The Distance Between Us

rather not try at all than fail at it.”
    “But nothing good ever happened without risk.”
    “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: