Page 81 of Hollow
I take a small sip, the whiskey burning pleasantly down my throat. “Definitely better than the lemonade.”
Flint’s laughter is lighter than I’ve ever heard from him. “Don’t tell the tourist trap vendor. He’s charging five bucks for that sugar water.”
Damiano’s fingers find mine, tracing patterns on my palm. “This is the oldest cemetery on the island. Some of these graves date back to the 1700s.”
“History nerd.” Flint bumps Damiano’s shoulder with his own.
“Plant nerd.” Damiano points to a patch of wildflowers growing between two weathered tombstones. “See those? They only grow in soil with high calcium content. From the bones.”
“Romantic,” I say, unable to hide my smile.
“Hey, you picked us,” Flint reminds me. “Could’ve had normal boyfriends who take you to candlelit dinners.”
Boyfriends. The word hangs in the air between us, new and unexplored.
“Normal is overrated.” I lean back against Damiano’s legs. “Besides, I’ve had enough hospital food to last a lifetime. I don’t need fancy restaurants.”
Their expressions soften at the mention of my illness. It’s strange how something that’s defined me for so long feels less significant when I’m with them.
“Speaking of food,” Damiano says, reaching into his backpack. “I brought something more substantial than lemonade.”
He pulls out a small bundle wrapped in cloth. Inside are slices of crusty bread, wedges of cheese, and dark purple grapes that glisten in the dappled light.
“A picnic in a graveyard.” I laugh. “You two really know how to show a girl a good time.”
“Only the best for you.” Flint echoes his earlier words, but there’s sincerity beneath the playfulness now.
We eat with our fingers, passing food betweenus, the simple meal somehow tasting better here among the quiet stones than any five-star restaurant could offer.
“I used to come here as a kid,” Damiano says, breaking a piece of bread. “When things got too loud at home. It was the only place nobody looked for me.”
“I came here to steal,” Flint admits with a half-smile. “Metal from the gates, flowers people left that I could resell. Not my proudest moments.”
“And now?” I ask.
“Now we’re here with you,” Damiano says.
Flint nods, his expression unusually open. “Different circumstances.”
“Better ones,” I say, and they both look at me like I’ve said something profound.
For a moment, I forget what brought us together—the blood, the grave, the secrets we keep. For a moment, we’re simply three people finding comfort in each other’s company, sharing food and whiskey in the afternoon sun.
Flint lies back on the bench, his head resting in Damiano’s lap. It’s such a casual intimacy, something I never thought I’d see between them. Damiano automatically starts finger combing Flint’s hair, unsnarling the strands, the white streak stark against the black.
I watch them, these two men who have somehow become my entire world in the span of a chaotic week. There’s still tension between them—years ofhistory don’t disappear overnight—but there’s something else, too. Something healing.
“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” Flint teases, catching me staring.
“I left my camera at home,” I say, wishing I hadn’t. This is a moment I want to preserve.
“Next time,” Damiano promises, as if reading my mind.
Next time. The promise of a future, however uncertain, makes warmth bloom in my chest.
I stand up, brushing crumbs from my jeans. “Come on,” I say, holding out my hands to both of them. “Show me more of this place.”
They rise in unison, each taking one of my hands. We go deeper into the cemetery, past stones weathered by time and salt air, our footsteps falling into a rhythm that feels like we’ve been doing this forever.
