Page 2 of Delicious

What does any of that have to do with my ankle? Well, leaving Cassie’s house after the holiday meal, I was less than steady, and it wasn’t from the two glasses of wine I had. No, I wasn’t drunk on alcohol, I was Viking drunk.

Erik escorted me to my car, because he wouldn’t allow me to walk outside in the dark alone, even though we were at Cassie and Magnus’s gated property. So there I was, working my best runway-model high step, when one of their dogs came barreling out from behind my car without warning, launching himself into my arms and throwing me off balance, nearly breaking my ankle as I tripped over my knock-off Jimmy Choo’s.

You’d have thought I nearly died, the way Erik was all over me. And I keep thinking I should have milked it some more, instead of trying to pretend it was nothing. Maybe I would have seen just how caring he can be…

Since we said goodbye that night, I’ve been immersed in the strange but comforting text messages I’ve received at all hours of the day and night, thanks to Cassie giving him my number.

What was for breakfast?

What are your plans for today?

Where are you right now?

Sleep tight and sweet dreams. You have a nightmare you message or call me, understand?

Don’t even touch your phone when you’re driving. And, I forgot to ask, what kind of car do you have?

How was your sleep? Do you take vitamins?

There’s definitely one thing I’m not getting, and never have got, and I’m sure he could help with that, but this is no time for a relationship. And anyway, my track record in that department is less than stellar. After I dumped my last red flag flying boyfriend, I made a solemn vow to myself—with my aunt holding out the bible for me to swear upon at my request—no more men until I get some therapy.

The sound of a chirping cricket comes from an overgrown patch of grass near the corner of the garage as I approach, seeing the padlock is once again cut off, laying on the cracked concrete in front of the open door.

“Assholes,” I murmur, crouching down and grabbing the metal lock, feeling its cool weight in my palm as I toss it from one hand to the other, swiveling my head back and forth, tracking anything that might give me a clue that whoever keeps breaking in here might still be around.

The last bits of daylight are sinking behind the eaves of the house, casting elongated shadows over the overgrown lawn. Beyond the missing boards of the barely-standing privacy fence, there are acres and acres of cleared land, ready and waiting for the new life one Mr. Ernesto Buffalino wants to breathe into this desolate former family neighborhood, where my aunt’s house stands like the lone survivor in some sort of inner-city apocalyptic hurricane.

Back on my feet, I push away the image of Cassie’s new brother-in-law Erik, who seems to have a sudden interest in my well-being in an odd sort of fatherly way, and flatten my hand on the chipped paint of the creaking wood door.

It sticks on the rusty hinges but swings free, the low light from the November sunset streaming through the open door, illuminating another ominous message spray-painted on the back wall of the collapsing hundred-year-old former stable turned garage.

Time to go before it’s too late.

It’s written in red this time. The thick spray-painted letters are accented with long strings of the dripping paint, making it look more like blood on a mirror than spray paint on the thick white painted boards of the garage interior.

A shiver shakes my shoulders as I cock back and throw the broken lock through the dark space, listening as it bangs against the wall, then falls with a metallic clunk onto the stone floor.

It’s eerily silent here with no other homes or buildings around. There’s the soft low rumble of an airplane taking off from the city airport a mile away, and I think of the people on the plane. I imagine being one of them. The plane taking me and my aunt somewhere fresh. I understand why she wants to keep this house, but in another way I don’t.

There’s nothing here. Even if somehow the casino and the surrounding development were to be stalled indefinitely, who would want to live here in the middle of no man’s land?

The women in our family are known for their stubbornness, so I support her as I can, including paying for our rent in the one-bedroom apartment we share close to the medical center where she receives her daily dialysis and COPD treatments.

This is not the life I imagined growing up in the upper middle-class suburbs no less than six miles from here. We have my dad to thank for the years when we felt that life was stable and the future was bright.

We also have him to thank for the shock and shattered illusions when the sheriff showed up to let us know we had one week to vacate our home. Seems good ole Dad put three mortgages on the house to fund his other family.

Yep, he had a girlfriend in Ohio and twin five-year-old boys. Life [Ei1][2]took a hard left after that, and it hasn’t really turned back since.

Mom went AWOL, Dad moved to Cleveland, and Aunt Jess became the only stable part of my life. If not for her, I’m pretty sure I would have ended up God knows where doing God knows what.

Working at the frame shop may not look like life goals for a lot of people, but it’s a reasonable paycheck, it’s creative, and it’s not all I want to do. For now, it gives me a way to take care of Jess, and I owe her that.

But I still have dreams of walking runways, and of striking awkward poses on top of snow-covered mountains, wearing the latest Dolce or Versace.

The sound of an engine snaps me out of my stupor, the breeze shaking the dried leaves on the one remaining oak tree that leans precariously toward the upper peak of the house.

A car approaches, slowing as I bolt for the back door. There are only two reasons a car would be on this street. One, maybe the cops wondering why someone is at a condemned structure. More likely, someone looking for trouble.

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