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Hearts, flowers, and sunshine are some of my favorite things.
Myheart especially. It is wild and weird and wonderful and currently pumping at around 180 beats per minute.
Maybe it’s the car I’m spinning around in, or maybe it’s because it’s my normal. Probably both. Apparently, birthdays are meant to have many awful and wild surprises all at once.
With a tight grip on the steering wheel, I slam my eyes shut as the sound of screeching tires over the rain-slicked road echoes in my head. Over and over like a fun house tilt-a-whirl ride, sending my stomach lurching into my throat. My heart hammers in my ears like it’s made of gunfire. Finally, the front of my sunny VW beetle hits a telephone pole with a wicked crunch.
My eyes fly open as the power to the block goes dark.
I gasp, seeing I’ve stopped feet from Bloom’s Blooms, the white-shuttered flower shop my father and brother own.
Oh, no. No, no, no.
They’ll never let me out of the house again.
Be safeis what my dad said today when I left the house. It’s alwaysbe careful, be safe, it’s neverhave fun.
Overcautiousis what my big brother Max calls it. I call itoverprotective.
Needing oxygen, a life preserver, an escape hatch—because in five seconds all of Carmel, Indiana will come running—I open my door and fall to the wet cement. I gulp humid air and take in the damage. Crumpled fender. Smoking hood. Strawberry milkshake all over my dash, and I groan because I really wanted that milkshake. Still, the rain falling from the sky is pleasant, and I’d give anything to stretch out in snow-angel position and listen to the gentle soundtrack of rain.
I don’t even get five seconds before the front door to the flower shop slams open. My dad and my older brother run out, their faces harried. Dad has his pruning shears in his hand, which means I’ve caught him in the act of what he calls “sweet talking” wild roses.
Shit. They’ll never believe it wasn’t my heart.
Everything is always about my heart.
Because why wouldn’t it be?
I squint at the shrubs to my right and catch the disappearing end of a bushy red tail.
I smile brightly. At least one thing has gone right today.
“Ruby!”
Suddenly, my brother and my father are on their knees in front of me, their hands everywhere like no one has lectured them on personal space.
“Ruby Jane, are you okay?” Ted Bloom booms in a voice that has my stomach clenching. It’s always that same sad tone. It’s always my middle name. To remind him of my mother.
I lean back against the car and puff a lock of hair out of my eyes. “I’m fine, Dad,” I say with a bright smile. Making my father worry is like burying an ax in my heart. I always want to reassure him I’m okay. “Not even a scratch.”
My father’s hands fold around my shoulders. “Hospital.”
I shake my head, taking in his craggy face. “No more hospitals.” I meet his tired eyes. “I’m not hurt. I swear.”
Max’s blue eyes narrow like he thinks I’m lying. “Did you have a flutter?”
Aflutteris what we call one of my fainting episodes. Whenever my heart rate skyrockets, my body floods with adrenaline, which causes me to pass out. This year I’ve only had one “fluttering” incident. I’m not in orange alert territory yet, not until I faint behind the wheel or in the shower.
I sock him in the arm. “No, asshole.”
“Then what happened?”
“I swerved to avoid a squirrel.”
Max looks horrified. And disgusted. “Jesus, Rubes.” He makes it sound like avoiding helpless animals is a bad thing.
Tilting my head up, I try to find the bushy red tail again. Black smoke clogs the sky.
