Page 1 of No Bones About It

Chapter

One

Ihit refresh on the screen like my grandma used to hit spin on the penny machines in Atlantic City. Every heartbeat pounds in my ears in time with the frantic clicks of my mouse. I have wanted this twelve-foot skeleton for years. Longed for him. Thought about him every Fall like clockwork.

And now that I’m single, what better way to celebrate my divorce than finally buying the one thing I’d always been denied?

On my thirty-third click, not that I’ve been counting, the out of stock banner changes to read “one available.”

One.

My soul practically leaves my body as my fingers fly across the keyboard. I add it to my cart like my life depends on it and hit check out before the universe can change its mind.

Finally, he’s mine.

My cheeks ache from the smile splitting my face while the screen blurs with tears of joy. I open my email and stare at the order confirmation like it may vanish into nothing but a mirage of hopes and dreams, dissipating into the ether like a ghost in the night.

I open my email on my phone, needing an obsessive amount of reassurance that I really do have the dream of a lifetime waiting for me. Although the same confirmation message stares back at me from the smaller glowing screen, I won’t be at ease until I have the package safely home.

The second hand on the clock ticks loudly in the background, marking time in the slowest possible way. Six hours until the store opens.

Six hours too long.

I briefly debate a little breaking and entering but realize that may be just a little too over the top. And more importantly, how would I enjoy a twelve-foot skeleton from prison?

My hands vibrate on the steering wheel as I pull into the parking lot, too much pumpkin spice coffee sweetened with hopes and dreams buzzing through my veins.

The familiar home improvement store comes into view, and I take the corner like I’m driving a sports car instead of my old faithful pickup. The tires squeal in excitement right along with me.

It’s barely morning, the lot mostly empty, which works perfectly for me. I park as close to the entrance as possible. I am not wasting a single second of today. I have plans for this skeleton. Big plans. And today is already the first of October. The official countdown to Halloween has already begun.

I know Lois is going to be a problem, but I don’t care. She can stick all the pink homeowners’ association notices she wants on my door. I will not turn back from this path that fate has clearly assigned me.

With one last deep breath, I hop out of the vehicle, and pat the side of the truck as I walk by.

“Oh, Big Bertha, just wait!” I squeal, sharing my excitement with my oldest and most faithful friend. “We’re about to make some very questionable decisions.”

The store looms large in front of me, the morning light shining down upon it as if the heavens themselves have blessed this moment. If I listen close enough, I can almost hear the angels singing as if this were a religious experience.

Honestly, it might be. I am kinda building a shrine to the patron saint of Halloween lovers everywhere. Everyone knows only the most faithful have a twelve-foot skeleton. And now I will be counted amongst their ranks—Archbishop Tori Graves of Our Lady of Spooky Decor.

I square my shoulders as I pass through the automatic doors, proudly walking directly up to the customer service desk with a jaunty spring in my step.

A middle-aged man with a receding hairline and a mustache that could go either ironic or unfortunate is pecking away at his keyboard.

I wait. I try to be patient for all of three seconds, and then I fail, clearing my throat as I bounce on my toes.

Flat brown eyes flick up to mine and he says, “Can I help you?”

“Yes, yes you can. I’m Tori Graves, and I am here to pick up my order.” Does my voice sound a little theatrical? Like I’m announcing a major award I just won?

Maybe. But maybe I deserve it. A consolation prize for a failed marriage.

I give myself a little shake. That’s my parents talking. No, this isn’t a consolation prize. This is a reward. A twelve-foot high trophy for rescuing myself from a loveless marriage with a man I never should have settled for in the first place.

The clerk slow-blinks at me as I finish my internal monologue, and my smile falls. He turns his gaze back to his computer and pecks my name in, one painstakingly slow letter at a time.

Without lifting his eyes again, he says, “I don’t see an order.”