Morbidly Yours

by Ivy Fairbanks

Happy as a Lark. Based on her amicable audacity in strolling into my home and blithely requesting a performance, it fit her.

“I thought y’all were super-hospitable to foreigners. ‘Land of a thousand welcomes,’ right?” I snorted. “I’m in the business of goodbyes, not hellos.”

Playing piano for Lark had been … pleasant. Mostly. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a conversation with a stranger unrelated to work. Especially one I enjoyed.

Reese Thompson. Husband. Son. Brother. Coach.

Without overthinking, I leaned across the center console and pecked him on the cheek. Bright lipstick embellished his skin. Callum himself smelled of a subtle aftershave, perhaps with a name like Himalayan Rain or Cool Waters. Nuclear fuchsia blazed on his face and ears once I withdrew. His fingers had remained clamped around the steering wheel all the while, the way one would grip the wheel if driving over a rickety one-lane bridge with no guardrails. I brushed a thumb over the pink smear and made it worse. Callum swallowed heavily. Crap. Would he read the friendly peck as a sign of interest? It wasn’t. I kissed friends on the cheek often, but we definitely weren’t on that level yet. Way to crank the awkward dial to 11.

Before I entered the building, I turned to find Callum’s hand raised to his flushed cheek. Our eyes met and he jerked it away. Okay. He was sort of cute. Before pulling away from the curb he mouthed “good luck.” I’d need it.

From behind the curtains, I peered into my neighbor’s yard with newfound curiosity. My living room window opened right into the rose garden behind Willow Haven. Lush red blossoms rested in precisely manicured bushes thick with thorns. Callum went about their maintenance, pruning and adding mulch. Suspenders crossed his wide shoulders and fitted trousers stopped just before his ankles, giving him a look somewhere between debonair and antiquated. Some people want to be scattered under rose bushes or oak trees and the question flickered across the marquee of my mind: was it a garden nourished by ash? Regardless, the notion of my neighbor tending his flowers was more comforting than how I imagined he spent the rest of his workdays.

He was interesting. Soft-spoken, with a rich baritone. Mysterious and stoic … but when his elegant hands touched the piano, they revealed a depth of emotion. Discipline and heart went into that kind of playing.

“Oh yeah. People are d-dying to hang out with me.” His delivery was drier than the Mojave. I groaned. “Are you trying to prove that you hate comedy or something?” “Is it working?” “If anything, you’ve only proven you need a night of decent stand-up. Although, if this is the caliber of humor I can expect in your presence, maybe I ought to withdraw the offer.” “No!” he announced. “I’ll go.”

Septum Flair’s Sharpie skated across the cup. “Iced lavender latte for Clark…” “Lark. There is no C.” “Got it.” “Clark Klark” was scrawled in a messy hand on the cardboard cup when our order appeared at the counter. “Every. Time.” “No C, at least,” I pointed out. “Whose side are you on, anyway, Colm?” She smirked, deliberately pronouncing the name on the side of my cup wrong.

“Grace O’Malley. A family-friendly retelling of her life.” I was well-aware of her story. Daughter of a chieftain turned pirate queen, she commanded a fleet of galleys in the 1500s. The seafaring warrior defended her territory as the rest of the island fell under British rule. Famously, she refused to bow to Queen Elizabeth, walking away from the encounter with both her life and her freedom. A rare feat.

But here was this American woman with enough extroversion for both of us, coaxing me out of the mortuary and into the land of the living. It was in equal part terrifying and enjoyable.

With a triumphant grin, I plucked my Moleskine sketchbook and pen from my handbag. Soon, sketchy lines coalesced into a drawing of my companion. Long legs poked out of a black schoolboy school uniform as he forlornly clutched a skull-shaped balloon. Heavy brows lifted as I shielded the budding image with my other hand. When I finished, I tore the page from the binding and slid it across the table.

Callum’s mouth softened, eyes thoughtful as he examined it. “Me?” “Your cartoon-deprived inner child. Keep it.” “No one’s ever drawn me.” He swallowed, fidgeting for a moment.

“I’ve no idea what to make of you.” Lark shrugged. “Make me your friend.”

“Guess you’re picking where we go next time. Since this one was such a resounding success, you’re stuck with me now. I’m the human form of loose glitter.” She pretended to sprinkle some around me, like a possessive pixie. Glad to see her carefree demeanor recovered, I allowed myself a modest smile. “Or a popcorn kernel impossibly wedged b-b-between my molars.” My stomach clenched as I repeated the consonant but she strode on next to me, unfazed. “You mean your fangs, Count Flannelly?” Lark swept a challenging look up and down, and put on a fake Transylvanian accent. “Ze night is still young. Or you can go home and floss.”

“Sorry, dear. He’s neck-deep in”—Oh lady, please don’t say a corpse—“bookkeeping at the moment.” Phew. Much better mental image. I introduced myself.

