called For Ever “evocative and wild.” The Flying Pen said, “Joseph Graves is a master storyteller,” and Books Tribune called the novel “exhilarating and unforgettable.” Joe may be too humble to see himself as a successful author, but I, an (almost) objective observer, can tell he is already there.
“I still can’t believe I’m sleeping with a literary god,” I murmur into Joe’s ear as we proceed to our place at the table. He is shaking hands with people and whispers back through a tightly woven smile, “I can’t believe it either. Who are you cheating on me with?”
I laugh and yank him down to sit next to me, but he remains standing. I look up at him. He picks up a bottle of wine and pours a glass for me and a glass for him. Then he grabs his glass and clinks a fork over it.
“Is there a speech?” Brad asks, midbite into the complimentary baguette.
“There must be a speech.” Gemma wrenches the rest of the bread from between her husband’s fingers.
“Please tell me it’s going to be short. I’m starving.” Renn slumps in his seat. “My body’s still on the Pacific time zone. I think I missed, like, two meals.”
“Patience, kiddo.” Joe points at Renn with his wineglass. “And there is no speech. Just a realization I would like to share with you a minute before this book comes out and I officially become a national embarrassment.”
We all wait to hear what he has to say. For Ever is dedicated to Dominic. It was Joe’s idea. Once the anger and disappointment had made their way through our systems, acceptance and forgiveness came next. Not that Dom had a chance to ask for any of those things. But see, forgiving people who hurt us is not about those people at all. It is about choosing to move on with our lives. Letting go of the grudges. Healing without depending on someone else’s journey.
“Well, I’m not getting any younger,” Pippa points out with a sweet fake smile, raising her cocktail in a toast. “Give us the deets, Joe.”
Joe looks down at me and smiles. My heart expands in my chest. I’m so proud of us. Of the road less traveled we have both taken to get here. We still haven’t reached our final destination, but wherever we go—we’re going together.
He opens his mouth, his eyes zeroing in on mine.
“The past two decades have been a crazy ride from start to finish. A lot has happened. But one thing stayed through it all. It made it possible, even when things seemed impossible. And that thing is called hope. Hope made me realize something important. The one thing that makes a person rich is not their money, or their talent, or even their connections. It is their hope. Where there is hope, there is life. And where there is life, anything is possible. I owe my hope to one special person. She is here today, and I have a feeling she’ll be here for a very long time. Which is good, because no one knows what tomorrow will bring. All I know is that tomorrow, life is going to change. Not only for me. For Ever.”
Joe and I live in San Francisco. I attend Berkeley. I study art and design and have an Etsy shop where I sell custom-made sketches. I’ve moved on from designing gravestones, although I do that, too, on commission. I also draw characters, caricatures (especially of rock stars), and more. I’m at no risk of getting rich from the gig, but it keeps my bank account from being completely empty. There is something incredibly empowering about making a living by doing what you love, so I focus on being grateful for that.
Joe has recently quit his job as a longshoreman. He now works from home. Which is great, because I study long hours, and someone needs to be there for Loki to stare at with deep disapproval. We live in a tiny studio apartment, but it is ours, and we love it.
One day, I get back to the apartment to find a Post-it Note on the fridge. It entails a simple instruction.
Drive to the cemetery to see your mom.
It is written in Joe’s handwriting. Which is great, because I’m still listening to true-crime podcasts, and I’m still worried someone is going to murder me in a totally unexpected way.
I take my keys, kiss the top of Loki’s head, and drive to Half Moon Bay. It’s Friday night, and traffic is a mess. I put Duran Duran’s “Save a Prayer” on the stereo, because it was Mom’s favorite song and (still) arguably the best song in the world. Ever since I moved back to San Francisco, I have visited her every couple of months. We have great conversations. One sided but great nonetheless.
