Beautiful Graves Read Online L.J. Shen

Categories Genre: Angst, Contemporary, Dark Tags Authors:
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Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 117601 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 588(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 392(@300wpm)
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Joe and I live in San Francisco. I attend Berkeley. I study art and design and have an Etsy shop where I sell custom-made sketches. I’ve moved on from designing gravestones, although I do that, too, on commission. I also draw characters, caricatures (especially of rock stars), and more. I’m at no risk of getting rich from the gig, but it keeps my bank account from being completely empty. There is something incredibly empowering about making a living by doing what you love, so I focus on being grateful for that.

Joe has recently quit his job as a longshoreman. He now works from home. Which is great, because I study long hours, and someone needs to be there for Loki to stare at with deep disapproval. We live in a tiny studio apartment, but it is ours, and we love it.

One day, I get back to the apartment to find a Post-it Note on the fridge. It entails a simple instruction.

Drive to the cemetery to see your mom.

It is written in Joe’s handwriting. Which is great, because I’m still listening to true-crime podcasts, and I’m still worried someone is going to murder me in a totally unexpected way.

I take my keys, kiss the top of Loki’s head, and drive to Half Moon Bay. It’s Friday night, and traffic is a mess. I put Duran Duran’s “Save a Prayer” on the stereo, because it was Mom’s favorite song and (still) arguably the best song in the world. Ever since I moved back to San Francisco, I have visited her every couple of months. We have great conversations. One sided but great nonetheless.

I resist the urge to call Joe on my way there. Knowing him, he wouldn’t pick up anyway. That’s the drawback of having an acerbic, mostly detached boyfriend. I know I am the love of his life . . . but I also know that he is a stubborn son of a gun.

When I get to the cemetery, I find that the parking lot is even emptier than usual. After grabbing a parking spot, I get out of the car and start making my way to Mom’s grave. I look left and right as I cross the street. I’m so confused. Everything looks the same. Joe is nowhere in sight.

I stop by my mother’s tombstone and scan the new design I made by myself. It is incredibly detailed. It is the shape of her arm—the arm that cradled me, that wiped my tears off, that pulled me to safety when I fell onto the rails—and it is tattooed to its last inch, just like Mom’s arm in real life. The design is so unique, so comprehensive. Dad says he gets asked about it all the time.

“Hey, Mom.” I perch on a patch of grass by her grave. “Any idea where Joe is?”

Even when she doesn’t answer, I can feel her presence. I shake my head, rolling my eyes. “No, we didn’t have a fight. He asked me to come here. What the heck?”

I pull out my phone to call him. I’m swiping the screen when I hear a voice behind me.

“Your turn.”

I whip my head around. Joe is standing there, among the graves. The most beautiful Graves I have ever seen. In a peacoat and with tousled hair.

“My turn?” I swivel to him fully. There is not enough air, not enough oxygen for me to fully function.

“To save me.”

“How?” I want to know. I think I might know, but I want to hear it.

His face breaks into a heartbreaking smile of the Joe Graves variety. “Be my forever, Ever. Be my wife. The mother of my children. The person I file joint taxes with. I want it all. The good and the bad. The boring and the interesting. And the in between, which we will determine ourselves.”

I know what he is asking, even if he doesn’t go down on one knee.

Even when he doesn’t produce a ring.

Even when we are both as still as the gravestones we are surrounded by.

In another world, in another universe, we’d have been married. Maybe even with a kid. In another universe, maybe Mom would still be with us. Maybe tonight, we’d be having dinner while she babysat our child. And then there’s another world. One where Joe and I went our separate ways. One where Joe is asking someone else to marry him right about now—maybe Presley—and I’m sitting in my room, rearranging my album collection and still hating my life.

There are so many versions to reality. All of them dictated by the slightest decision. But right now, I know I made the right one.

I reach my arm between us, opening my palm. Guiding him to safety.

“Come with me,” I say, paying him back for all those years when he saved me from drowning. “There’s another chapter in our story I want to write.”

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