Taking a sip from my mug, I savor the warm coffee sliding down my tightened throat. Pumpkin, nutmeg, cinnamon, and a hint of maple syrup that was tapped and boiled from a maple in the front yard dance along my tastebuds.
My chest drums in an elevated rhythm.
Good morning, anxiety. So nice of you to join us so early in the day.
A playful twinkle passes through Emy’s warm brown eyes as she picks up her chin and greets the rising sun. “You know, I might actually know someone who could help.”
“You do?” I ask, shooting up from my resigned slump. Somewhere in my bedroom, my planner bursts into a spontaneous rendition of Handel’s “Hallelujah Chorus”. Maybe today won’t be a total bust after all.
“Yeah, she used to be the lead in all the school plays in my high school.”
Oddly suspicious, because Emy and I went to the same high school and that person was…
“But for whatever reason, she’s resigned herself to playing Mary at the fair, where no one notices her goddess self.”
Me. She’s referring to me. I was always the lead in the school and town productions, and I play Mary now.
The jury is out on the whole goddess thing, though. Goddesses are usually powerful warriors, and I’m whatever the opposite of that is.
Maybe a flimsy chicken. Like those floppy rubber ones that you squeeze, and they make a dying squawk.
“No. No way am I playing Lydia.” I shoot her some seriously dirty side-eye. Which, to be fair, given said flimsy chicken personality, is probably as dirty as a well-rinsed dish sitting futilely in the dishwasher for a second wash.
It’s been five years since I buried the highly potent foolish gene I inherited from my mother. I can’t risk it surfacing again, even if it’s for the good of the fair.
Acting the part of the jester was never a good look on me.
“Oh, come on, Aulie. At least consider it.”
“Absolutely not. You know my stance on Lydia. She’s—”
“—Too foolish, impulsive, selfish, and naïve to the implications of falling heedlessly in love without suspect of character, much like Marianne—” Emy mimics me, in an insultingly docile tone. “Take out the selfish part, and that sounds like somebody who used to thrive under those conditions.”
“I wouldn’t exactly call my romantic history thriving, but sure,” I say, because I hardly consider a handful of men who never made it past a second date and a cheating ex-fiancé who ruined acting for me, successful.
Emy’s not wrong about how similar the youngest Bennet sister and I used to be, though. A huge part of my reluctance to take up the role is that there’s a buried part of me thatislike her. A part of me that is in love with love and happily-ever-afters and careless with my heart. A part that’s in peril of falling head-over-heels with anything that pays me attention.
After far too many heartbreaks, I’ve learned to keep that piece hidden, and to approach any new relationships cautiously, because platonic or romantic, I’m doomed to love and hurt intensely. It’s a part of my DNA I can’t change, just as much as Gus can’t change being protective, or Emy can’t alter her tendency to meddle in other people’s affairs.
I, Aulie Desfleurs, will always be a fool in love.
And so, I must be cautious in my approach to it. Avoid it at all costs.
Playing Lydia is too dangerous—what if the character unlocks that part of me again? What if I can’t control her?
No, I’ve had enough heartbreak over the past few years without bringing it on myself. It’s best to stay safe and be the plain, boring Mary that both my safety and sanity require.
A spasm suddenly grips my lower half, and I discreetly press a hand to the right side of my abdomen. Hopefully, Emy won’t notice the shift.
Almost immediately, her eyes narrow to my hand. Darn it all, I’m not even hiding my pain well today.
“Make sure you mention that pain in your appointment today,” Emy says. “Those spasms are definitely happening more often than they used to.”
I sigh. She’s right. An unknown pain has been troubling me for half of my life, and recently, it’s gotten worse. She shouldn’t worry, though. I’m certainly not, since doctors tell me all the time I’m just a total softie. Things like my period bother me way too much, usually curling me up in a ball and forcing me to crawl from room to room. Tough, strong people like Emy run marathons during theirs.
“It’s probably nothing, like it always is.” I suck in a breath. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”
“Mmhmm. Sure.” Emy purses her lips. “I know it’s not natural for you, but please try to be more assertive in there today. I’m sick of this for you.”
