Frankie knew it was a risk to invite Beau to her Death Day Party. The family affair has rarely been witnessed by anyone outside of her family, though it certainly isn’t unheard of for a significant other or friend to attend the party.
However, what is even rarer is for the event to be attended by someone without an ounce of mischief in their blood, which is a category into which Beau falls firmly. And yet, none of this supersedes the true rarity, which is that Frankie has such a person to even invite in the first place, mischief affiliated or otherwise.
Thankfully, Beau won’t be allowed to see the actual death. Not even her parents will get to witness it. Her demise is hers, and hers alone. Until then, Frankie stands in the corner of the garden, a glass of champagne gripped tightly in her hand, waiting for Beau to arrive. Technically speaking, she is still underage and, yet it hardly seems reasonable to follow such rules when one is going to die in…Frankie glances at her watch. Two hours.
She takes a large gulp and considers how to best make her way from the corner of the garden to the drinks table without passing through the throng of her family members. They are ecstatic that she has passed her Reaper exams with distinction, and there seems to be no end to the handshakes, shoulder pats, and high-fives. She adjusts her beret and makes sure her black turtle-neck is tucked into her black jeans. She’ll be able to change her outfit in Death, but, as a Reaper, she’ll appear in Life as she died. She crafted her final outfit with that in mind, pairing her favorite articles of clothing with her most comfortable combat boots. She’s even added a pair of silver studs to her ears.
Perhaps Beau won’t even come, she thinks. Perhaps their time spent in Death did not overshadow his aversion to her, as she had led herself to believe. Perhaps the handholding, and the charged, fevered looks, and the almost-kiss did nothing to convince him to break up with Penelope.
Perhaps, like most things in life, it all meant nothing in the end.
This is when she sees him walk through the garden gate, a head taller than most of her family, curls sticking up as if he’s just run his hand through them.
Her father glances at Beau curiously, and they exchange a few words. With a sigh, Frankie makes her way over to them.
“It’s a bit unusual for Frankie to—well—” Her father stumbles over the words “—have friends.”
This is, of course, not entirely true. Frankie has plenty of friends. However, what is true is that she is quite good at keeping people at arm’s length. She has never had someone close enough to invite to a family function, which has so far suited her just fine, and in fact, she’s not quite sure what brave initiative had risen in her chest when she invited Beau today. Surely, it was an unusual display of emotional vulnerability, with display being the operative word. The risk that he would decline, citing a previous obligation that would undoubtedly be too flimsy to be real, was high.
And yet, he agreed. Readily.
Happily.
The memory still sends a wave of warmth across her cheeks.
Despite his assurances that he absolutely wanted to be there and to see her, her nerves had not been assuaged until just now, as Beau smooths his face into something polite, all straight lines and slightly raised eyebrows. It’s a practiced facade of manners, but Frankie doesn’t miss the flicker of annoyance; her father’s lack of confidence in her social skills has not gone unnoticed by Beau, and Frankie feels a little jolt of pleasure that he feels offended on her behalf.
“I’m honored, then,” he says. “That she would deign to associate with me is a reflection of her good character more so than of mine.”
Frankie raises an eyebrow, not bothering to hide her smirk. It is uncommon to see Beau displaying his Astor manners.
It’s surprisingly charming.
Her father seems impressed, as well. “Let me introduce you to the family.”
“I can do that,” says Frankie.
Her father looks at her with a half-smile, as if he’s just realized that his little girl is an adult. She wonders if he’s sad that he won’t get to see her become more than what she is right now.
Or perhaps he’s simply proud that she is upholding family traditions with a considerable amount of aplomb. Frankie takes Beau’s hand and pulls him away from her father.
“Well,” says Frankie. “That was my dad. Jonathan. He’s forty-six and dislikes peas.”
She introduces Beau to her mother (“forty-seven, loves peas”) and her grandmother (“unknown age, doesn’t give a toss about peas, would sell her own soul for a bottle of whiskey”).
“And this,” says Frankie, her voice wavering for the first time since Beau arrived, “is my great-great-Aunt Francesca. The one I’m named after.”
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“And the one who has recently retired,” says great-great-Aunt Francesca. Physically, she is the same age as Frankie, but there is something off about her coloring. She is far paler than she should be, particularly with the late-summer sun shining down on her face. She seems incongruous, her attire more reminiscent of the turn of the century than 1993. Her default expression is blandly interested, and she seems somehow removed from the conviviality of the party. Then again, great-great-Aunt Francesca is dead.
“Aunt Frank, I would like you to meet my—friend, Beau Astor.” Frankie, it would seem, has a little trouble saying the word as well.
“It’s lovely to meet you,” says Aunt Frank. She turns her head to the side and looks curiously at him. “You’ve been to Death.”
He nods. “Yes, there was a…an incident. Frankie helped me sort it out. I have a passport now.”
