A steamy 1950s small-town romance between a tough but strangely innocent greaser and an irresistible teenage heartthrob becomes Northfield's juiciest secret love affair! The introverted Vance Romano is a just a closeted teenager trying to fit in wit...
It was sunnier than he'd remembered, especially for winter. Blake was usually working through the day and even into the night at Golden Row, so there wasn't a lot of time to see the sun. Maybe that was why Blake felt like he was just drowning in it when he stepped out of the taxi and into Northfield.
He was at the northernmost part of town since the taxi had come from Resthaven. He'd taken a long string of taxis to get down here since he'd sold the Buick off, yet he realized he didn't know what to do once he got here. Blake supposed he should go back to... his old man's house. He'd already sent a letter to the county about being the next-of-kin before he departed, so Blake should have everything basically wrapped up in maybe a month or so. He'd stay in Resthaven and only come down to Northfield when he absolutely needed to, so Blake would make it as unlikely as possible to run into anyone he didn't want to.
Jenny told him that she'd come with him and help him sort things out just as soon as she was done with her business in Albany—apparently she was a pretty good art collector to make dough off it—but Blake said he wanted everything done as soon as possible. He'd head to Northfield on his own. It took some reasoning, but he told her that he'd be fine.
He needed to be alone for this anyway.
Since he was walking around in the upper-class area, he was going to pass the Northfield cemetery, too. He didn't really know what he was doing. He didn't have to go see the grave, and he was still carrying a suitcase full of his crap, but his feet were moving.
The place made Blake's palms feel clammy. It was all lush, green grass carefully tended to, and it was a huge expanse of headstones, statues, and memorials. There were big weeping willows that shaded benches to comfort the living and bundles of flowers to comfort the dead. It was a beautiful place, but Blake's stomach kept turning as he walked. The wind made the willow leaves sigh around him. His footsteps crunching on the soft grass didn't seem real.
His old man was buried near the back, he was told. He died this autumn, so the grass would have already settled on top of him. Blake had to skim all the headstones, looking for Coleman, and he'd see all the bouquets resting on or against them. Peonies, lilies, daisies—there was everything here.
Blake came to one of the last plots in the very back. It was marble. New.
JOSEPH COLEMAN
JUL 27th, 1914 - NOV 4th, 1956
Blake put down his suitcase. He'd forgotten when his old man's birthday was even though Blake's was a week before it. Hell, the old drunk probably forgot it, too.
He still didn't know why he was here. He was probably the only idiot in the world to ever think about visiting this guy. Blake would probably be the last.
He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one. Blake felt like he should say something. He wanted to have something to say to him, but there wasn't anything. What was left?
The wind blew, and it felt so lonely here. There wasn't a soul here, just graves and flowers, and Blake was standing in front of a grave with no flowers at all. Blake shuddered. He suddenly missed his mother. He really missed her. He wanted her here. She still loved this piece-of-shit even when he was beating her, and Blake didn't know now how she felt about him, but he wanted her back here. It was terrible. It was a terrible, awful thought for Blake to have, but he wished that she still loved his old man.
He wished that she'd come here and cry and leave him flowers even though he'd done all that.
But this was all there was for his old man. The cold sigh of willows and a son that was his spitting-image. Blake lifted a hand and touched the cold marble, sobbing. He didn't want to. He didn't want to go.
He didn't want to go surrounded by his addiction. He didn't want to be found three weeks later because no one was around to find him.
He didn't want to hit the bottom in his mid-thirties. He didn't want to lay cold with a pistol in one hand and a martini in the other.
He didn't want to go without flowers.
"I don't want to.... I don't want to go." Blake stood at his own grave begging not to go when there was nowhere else to go but there. "Please, mom. Don't let me go."
Blake clutched the cold stone, wilting down until his forehead touched the headstone.
There were crunches in the grass coming distantly, heard just over the sighing willows, but Blake couldn't care about it.
Yet the footsteps came right up to him. Equal parts endless gratitude and uncertain dread swirled in him. He didn't want to be alone.
He lifted his face from the grave, and he saw a short, robust little woman. There were a few wrinkles around the eyes, and they were very beautiful, kind, soft blue eyes. Deep-set, and gentle like some hidden pond. She held daisies in her arm.
She rubbed his arm, and it set him off all over again.
"Oh, it's okay." She rubbed his back. "It's okay."
"I don't want to go."
"No one's making you go anywhere." Her voice was getting all choked up. "Let me hug you. Come."
He turned away from the grave and let her arms squeeze around him with the daisies lying on his back. He tried to say thank you, but all he could do was weep.
"What is your name, bambino?" she asked from his chest.
"Blake."
"Call me zietta." She took a daisy from her bouquet and put it in Blake's hands.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
A/N - yeah, also cried so bad during this scene that i had to stop to go cry in my bed.
btw this is soooo Holden Caufield of Blake. look at this angsty little white boy who cant find a place in this world
![✔️The Greaser and the Skirtchaser [18+]](https://img.wattpad.com/cover/344807680-64-k117706.jpg)