Page 9 of Let the Light Shine Through

I’m so glad I never hooked up with Fletcher, he’s too narrow-minded and just basic overall. Plus, Armida told me he squeals like a pig when he comes.

The Double-crested Cormorant springs to mind and I bite back a smile. The day my mom and I saw one of those at a nearby lake was a good one for sure, but I don’t want to ruin the memory by associating it with Fletcher’s mating rituals, so over at my retro-looking Bluetooth record player, I flip my Billie Eilish vinyl album before loading it on to the turntable and hitting play on “bad guy.” With the volume maxed, I go in search of something clean to wear.

I end up choosing a baseball jersey but ignore the buttons down the front to show off my thick sports bra underneath. My stomach will be exposed but that I can handle. I finish it off with a pair of leggings that have the knees slashed and my white Vans—the ones I wore when I met Roz actually.

That guy. There’s something about him. That light brown hair with an ever-so-slight curl to it. Those light brown eyes that match not only the hair on his head but the constant five o’clock shadow he rocks like a boss. Gawd, my fingers ache to scratch that jaw of his. I wonder if the stubble is soft like downy or rough like sandpaper. I’d be willing to let my thighs find that out the hard way. What can I say, I’m an equal opportunist like that.

And that voice. Even with it sounding a little off today, that voice could still trigger earthquakes with how deep and gravelly it is. I swear I shook the first time I heard him speak.

Then, of course, there’s the grief hanging off his every breath. Abandonment of any kind is the hardest pill to swallow. Even the most hydrated peeps struggle to ingest being left behind by someone they love. Keeping it down is a different story entirely.

Kind of like my French teacher. Last fall, her husband of seventeen years divorced her, after carrying on a six-month affair with a much younger woman. Naturally. Clichés suck but cheating husbands suck even more, which is why once the frost set in, I dipped unused tampons in water, then stuck them to the exterior of the guy’s car to freeze overnight. I got detention for missing opening announcements the next day but watching him drive to work with what looked like flying sperm all over his ride was worth it.

Pranks aside, my teacher hasn’t smiled since. She doesn’t even realize it wasn’t her fault, that his desertion has nothing to do with her at all. She sits in class, teaching one of the most romantic languages day after day, yet scorns the very notion. Romance isn’t dead; loyalty is. Her ex was a tool of the dullest degree and she deserved better. She deserves better. Someone who actually appreciates affectionate gestures—like over-the-top corny flower arrangements—and the feelings that inspire them.

Flower arrangements…

After freeing my hair from its bun, I hustle downstairs to dig through the bin under the giant chalkboard we used to write all of Mom’s medications on. It got to be a lot, and we needed a way to keep track of everything. Near the end though, the medicine was only doing more harm than good, so she started leaving little notes on the board instead. Her loopy cursive from her last message is still written on it. Adventure. She didn’t need to put anything more. Adventure’s what it’s all about. Not money, not cars, not what people think of you, not what next year holds. Life’s about the here and now and what you’re willing to do with that opportunity to make the best of it while you can. She was the perfect example of that. My mom fucking lived.

We didn’t know this last scribble would, in fact, be her last, but it ended up being her best quote and I’m glad it never got erased. It’s not the best handwriting, since her body was shutting down all function, but she wanted to make sure we’d remember. That I’d remember. I sprayed the entire thing with hairspray after she died to preserve it, so I always can.

I pocket a handful of chalk, asking Rowdy if he’s ready as I pass behind the couch he’s lounging on, and steal the bag of chocolate chip cookies right out of his hands to eat one.

Rowdy and I became friends in fifth grade when I still went to a co-ed school. He’s the one that got me into four-wheelers, which may very well be what saved me from losing my mind from the continuous estrogen drip straight to my veins for the last nine years of all-girls schooling. Aside from skateboarding, we’re practically the same person—minus his punk fauxhawk I like to ruffle any chance I get. Oh, and that extra appendage he’s got swinging between his legs.

“I was eating those!”

I turn around, walking backward to the door, and mumble around a bite of cookie, “Munchies. We need these for later.” And by “we,” he knows I mean “me.” “Now let’s go. I need to make a stop on the way over to Greek Sac.” I pause at the threshold to grab my keys, my favorite feather pinky ring, and some cash from the entryway table. “By the way, are my bracelets still in your console?”

Rowdy groans, dropping his head back. “G, why you gotta leave your shit everywhere? I’ll never get a girlfriend with your jewelry all over my car.” I open my mouth to argue when he starts ticking off his fingers. “And workshop. And room. And I swear I found one of your earrings in my laundry room the other day.”

“That’s crazy.”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

“No,” I start, moving out to the front porch, “not that. I mean you stepping foot in a laundry room. Why the hell would you do that?” I smirk over my shoulder, bounding down the steps.

Rowdy doesn’t wash his own clothes. I know because I’ve seen his grandma, who lives with him and his parents, wash, fold, and iron his shit. Creased lines down the front of his work slacks and everything. Like damn, dude, a rogue earring is the least of your worries. Learn how to clean your own undies, then we can discuss adding a girlfriend to the mix.

“Watch yourself, D’Amico,” he warns, closing the front door and tugging on the handle to make sure it’s locked.

I flip him off over my head, purposely letting my various rings clink together.

“Where are we off to anyway?” he asks on his way down my front steps.

“You up for a little vandalism?” I raise my eyebrows, licking the corner of my lips, awaiting his answer.

His huff of irritation counts as a yes, right?

Right.

Vandalism is a strong term, one I prefer to exclude from my everyday vocabulary—except when it’s for the greater good. Ahem, frozen tampon car.

“To the fleuriste, please,” I tell my best friend once we’re seated inside his orange and black Ford.

“What the fuck is that?”

“French.”