Page 8 of Between

He shrugged, keeping his gaze ahead. “I don’t mind the rain.”

“So, you just choose to work here while your clothes are soaking wet?”

Another deep chuckle rattled through his chest as he stole a glance to me. “There are multiple things wrong with that question.”

“Okay, such as?”

Before he could answer, his steps stopped. He angled his body toward one of the small stone buildings, causing me to turn and look as well.

It was my Uncle Russ’ mausoleum.

Was the walk that short, or was I in my head for most of the way?

The stone looked exactly the same as the last time I was here. Green grass lined the bottom trim, three steps led up to the inside, and a pillar sat on either side of the entrance. Not that I expected anything to be different, but I expected the reality of death to set in more than this.

I wanted time to speed up so I could feel healed, so I could think of him without crying, so I could come here without hurting.

But it was still fresh.

I took one step up the stairs before turning back around. He was still standing there, his hands in his pockets, his jacket still wet, his hood still up.

“Can I ask,” I began hesitantly, “what is this place?”

“That’s an obscure question.”

I fought the urge to roll my eyes at his evasiveness. “The name. What’s the name of all this?”

“Does it have to have a name?”

“Don’t all cemeteries have names?”

“This isn’t a cemetery,” he replied, repeating the same statement as before.

“Then what is it?”

He let out a quick, quiet sigh. “You’ll see.”

I suppressed my groan. “I don’t want to see. I want to know,” I bit out to him, and he flashed a grin. The move made my core flutter, going against everything my mind was trying to work against.

When it was clear that he wasn’t going to give me the information I wanted, I moved the conversation in a different direction. “I have a request.”

He gave a nod. “Name it.”

“Every Thursday, at three o’clock on the dot, my uncle used to visit me at the coffee shop I work at. I want to do the same for him. I know I have to make appointments or whatever—”

“Done.”

I paused, surprised it was that easy. “So, I can come here every Thursday?”

“No, you can come here whenever you want.”

My eyes squinted, and my nose slightly scrunched. “But don’t I have to schedule something to get in?”

“Celeste Castell,” he began, my name echoing through the light sound of the scattered raindrops, “you have twenty-four-seven access to these grounds.”

A sarcastic laugh grew in my chest, but I suppressed it down and tilted my head instead. “Just twenty minutes ago, I was almost turned away because I didn’t have an appointment. Which is funny, because even if I knew I was required to make one, I wouldn’t even know where to begin, because there is no record of this placeanywhere.”

He exhaled a smooth laugh. “That’s the point.”

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