Chapter 8

Jory

“Okay, how do I look?”I ask Desi, who I have on FaceTime so she can put her stamp of approval on my outfit and makeup.

“Damn, girl, I’d do you,” she professes, whistling and winking. “You’re a hottie, my friend. Never forget it.”

Giggling, I stick my tongue out at her. “Best friend code, Des, you gotta say that, it’s in the handbook.”

“Yeah, maybe so, but I wish you’d see yourself the way I see you.” I dismiss her admonishing tone, knowing it’s done out of love and concern.

“I’m just me, Desi,” I remind her. “Plain old Jory.”

“There’s not one thing plain about you, girlie.”

Shaking my head, I reply, “Whatever. Okay, so any tips for me?”

“Just be yourself, Jory. You’re funny, smart, kind, and generous. Bryson would be a fool not to see that for himself and want to start something special with you.”

“From your mouth to God’s ears,” I tease before I hear the doorbell. “Oh! He’s here. I’ve gotta go.”

“I’ll be waiting with bated breath to hear all about it.”

Grinning, I disconnect the call and grab my purse, slipping my phone inside while opening the door. “Hey, you’re right on time.”

His smile has butterflies taking flight in my stomach as he holds out his hand for mine, taking my keys and locking my door once we’re in the hall. He then hands me my keys, which I put into the side pocket of my purse, but he never lets go of my hand. Instead, he laces our fingers together as we walk out to his truck. After he helps me in, I busy myself getting my seatbelt buckled as he rounds the front of the truck and slips into the driver’s seat.

* * *

“It’s a good thing we had eaten half of the popcorn,” Bryson teases as we wait for our meal to come out. “Otherwise, we’d have both been wearing it.”

I burst out laughing since it’s my fault the popcorn went soaring through the air. “Who knew a romantic comedy would have a jump scare moment?” I question. “At least I wasn’t holding my drink when that scene played out.”

He joins me, his deep rumbling laugh sparking something inside of me—hope.

“I suspect they tossed that in there for the laughs it would generate,” he finally says once we’ve both calmed down.

“Yeah, you’re probably right. So, when do you go for your recheck?” I ask.

“On Monday. If I’m cleared, I’ll go back on Tuesday at the start of my next shift.”

“Almost back to normal,” I reply.

“I’ve got a lot done, so it hasn’t been wasted.”

“That’s good. We don’t have anything so far on the books, so Desi and I’ll go in and check our inventory, make sure there aren’t any supplies we need to order.”

“How did you decide on your profession?” he asks.

“I honestly fell into it,” I reply. “When my mom passed away, it bothered me that she didn’t really look like herself, if that makes sense. I mean, it was her, but the makeup was too heavy, her hair was too different. So, after her funeral, I went in and talked to Mr. Grey and asked what kind of classes I needed to take so I could learn how to take care of people in their final moments above ground.”

“And how did you talk your best friend into doing it with you?”

I start to giggle when I remember our first day of classes. “Desi and I have been best friends since middle school, and we thought it would be a good career for us both. It’s definitely mostly a male-dominated one, and since she and I were the only two women in our class, we partnered up for labs and whatnot. We ended up graduating Summa and Magna Cum Laude with our Bachelor’s Degree in Mortuary Science, and the rest, as they say, is history. Mr. Grey allowed us to apprentice with his former embalmer and we found a system that works for us. We’re a great team.”

“So, I have another question for you,” he states. “Because of my job as a first responder, I’ve obviously seen my share of horrific accidents. I also know that a lot of the funerals I’ve attended have had open caskets, even the ones where extensive damage was done. How do you fix that?”

“We use wax, plaster, cotton, and other materials to reconstruct the client’s face,” I reply. “Most of the time, Mr. Grey is able to talk them into a closed casket if the injuries and damages are too extensive, but Desi and I are good at what we do, and so far, everyone who’s wanted their loved one to be seen has been happy with what we’ve accomplished. It’s definitely not easy, though.”

“I can’t imagine that it is,” he muses.

