Page 1 of Fireworks & Forehead Kisses

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ASHLEY

“Siri, what is harem my dog?”I mumbled as my mouth watered while I stood leaning on my farmhouse kitchen sink, breathing through my nose, trying my best not to be sick.

I’d heard that phrase so many times, but I wasn’t sure what it was, only that it was supposed to cure a hangover. I’d never been a big drinker in college. Or really a drinker at all, so I had no clue what to do about the fact that my head was pounding, and I felt like death warmed over.

“I’m not sure I understand,” the robotic voice responded.

“What is harem my dog?” I enunciated.

Mr. Purrfect’s ears flattened at the D word. Dogs were my tabby’s mortal enemy. If it weren’t for his aversion to man’s best four-legged friend, I’d have at least one rescue dog, if not a dozen. But it was Mr. Purrfect’s world, and I was just living in it.

“Do you mean hair of the dog?”

“Yes.” It was a running joke with anyone who knew me that Ialwaysgot phrases and sayings wrong. I typically got one or two of the words correct, but I was always one or two words off.

Case in point: until I was in high school, I said, take a leg. It wasn’t until my junior year, when my best friend Jenny andI were in drama club, that she realized what I was saying and corrected me, explaining that it came from the theater world, and it was basically an ironic way to wish someone good luck. I thought ‘take a leg’ was the opposite of take a bow; you told someone to take a leg before they went on stage and take a bow after. Sort of like my track coach would tell us to take a lap.

There was also a ‘blessing in these eyes’ instead of a ‘blessing in disguise.’ I thought it meant that you were a blessing in someone’s eyes. ‘Call it hay’ instead of ‘call it a day.’ I assumed it was a saying that farmers used to wrap up a workday.

I didn’t really have an excuse for why I thought it was ‘harem dog.’ But in my defense, I wasn’t quite sure why ‘hair of the dog’ made any more sense.

“Hair of the dog is an informal expression that refers to easing the effects of a hangover,” Siri responded. “The phrase is short for the hair of the dog that bit you. It originated from a method of treating a rabid dog bite. Hair from the dog was placed in the wound?—”

“Okay, okay.” I grabbed my phone and silenced it as the visual of what had just been described made my stomach go even queasier than it was. I didn’t need to hear any more about wounds or drinks. There was no way I was going to put another drink in my body. I was barely keeping down the ones I’d had last night.

All I wanted to do was crawl back into bed, pull the covers over my head, and sleep for the next week, but I couldn’t do that. I had a job interview in thirty minutes. The job wasn’t exactly in my field, but the dean of my university had contacted the head of the art department, and he personally recommended me. One of the benefactors and the owner of a fashion brand, Wolfe Clothing, was hiring. I’d never given much thought to fashion; I’d always been more interested in art, but I did enjoy fashion, and since I had $16.32 in my checking account, I wasin a beggars-can’t-be-choosers situation. Which I used to think was beggars can’t bechewersbecause they didn’t have enough money to eat.

Working part-time jobs was a great way to get through school. I was currently holding down two. I taught art to kids and seniors at the community center and worked a few nights a week at Southern Comfort, the bar owned by my sister Skylar’s new hubby, Hank Comfort, and his siblings Billy, Jimmy, and Cheyenne.

As much as I loved both jobs, they weren’t going to cut it in the finance department.

I’d just graduated with a degree in fine arts from Savannah College of Art and Design. I’d simultaneously pursued a bachelor’s degree in psychology at Georgia Tech. My dream had always been to start a program that helped kids with emotional, behavioral, or academic issues through art. Or even kids just navigating typical adolescence.

My own childhood hadn’t been the easiest. Both my parents were killed in a car accident when I was nine years old. Thankfully, my sister, who was eighteen at the time, stepped up to care for me so I didn’t have to go into foster care, but it was still a lot to process. Even before that, our home life wasn’t exactly the Seavers fromGrowing Pains. It wasn’t even The Bundys fromMarried… with Children.

Art saved me. It was my outlet. It was my escape. It was my safe place. Anytime I got sad, scared, anxious, or even happy, I could express that with a pencil or a paintbrush.

Dual enrollment into two separate collegiate institutions had seemed like a good idea, but now that the student loans needed to be paid, I was starting to wonder if it was the right move. Along with the credit card debt that I’d accumulated over the past six years thanks to my aforementioned love of fashion,working part-time jobs was not going to cut the mustard. It was clear I needed to get a real job. A grown-up job.

My stomach rolled more times than Jack and Jill down the hill as I took deep breaths through my nose and exhaled out through my mouth while I poured the water of my coffee maker. Leaning down, I rested my cheek on the cold surface of my faux-marble quartz kitchen countertop as I waited for the coffee pot to fill. Even though a cup of java didn’t sound like the most appealing thing in the world to consume, I needed the caffeine.

A loud sound disrupted my momentary peace as my phone vibrated on the stone surface. I picked it up secretly hoping that it was a message from my potential new employer pushing the interview back until later this afternoon. To my great disappointment, it was not. It was a text from my bestie Nadia containing photo evidence of why I felt the way I did, aka pics we’d taken at the bar the night before.

Last night, I’d gone out with my three closest friends, and we’d had about half a dozen too many tequila shots. The night out had a two-fold purpose—one of our friends had just gotten engaged, and another had gotten some not-so-great news.

Daphne, a TV producer from Southern California and the newest recruit in our friend group, came to Firefly Island six months ago for the weekend, but after fate or the universe conspired to keep her in town, she fell in love with the hot cowboy next door, and he fell so hard he put a ring on it, so she was now a Firefly Island resident.

Zoe, a selfless single mom of an incredible preteen young man, just found out a biopic was going to be made about her late husband. She got pregnant and married at sixteen. By the age of eighteen, she was a widow and raising a son alone. Her late husband was a war hero, and the rights to his life story had been optioned by a production company, and she wasnothappy about it.

Our night had flip-flopped between commiseration and celebration. One shot of tequila had turned into six, which was more than I’d ever drunk in my twenty-four years.

I scrolled through the photos. The first in the photo line-up was a classicCharlie’s Angelspose. Nadia and Daphne were the blonde bookend beauties in the iconic profile handgun position. Zoe and I were in the center; my long red hair stood out against Zoe’s rich chestnut locks. I’d alwayshatedhaving red hair growing up, being called Carrot Top, Bloody Mary, Little Orphan Annie (which hit a little close to home since I was an orphan), and other not-so-original redhead nicknames, but now I didn’t mind it as much. At five foot seven, I was a few inches taller than anyone else in the group, so I bent my knees to be in the frame.

Photo number two was a YMCA pose. Nadia was the Y. Zoe was the M. I was the C. And Daphne was the A. The next photo was of all of us doing Taylor-Swift-heart-hands. The third pose was a combo of hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil and giving a thumbs up. Zoe covered her eyes. I covered my mouth. Daphne covered her ears, and then Nadia was at the end doing two thumbs up. And then, of course, there was the obligatory generic funny face.

I might feel like death warmed over, but seeing the pictures, I couldn’t help but smile. Even though I had a sister, she was nine years older than me and had been more like a mom than a sibling. I considered Nadia a second sister to me. And Zoe was one of the best friends I’d ever had. Daphne might be the newest member of our clique, but she’d slotted right in. These girls were my found family.

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