Even such a handsome one.” “Oh! This is just my friend Callum.” “Good evening.” He doffed his flat cap, revealing a mass of glossy black hair. He was so old-fashioned. Between the cap and the waistcoat, he could’ve wandered off the set of Peaky Blinders.

“What?” Callum asked. “Nothing wrong with being old.” I sputtered on the scone and thumped my sternum so I wouldn’t choke. “Or a lesbian,” he added when I’d recovered. Wincing, I hacked into my napkin and took a sip of tea. “Callum, darlin’, you cannot call our gorgeous host old!” I cast an apologetic look at an unfazed Maeve. “Sorry about him. He doesn’t get out much.”

“Hey. Would you adopt me, Maeve?” I joked. “If you need a green card, marry him.” Tea spewed from Callum’s lips. Most of it landed on his tie, which I blotted with a napkin as Maeve cackled. My palm brushed his firm chest … there might as well be a brick wall under that dress shirt. Posture stiff, he stared as I scrubbed the silk.

“Everyone else is great. Just wish he wouldn’t steamroll me in front of the staff.” “There’s a reason I choose to primarily work with people who can’t speak.” Callum considered my dilemma to the tune of a weepy steel guitar. “Maybe this Seán fella can take an ‘extended holiday.’”

I lifted my phone to catch a rare, bashful smile. Crinkles formed at the corners of his eyes. He didn’t look carved out of stone anymore, but approachable. Handsome. A little happiness made him endearing.

I snapped another while his teeth flashed. Coaxing out Callum’s delightful laugh felt like a worthy achievement.

Arms splayed wide, I planted my feet and stood about three feet from the edge. Western winds blew my hair into a frenzy. Further down the coast, small black shapes milled around among the rocks. “Am I hallucinating, or are those puffins?!” Callum watched me without an ounce of annoyance or judgment. “There’s a colony on the Aran Islands, a short ferry trip from here.” “Ahh! So cute.” We watched the seabirds dive into the water, filling their colorful beaks with writhing fish.

“What about the florist?” “Saoirse?” He offered a tepid shrug. “I can’t really talk to her. To anyone. That’s … usually the biggest problem.” “Hate to break it to you, but you’re doing just fine talking to me.” The butterflies in my own stomach fluttered as Callum met my eyes. I needed to take scissors to those wings. “That’s an anomaly.” “Why, thank you,”

My nipples itched at the mere suggestion. “It would be less weird to marry the cat.” “The ring bearer and wedding party would be cats in bow ties and dresses! Think about it. That would actually be adorable.” “Lark. No.”

I had you pegged as a water sign from the first time we met.” “I don’t believe in that. And refrain from suggesting you’ve pegged me, please.”

“Voilà!” Allowed at last to take in my reflection, I blinked in bewilderment. The artist twiddled a paintbrush, gauging my approval. Black. White. Two red circles over my cheeks. Orange cone-shaped party hat held in place by elastic, as a beak. Charmed, I said, “I’m a puffin?” “The world’s cutest bird.” Still wearing my glasses, she turned to the artist. “It’s perfect.”

Cal. No one shortened my name, not even when I was a child. Most people except for Deirdre called me Mr. Flannelly, and had me conjuring images of my granda. But it fell from Lark’s mouth with such ease. Maybe I could be Cal, too. A bit silly and vulnerable and even brave. A gentler version of myself.

Without thinking—certainly without asking—I reached out and gingerly brushed a rogue streak of paint on her chin. Wide gray eyes stared up at me and my mouth went dry as my thumb slid under her bottom lip, just enough pressure to make it yield. Even covered in black and white paint with rosy puffin cheeks and a paper beak, Lark was beautiful. And not only objectively, based on facial geometry or social consensus. Beautiful to me. Utterly captivating.

The deep rumble of his voice, so close to my ear, sent the fine hairs rising off my neck. I brushed at my arms absently, willing away the goosebumps despite the packed pub being downright humid. Faint notes of his cologne added an unwelcome layer of distraction.

Callum removed his coat and handed it to me. He peeled off his sweater, revealing a stripe of toned stomach muscles, just for a moment. My eyes widened, greedy for more. Would he be ticklish if my fingernails gently grazed his happy trail? Or would he suck in a breath and mutter something dirty at that kind of tease? What would he do if I kissed the plane of pale skin, going lower … lower … I schooled my features once I realized why he was stripping in the street. Clearly, he was a gentleman. And given my thoughts, I was clearly no lady.

Underneath the sweater, a snug charcoal tee left his toned arms on display, hinting at a similarly fit chest. Not that I was looking. Nope. I handed his coat back, and he pushed his arms through the sleeves again. Then he held my trench as I slipped his sweater over my head. Warm cable knit smelled like concentrated laundry soap and a hint of something uniquely Callum, woodsy and rich, enveloping me in comfort.

As my fingers curled over his biceps, I tried not to think about their firmness. Tried not to inhale any pheromones and intoxicate myself from his sweater. Callum looked so handsome in the moonlight. My thumb ached to trace his stubble-shadowed jawline. Feel the rasp against my fingertips. Despite the time he’d spent with Hannah tonight, walking home together felt like the conclusion of a date.