He truly has no clue because there’ve been times Desi and I have worked with tears flowing down our faces. Kids and babies are the worst, of course, but we’ve also prepared bodies of former classmates. People who have died in the prime of their life, sometimes due to accident, others because of illness, and once or twice because their life took a turn down the dark path of addiction.

I still have no idea how I didn’t succumb to the lure of the pain medications I took, because they were a constant part of my life for months. Maybe it’s because I only took them when I absolutely had to once I was more coherent, who knows?

Our server brings our meal and an extra plate, and I watch as he expertly separates each item from the sampler so it’s evenly split in half. He then places my plate in front of me, grinning no doubt at the fact my eyes are almost comically wide.

“I suspect even the sampler is going to be too much,” I confess, looking at the decent sized portions that fill my plate.

“That’s the great thing about Italian food. It tastes even better reheated the next day,” he replies.

“This is true,” I mutter as I twirl some spaghetti onto my fork and attempt to eat it without wearing any of it on my new shirt.

Not that Bryson knows it’s new, of course. I continue eating, answering his questions as he asks them and tossing in a few of my own. Everything I learn makes me like him that much more. We eat as much as we can before he then asks the waitress for two to-go containers. Once the server brings them along with the check, he hands her his card then expertly transfers our leftovers into the boxes.

“Now, we both have lunch for tomorrow,” he announces, wearing a blinding smile.

“Good plan,” I tease as he signs the ticket.

“So, what are your plans for this weekend?” he asks as he helps me out to his truck.

Once we’re both inside and buckled in, I glance at him and say, “I typically volunteer at the animal shelter several times a week. I go in, walk the dogs, clean the cat cages, and play with the animals to hopefully socialize them a little bit. The goal is to get them adopted into loving homes, of course.”

An inquisitive smirk crosses his face as he asks, “Do you want pets?”

“I’ve been keeping my eyes on two kittens that aren’t quite old enough to be weaned yet. Mr. Whiskers is a little tabby with whiskers that are longer than his tail, and Cheeto is an orange fuzzball with a ton of personality.”

“You’ve already named them?” he asks after pulling out of the parking lot.

“We name all of them unless they come in as owner surrenders,” I reply.

Concern mars his face before he conveys, “I guess that makes sense. Do you ever get medium sized dogs?”

“Quite often, actually. Are you looking for one?” My curiosity is piqued. Animal lovers sing to my soul, and I hope that he too adores the furry beasts like I do.

Peering at me out of the corner of his eye, he tells me, “I’d like one that can handle living out on the farm. One who won’t chase the chickens, that kind of thing. I’m even thinking of adding some goats or maybe even some mini pigs.”

“Not to eat, right?” That’s a no-go for me. I tend to get attached to any living, breathing being, whether they walk on two feet or four.

He laughs, the sound reverberating through the cab of the truck, while shaking his head. “No, I just remember how much fun they were when I was a kid. The goats helped keep the grass down, and the pigs will pretty much eat anything.”

“Sounds like your grandparents were pretty great,” I softly say. “It was just my mom and me for as long as I could remember. Now it’s just me.”

At least Mom lived long enough to see me graduate, I think to myself.

“And me, if you’re interested,” he replies, his voice just as soft as mine was, as he reaches for my hand and laces our fingers together. “Because I’ve been looking for someone like you my whole life, Jory.”

“You have?” My heart races in my chest at his inclination. He may not be aware of this, but he’s the man of my dreams.

“Yeah, sweetheart, I have. As I told you earlier, I was married before, but our end goals weren’t the same. She’s remarried now, lives in the city, and just had her third kid. I’m more than content living in the country, doing a job I love, and being around people I grew up with.”

“I’ve never had another boyfriend,” I confess. “Not since the fire, of course, and you see how well that worked out for me.”

“Why not?” he asks, his tone one of confusion. “How does someone like you get overlooked?”

“Honestly? I was so busy after the fire just trying to survive and then heal, I was focused on that instead of getting back out there. Since it was my boyfriend who caused such destruction and ruined so many lives, I didn’t think my picker was good. Then it was college and my mom dying, which meant I had to find someplace to live. So, even though I know my scars freak people out, I wasn’t actively looking, Bryson. I guess I’m a bit gun-shy.”