The local florist, Mrs. Beverly, offers me a broad smile stretching across her cheeks, kissed pink by the mid-September wind. “Good morning, Aulie.”
“Hi, Mrs. Beverly.” I force my lips into an unnatural upward curve and fight the tremble working through them.
“Almost time for the fair.”
“Mmhmm.” I slow my steps since my Memere taught me to be polite and kind above all else, even when I want to sob in solace in my Subaru.
“Looking forward to it.”
“Me too. It should be a great year.”
Liar.
According to my planner, I’m doomed and missing two key character pieces.
I’ll be lucky if thereisa fair this year at this rate.
Finally, I reach my car, and frustrated tears flood out of me like a flume. My head collapses on the steering wheel. A long overdramatic blare of the horn follows.
I jump at the blast. And then laugh.
And cry.
And laugh-cry.
After ten years of dismissals, my reserves to handle this are nonexistent.
Starting the car, a familiar post-appointment thought sinks like a stone in my gut. Without the hope of another appointment on the horizon, reality becomes clear. No one is throwing me a lifeline, so I’ll have to gather the strength to just keep swimming.
Somehow.
ChapterThree
Aulie Desfleurs
Play:Back to Autumn by Tall Heights
Mrs. Bates didn’t start on the first turn.
Of course, she didn’t. Why would exiting the seventh level of diagnosis purgatory be easy?
“Come on, Mrs. Bates. We don’t have time for this today,” I plead with my spinster vehicle, turning the key again. After yelling for Mother, she settles into a softer purr.
Well, it’s more like a clunky, clattering purr.
Nevertheless, she’s alive, and that’s all that matters today.
Note to self: get an oil change and tune-up at Pinard’s Automotive, Greeting Cards, and Pie Shop next week.
I should get Emy’s birthday card while I’m there too.
Connecting my phone to the car audio jack, I scroll to my post-appointment playlist and press “End of the World” by Herman’s Hermits. It’s a dramatic song that lifts my spirits on days like today because I can cry, wallow, and laugh at how ridiculous I am, all within three minutes.
I’m about to let the tears flow as my first crush, Peter Noone, soothes my soul when that eighties song, “Centerfold,” suddenlyblares through my speakers instead.
What the—
“Incoming Call: Jack,” reads on my dashboard.
