“I know this. And yet . . .”

We reach the back doors of the funeral home and he leans our shovels against the wall. I shake out my hair and he does the same. Then he turns me around and brushes off my back.

“And yet what?” I ask when I’m not sure if he’s going to continue.

“And yet I can’t get past it.” His hands linger on my back and I close my eyes.

“Maybe you should let yourself fail at something. Fail hard. Then you won’t be scared anymore.”

“So should I go get the dogs now or later . . . ?”

“Okay, okay, I get it.” He’s right. I can’t tell him to face his fear if I’m not willing to face mine. And I don’t mean my fear of dogs.

“So are you just scared of the big dogs or do the little ones bother you, too?”

“You have dogs, don’t you? The kind you carry in a purse?”

“No,” he scoffs. “Of course I don’t.”

“Their size doesn’t matter. In fact sometimes the little one are worse. They’ll take off a finger.”

“This coming from a girl who’s never been bitten before.”

“The thought, Xander. It’s the thought.”

He chuckles then pats my shoulders as if to say my back is now free of dirt. “Ready to go?”

“Yes. No, wait. Let me fix your hand real fast. Mr. Lockwood has supplies inside.” I knock on the door then open it a crack. “Mr. Lockwood?” I step inside. “Follow me. If I remember right there’s a first aid kit this way.”

We walk down a long hall and I open the last door on the right. I stop cold when Mr. Lockwood looks up from a dead body lying flat on the table in front of him. “Sorry,” I say. The man has a large cut down his chest with big staples holding it together. He had obviously had an autopsy performed. His face is sunken as well, not a fresh body but one a coroner probably had for several days.

“It’s okay, come in.”

The room is cold and a shiver goes through me. “I just needed a first aid kit. Some gauze and antiseptic maybe.”

He points to the small bathroom attached to the room. “Right there.” Mr. Lockwood applies some sort of foundation to the man’s face.

It’s hard to ignore the smell lingering in the room. It’s not a horrible smell, but the smell of something being preserved. “Is he going to be open-casket?”

“Yes. Tomorrow.” A large picture of the man when he was alive is taped to the wall next to Mr. Lockwood and he keeps referencing it.

“He needs some work,” I say.

“We’re getting there.” He holds out a brush. “Do you want to apply some blush?”

“Xander, what do you say? Another facet to this career?” I turn around, but he is frozen in the doorway staring with a horrified expression at the guy on the table. His face looks almost as pale as the man who has his attention. “Maybe not.”

I step in front of him and it takes a moment for him to meet my eyes.

“You okay?” I ask.

“Didn’t expect that. I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, come here.” I lead him to the bathroom and close the door, hoping that putting the body out of sight will help. I hold Xander’s hand under some slow running water, gently rubbing it with soap. His eyes keep drifting to the shut door. “Stay,” I say, searching the cupboards for the first aid kit. I find it and set it on the counter, opening it. Xander turns off the water and pats his hand dry.

I unscrew the lid off some antiseptic then take his hand back in mine and dab some onto the raw wound. “Does it hurt?”

“It’s fine.”

His breath touches my cheek with the answer and I realize how close we are. I wrap his hand with gauze and look up. “There, good as new.”

The color in his face has changed to a sickly shade of gray. “Thanks,” he mumbles, and rushes by me and out the door.

I thank Mr. Lockwood then leave. By the time I get outside, Xander is leaning one hand against the building and dry heaving into some bushes. This is a disaster. From blisters to puking my career day sucks.

“I’m sorry.” I walk to his side and rub his shoulder. My mom always does that when I vomit. It doesn’t help much but I like to know she’s there.

“I’m okay. How much do you think Humiliation pays? Because I’m obviously really good at it.”

“Never seen a dead body before, huh?”

“No . . .” He wipes his mouth on the sleeve of his sweatshirt and straightens up.

“Note to self: Xander has a sensitive stomach. Stay away from career fields involving anything gross.”

At the car he pulls off the sweatshirt, nearly taking the shirt underneath with it and then steps out of his shoes. He throws them in the trunk, exchanging them for his nice ones. Trying not to let my gaze linger on the strip of still-exposed skin above his jeans, I tug off my sweatshirt as well.

“Do you want me to drive?” I ask, noting his still-too-pale face.

He hesitates for a moment.

“You don’t trust me with your baby?”

“It’s not that. . . . Okay, it’s that.”

“Rude.”

He gets into the car.

I climb in the passenger seat. “You’re really not going to let me drive it? You let that valet guy drive it at the hotel.”

“That was in a parking lot. And if you wrecked it we couldn’t be friends anymore. Then where would you be?”

“Don’t you have three others just like it?”

“Four, actually, but who’s counting?”

I think he’s kidding, but then again . . .

He starts the engine and pulls away from the curb. I look at the clock on Xander’s dash. Five. It’s hard to believe four hours had passed.

Xander moves into the right lane and starts to turn.

“Where are you going?”

“I thought we could get dinner. There’s this French place over here that I love.”

He’s obviously feeling better. “I shouldn’t. My mom’s been stuck at the store all by herself half the day. I should get back and help her clean up.”

“One more hour won’t hurt.”

“I should go back.”

He continues his path down the wrong road. “Come on.” He throws me his smile. I swear the thing could end wars.

“Okay. Then home.”

“Of course.”

It’s not until I’m out of the car and walking up to the fancy French restaurant that I think about the layer of dirt coating my skin. Xander had smashed dirt into my hair and I can still feel some caked against my scalp. I self-consciously try to comb it out with my fingers. When we step inside, the people waiting in the lobby are all dressed up. I’m sure the hostess, who’s dressed up herself, is about to turn us away. Xander has a streak of dried dirt across his forehead, after all.

But she offers Xander a gleaming white smile. “Mr. Spence. Your party is already here.”

“Really?” He tilts his head at her. “Then lead the way.”

“Did you have plans?” I ask as we walk behind her toward a back room.

“Apparently plans were made without me.”

I have no idea what that means, but when we get to the back room a dozen well-dressed, perfectly put-together people laugh when they see him. One guy stands and then addresses the hostess, “See? Didn’t we tell you we were with Xander Spence?”

“I shouldn’t have doubted you,” she says, then to Xander adds, “I’ll make sure the waiter comes to take your order.”

“Thank you.” Xander steps into the room and walks around to an empty chair.

“You look like you’ve been doing community service,” someone comments, pointing to his flannel shirt and dirty face.

Xander’s confidence isn’t shaken. His posture is still as straight as ever, his presence bigger than the room. There’s a twinkle in his eye when he says, “So which fool is using my name to avoid waiting?”

The guy already standing, with glasses I’m pretty sure aren’t prescription and a tan he probably pays for weekly, bows. “That would be me.”

“I should’ve known.”

“It’s going on your tab, too,” the guy adds.

Xander looks around and then spots me still by the entrance. “Everyone, this is my friend Caymen. Caymen, these are people you probably don’t care to know but who I sometimes call my friends.”