Page 2 of Fireworks & Forehead Kisses

The coffee pot dinged, and I winced at the noise. After pouring the hot liquid into a to-go mug, I grabbed my keys and purse. On my way out of the kitchen, I kissed Mr. Purrfect on the head. “Be a good boy.”

His only acknowledgment that I even existed was a tiny tail flick.

My limbs felt heavy as I stepped outside in the crisp morning air and locked the door behind me. When I turned and walked down the steps of the porch and was no longer shielded by its covering, I squinted at the brightness as I hissed. The second the bright rays of sunlight hit me, I felt like I was a vampire inTrue Blood.

How was it possible that sunlight was so painful?

I rummaged through my purse and found my sunglasses. As soon as I slipped them onto my face, I exhaled a tiny sigh of relief. When I got into my car, I promised myself I would never drink again. I’d no sooner started my car than my phone began to ring. Again, a seed of hope sprang up that it was Mrs. Wolfe postponing the interview. I grabbed the device from my purse, and once again, that hope was dashed.

It was Garrett. My ex. The man who I thought I was going to spend forever with. The man who I thought I was going to marry. The man who I thought was going to father my children, who I thought I was going to grow old with. The man who I’d spent half of my twenty-four years with.

He was also the man who pulled the rug out from under me. The man who waited until our twelve-year anniversary to tell me that he didn’t think he ever wanted to get married or have kids and that I was ‘too serious’ for him.

Don’t answer.

Don’t answer.

Don’t answer.

I dropped the phone and sat on my hands. Literally. My hands were beneath my thighs. I had to actively take measures not to pick up his call. I knew that if I heard his voice again, it would be so easy to fall back into old patterns. All he’d have to do was say he was sorry, that he missed me, and ask if we could justbe friends. It would be a slope more slippery than a Slip ’N Slide coated with vegetable oil.

We started ‘going out’ in fourth grade. We were ten years old. We’d been together until we were twenty-two. He was my first kiss. My first love. My first break-up. My first everything. We were together through middle school, high school, and college. He moved from Seattle to San Francisco for me. It almost destroyed me when he broke up with me. I felt like I lost a part of myself. I wasn’t sure who I was without him. We were Ashley and Garrett. Garrett and Ashley.

I had to stay strong. It had taken me two years to put myself back together.

The call went to voicemail, and I held my breath, waiting to see if he’d leave a message. He’d called about a week ago and hadn’t left a message. I wondered if this time he would. When the voicemail notification lit up, my heart jumped in my throat. I quickly pulled my hands out from beneath my legs and picked up my phone. I played the message on speaker.

“Hey Ash, it’s me. I just…I, um, I hope you’re doing good. I, um, I was wondering if we could talk. So, yeah, give me a call when you can. Thanks. It’s me. Bye.”

At the sound of Garrett’s voice, my heart rate spiked, my palms dampened, and my breaths came in short pants as adrenaline coursed through me. Hearing him speak after all this time was a shot to my system that was stronger than a cocaine-laced espresso. It sounded so familiar, yet like a stranger at the same time.

When tears began to pool in my bottom lids, I sniffed them back. This was not the time to take a stroll down heartbreak memory lane. I had enough physical servings of pain on my interview plate to try and get through this interview without adding any emotional dishes to it.

I needed to mentally file this away in a deal-with-later folder. Luckily, I was very good at compartmentalizing. I turned my phone to silent mode, drove down the dirt path to the main road, took a deep breath, pushed all thoughts of the G-word to the recesses of my mind, and focused on the here and now. As I drove to my destination, I grounded myself by taking in my surroundings. It was still a little bit surreal to me that this place existed.

Firefly Island was a picturesque southern small town. Lush wisteria trees lined a web of canals and bike paths. A breathtaking coastline surrounded a charming trolley system that served as island transportation. I sometimes felt like this was a Disney movie that came to life, complete with a haunted house. Regularly, lists of the Top Ten Most Haunted Places in the U.S. featured Abernathy Manor. Firefly Pier boasted the tallest Ferris wheel on the East Coast; there was a drive-in movie theater, and that only scratched the surface of the character and charm of the idyllic coastal community.

The real charm and character, in my opinion, were the people who lived there. They were a quirky, colorful, tight-knit group that looked after one another but, in my experience, welcomed outsiders and made them feel like they belonged.

As I left the town proper, I realized I was venturing to the easternmost end of the island. In the eighteen months I’d lived here, I thought I’d explored the entire island. I was wrong. I hadn’t even known that there was anything other than fields and hills out this far.

After about five minutes of driving between two large fields of green pastures, the navigation instructed, “Turn right at the end of the road.”

When I made the turn, the drive up to the house was about half a mile and was lined with mature cypress trees on either side. The first thing I noticed as I came to the clearing was thatthere was a runway in the center of the field that looked like a landing strip for a private plane. The other clue that made me draw that conclusion was the hanger at the end of it. I guess it could be a barn, but it looked exactly like the one at my childhood BFF Jenny’s house. Her dad was a billionaire venture capitalist who owned a helicopter and a plane.

The second thing that I noticed was a stable with two horses in it. They looked exactly like the ones in the Budweiser commercials. I loved horses. I wondered, if I got the job, would I be allowed to go out and visit them, or maybe even ride them?

The third thing that caught my eye was that the house I pulled up to was an exact replica of the house inThe Notebook. It was as if someone had taken it directly from the movie and put it here. Or maybe this is where they filmed the movie. It was uncanny.

I walked up the steps and took a slow, deep breath in through my nose. The property backed right up to the ocean, and the salty smell of seawater filled the air. After exhaling through my mouth, I knocked on the door. When it opened, a woman short in stature with white curly hair, round rosy cheeks, a red cardigan, tan trousers, and white Keds stood in front of me. She looked like Mrs. Claus went undercover to work at Target.

“Hi, I’m Ashley. I’m here for an interview.”

“Is Mrs. Wolfe expecting you?”

“I think so. She reached out to my dean, who contacted me.”

The woman opened the door, and I walked inside. The interior of the house was even more impressive than the exterior. The wooden railing of the staircase had intricate designs carved into it. To the left of the entryway, a vintage pier mirror stood at least eight feet tall, a sight that Alison Victoria fromWindy City Rehabwould sell an organ for.

---