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“I don’t know. Can you? Can you tell your friend who is grieving over her deceased father that you’re done being the chauffeur of her misery limo? That you can’t take witnessing any more of her sudden bouts of unexplained sobbing? Is that something you’re up for?”
Summer stares at me from the passenger seat, holding my gaze with her unyielding one.
How is it that she’s reliving the worst day of her life and still has some emotional capacity to worry about my feelings? I want to tell her to be selfish. To use me.
“I don’t need an out.”
She scoffs. “People rarely think they need one, until they do. So what does it hurt? We’ll have a Summer’s Day Of Depression Is Too Much For Me safe word, and if you don’t need it, then you don’t. But if you do need it, then you have it.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.” She nods to emphasize agreement. “Choose a word you can casually say to me, and I’ll know it’s time for me to catch a bus home.”
After considering for a second or two, I pick the first random word that comes to mind that I know I don’t like.
“Pineapple.”
“Pineapple?” Her dark brows do a confused dance on her forehead. “Where did that come from?”
I shrug. “I’m allergic. So I never ask for it.”
“Allergic! Then that’s a horrible safe word!” She throws her hands up, almost smacking them on the roof of my truck.
“Why?”
“Why? WHY? Just imagine I find you sprawled out on the ground, and you only say one word to me.” She affects a feeble voice as she reaches a shaky hand toward me. “Pineapple.” The tone is that of an old man with maybe seconds until his death. She sits back, glaring at me. “What am I supposed to think?”
I know this isn’t a laughing situation, so I keep my lips pinched tight together and shrug again.
“Exactly! I won’t know if you’re so worn out from my emotional neediness that you’ve decided to take a little lie-down while you send me on my way with the safe word, or if some rando came by and shoved a handful of pineapple down your throat, causing you to go into anaphylactic shock.”
Somehow, I suppress the urge to laugh long enough to ask, “Are there a lot of pineapple wielding randos in this cemetery?”
Summer glares at me. “It’s a bad safe word. Pick another.”
I sigh, only to cover up how much I enjoy sparring with her. “Fine. Clementine.”
“Clementine? What is it with you and fruits? No, never mind. Just tell me you’re not allergic.”
“I’m not.”
“Good. Then clementine it is. If at any point today you’ve reached the end of your Summer tolerance, use clementine in a sentence, and we’ll part ways with nothing more said on the topic.”
“I won’t abandon you.”
“If you need to, then you should.”
She won’t relent on this, so I only shake my head and push open my door. Guess I’ll have to show her that I’m here to stay, no matter how her grief manifests.
Side by side, we make our way from the parking lot into the graveyard. In classic New Orleans fashion, all of the bodies in this graveyard were laid to rest above ground.
The graves rise up on either side of the path, giving the sensation of walking through a village of tiny houses. An abandoned haunted village. Even with the autumn sun shining, there’s an eerie feel. Yet at the same time, the place has a kind of beauty. Each structure holds a personality of its own, life only existing in the designs of the houses for the dead.
“Do you mind waiting here?” Summer draws me to a stop with a hand on my arm. Her skin is chilly, despite the warmth that still hangs on even into mid-December. “His grave is just ahead. I'm going to talk to him. Or myself. Either way, I’d like some privacy for this part.”
“I'll wait here.” I nod toward a stone bench that sits at the edge of the path. Vines have grown around the base, claiming the seat for the earth. Truthfully, I’m looking forward to sitting on it. I have my notebook with me, and I wonder what ideas may flow through my hands with this setting pushing into my creative consciousness.
“Take as long as you want.” The stone is warm from the sun, making the seat almost comfortable as I settle onto it, stretching out my long legs.