“I’ve all the colors,” she said, grinning. “Pink for admiration, yellow for friendship, ivory for charm … Red for passionate love, of course.” He cast a look over his shoulder. “Which one?” “Any color. I adore them all.” l toyed with the long ends of his sweater-sleeves covering my fingertips. “Of course.” He cleared his throat and twirled a finger. “Turn around, then.” I obeyed. When he called my name, I turned to find him holding no less than a half dozen in an assortment of yellows and pinks and ivories. And reds. I hadn’t expected that color, but I hadn’t expected more than a single rose at all. I said any color; he got me every color. It wasn’t complicated or symbolic—but my stomach still dropped. The same plummeting feeling as at the Cliffs of Moher.

I slung my arms around his neck, careful not to accidentally whack him with the roses. It was a mistake. Wide shoulders, that solid chest. Mmmm. I was proud of him. Thankful. All too aware of his crisp scent. I moved to peck him on the cheek, but he turned, brushing his nose against mine. I froze, millimeters from his lips. A hair’s breadth, indeed. My grip tightened around the flower stems.

Without waiting for an answer, she brought the spoon to my mouth. Sugar and vanilla. Chocolate chips. Lark’s mouth tastes like that right now, my unhelpful libido whispered. “Mmm.” I didn’t trust my voice not to croak.

“She’s named after the songbird. She’s talented. Hardworking. Courageous to move to a country where she d-d-didn’t know a soul.” And she’s introduced more joy into my life than I could imagine.

She bit her bottom lip as she watched me comply with the earlier edict to show off my “assets.” I changed the angle of my arm to get a better view as I pushed my sleeves to my elbows. But Lark wouldn’t stop staring. “Is there a stain on my cuff?” “What? No, it’s fine. You look very handsome. She’ll love it.”

Citrus and vanilla engulfed me as Lark gave me a quick, encouraging hug. Tension thickened between us as she stood in my personal space. All I could think about was tugging her down onto the garment-covered bed, tumbling over the heap of clothing and kissing her dizzy.

Aidan brought Lark’s knuckles to his lips and pressed a quick kiss to them. Pink infused her cheeks and Saoirse raised a pleased brow. I wanted to shove a trocar down his—

Illicit excitement seized me by the throat as Lark’s arm rested on mine, her fingertips brushing my shoulder. She raised her other hand, small and soft in my grasp. Her perfume smelled like temptation and grapefruit. I was unprepared for this.

I drew him into a hug. Even though he was significantly taller, he curled into me. This stoic man sunk into the embrace. I nuzzled into his chest, breathing in the rich, masculine scent of his waistcoat. Warmth spread through my hollow chest like a lantern lit against a consuming, dark night.

Callum had become my haven … and I had become his. It snuck up on me, unplanned and unforeseen, but that didn’t make it any less true.

“Know what I like about you?” “My jumper,” he replied dryly. “What?” “If you want to keep my jumper, just say so.” After he’d wrapped me in his cable-knit Aran sweater the night of the failed matchmaking with Hannah at The Hare’s Breath, it took me a full week to bite the bullet and return it. Laundered, because I’d slept in it all seven nights. “I wasn’t— Fine. I needed a hoodie anyway.”

“The way you make the world more colorful. I don’t think I realized how much I needed it until we met. Not just your job, you. There’s so much sadness in this world and you seem to always be spreading joy through it.”

“If you could tell how I felt, why did you kiss me?” “I thought I could get you to forget about her for the night. Start from there. Decent men are scarce. I thought, ‘If she won’t claim him then I will.’ Can you blame me?” “No one could make me forget about Lark in a million years.” The words came out somewhat insensitively, but completely honestly, before I’d even wrapped my brain around the realization. I was in so. Much. Fecking. Trouble.

“Cal, it’ll get easier.” Somehow, I doubted that, when she was the only person I looked forward to seeing.

Lark gazed up at me from under heavy lashes. She focused on my mouth, then back up, eyes flitting back down again as the hand fisted in my shirt unfurled and grazed the edge of my ribcage. My heart whacked against my sternum and hit every rib as it fell into my stomach. I wanted to shut my eyes and savor her caress, but damned if I could tear myself away from the ocean of her irises. Unmistakable desire thrummed between us. Longing. Licking my lips, I drifted closer with a pounding heart. If this backfired, it could be the end of our friendship. If it worked … I couldn’t imagine denying her a single thing.

Her powerful legs straddled my thigh. Warmth flowed through the thin spandex. X-rated thoughts flooded my brain. Wisps of blonde hair fell across her face and I shifted to brush them back. I tried to recall my list of surefire boner-killers. Nothing would come to mind except Lark’s exquisite scent. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Rosy color dusted Lark’s cheeks and upturned nose. Rock-hard now, my entire body was attuned to the heat between her thighs. Rigor mortis it was not. I could almost taste her breath as she drifted closer. Closer.