Aunt Frank frowns. “But you are alive. Frankie, you’re not breaking regulations before you’ve even taken your post?”
“It’s fine, Aunt Frank,” says Frankie, her attention on her glass of champagne. “He signed a contract and everything. He won’t tell anyone. Besides,” Frankie looks up with a smirk, her eyes sliding to Beau. “I trust him with my life.”
Aunt Frank isn’t amused. “You know it’s a great honor to be selected for this position. The Harts have a long-standing reputation of excellence in the Reaper community. We were hand-selected by Charon himself, centuries ago.”
Frankie lets her smirk fall, though it maintains an admirable attempt at an encore. “I understand, ma’am.”
Aunt Frank nods. “See that you continue to do so.”
“Yes, ma’am,” she says, eyes trained on her scuffed boots. When Aunt Frank wanders away, Frankie adds, just under her breath. “I’m just dying to keep the family traditions intact.”
Beau snorts, and Frankie smirks up at him before taking his hand and pulling him away. They round the corner of the house, as Frankie leads him to the swing on the back porch. She barely makes it around the corner before a bubble of laughter escapes, causing more than a few startled looks in their direction.
Beau smiles and squeezes her hand as his laughter joins her. She remembers the sound so well from her childhood, better than her own laugh. She spent many hours teasing it from his mouth, and a soft, warm bloom of emotion spreads through her chest at the sight and sound of Beau Astor so happy to be in her presence.
As the afternoon wanes, the back garden becomes considerably less crowded, the drinks table long depleted. Frankie manages to sneak the last bottle of champagne, and she and Beau sit among the rosebushes taking sips and ignoring the fact that she will be a ghost very soon.
She feels the back of his hand against hers, and, with an uncharacteristic spark of courage, she twists her wrist, so that they are palm-to-palm. Beau is the one who laces their fingers together, and she glances up at him.
“Almost time,” she says quietly.
Beau’s eyebrows crease together. “Explain it to me again.”
She recites the words she’s repeated to herself since she was old enough to talk. “Death will be swift. After I die, I’ll open a doorway and walk through, which sort of affirms the whole death thing, like sealing an envelope. Then, I’ll move into my dorm in the Reaper’s Quarters.”
“I’ll see you soon, though. Right?”
“Yeah, of course. You’ve got your passport.”
He nods, then seems to consider something, like he’s tasting the words on his tongue before he lets them loose. His eyes flicker down to her lips. “I need to tell you—”
She kisses him.
It’s the champagne, she thinks, but she knows it’s not.
There is a split second where Frankie feels panic rising in the back of her mind at his lack of response. But then he shifts, moves so that their lips line up perfectly. She feels his hand on the back of her neck.
Her skin tingles with the reality of him.
It’s a truth she didn’t realize she needed: lips sliding against lips, hands hurting from clenching each other, the taste of champagne, and a bit of smoke from the cigarette he had just before he arrived.
“Sorry,” she says. “It’s the champagne—”
“Don’t.” He takes a shaky breath. “Don’t blame the champagne. It’s like saying you didn’t mean it.”
“I meant it,” she says, and then, her voice hesitant and small, she adds, “Did you?”
“I definitely meant it.” But even though she can feel the veracity in his words, his expression darkens.
She leans back.
“It’s Penelope,” he begins. “We haven’t had a chance to really talk—”
“Oh,” she says stiffly. She thinks about saying something scathing, but can’t muster the jealousy.
Of course, he’s still with Penelope. Even dead, Penelope is better suited for Beau than her. She’s pretty, intelligent, and sociable. She’s successfully maneuvered through a complicated, bureaucratic system with ease—a system that feels so clunky and foreign to Frankie even with her Reaper training completed.
Frankie suddenly feels as if she’s sinking. It’s a good thing she’s dying soon because she wants the earth to swallow her up. She wants to disappear into the cool dark ground and live with the worms and her crushing feelings of rejection. Instead, she does something that comes easy: she acts like it doesn’t bother her.
“Probably for the best,” she says, inspecting her fingernails. “I’ll be pretty busy for a while. Focusing on my career.”
“Right,” says Beau. “It’s just…” He reaches out for her again, his palm against her cheek. He leans closer, his breath on her lips. “I—”
“Frankie!” her mother calls. “Now where has she gone to?” Her mother calls her name again, only her voice is closer this time.
Frankie is still looking at Beau when her mother rounds the corner, though, by tacit agreement, they have leaned back from each other. A respectable distance. A platonic distance.
“Frankie, darling. It’s time,” says her mother.
Frankie stands to follow her mother. Beau catches her hand before they turn the corner, before they rejoin the party and the eyes of her family.
He presses a kiss to her palm, and she instinctively curls her fingers around it, as if holding it tight, storing it for later.
“See you soon, Frankie.”
And then she is gone.