And she shakes her head, begs me not to say it. “Babe, we’ve exceeded our dad joke quota for the night.”

I nod my agreement. “Okay, okay. You right.” I kiss the top of her head.

She grins. “Thank you for the self-control. Look at you out here showing personal growth and . . .”

“Because how could I not fall for you?”

And then she’s pretending to push me, and I’m pretending to stumble backward, flailing my arms like a baby bird attempting to fly for the first time.

And we’re laughing, laughing.

Driving home, the sky applies its dusk filter, everything a moody gray.

And the highway lampposts hum to life, their light gliding and swirling along both sides of us, like electric-orange butterflies.

In my driveway, Autumn leans across the seat and we kiss.

We do that awkward car-divider-between-us hug. “Thanks for the ride.”

“Everything’s gonna be okay,” she says.

I shrug. “How come the more people say that the less true it feels?”

58

The Funeral

I was hiding behind the funeral parlor when we met.

I slipped through the sea of nose-blowing and eye-dabbing and stepped out a door marked Do Not Open.

I needed air and I needed a wall, because it had only just hit me:

How many things I wanted to tell them that I couldn’t.

And there were only gonna be more things, all the time.

I took a breath, cracked my neck.

“The first undertakers were actually furniture makers,” a voice said.

And I nearly jumped clear of my skin.

I turned to see a girl sitting on a wide sill, the window behind her boarded with plywood.

She laughed. “Sorry. Thought you saw me up here.”

I shook my head. “I definitely did not. Why are you up there?”

She shrugged. “Why are you down there, man? Why are we anywhere? It’s a tad early for existentialism.”

And I didn’t know what that was—if the universe thought it was doing me a solid, mashing this girl’s world with mine, I was not into it. Especially that day. I pivoted toward the door, but she hopped down from the window.

“It makes sense, though, right?” she continued.

“Huh?” I asked. “What does?”

She sucked her teeth. “That the first undertakers were furniture makers. The casket game was a logical move. You already had the materials and the skill. You just needed the bodies, and God knows, there’s no shortage of those.”

“Umm, you do realize a funeral home is a sad place, right? Like, I enjoy trivia as much as the next guy, but . . .”

“You come from the party?” She motioned toward the door I’d just disobeyed. “You know the people that died?”

“Yeah,” I said. “You?”

She wagged her head. “No, I just work here on Saturdays.”

“Oh. Cool?”

She laughed. “Is that a statement or a question?”

“Definitely more question.”