Page 44 of Over the Edge

“I’m not calling you stupid. That’s never what I mean.”

“But I have the energy of a fairy who wears pink glittery dresses and flies around in bubbles,” I remind him and playfully nudge his knee. He stares at my leg for a moment before pulling away, creating more distance between us.

“First of all, she’s a witch, and second, I firmly believe that she was the mastermind of the film,” he says in his standard neutral tone.

“You know, your dedication to fact checking is kind of cute,” I say, fighting to contain a laugh.

“Well, the facts about this place aren’t as cute. The town is a bit over two hundred years old but the festival has only been going on since the seventies. Tourism was down, but when Woodstock started in ’69 other towns had the idea of starting their own festivals to draw people in. Originally, it was in August, but slowly changed to October 14th because of all the leaf peepers.”

“Leaf peepers?” I interrupt.

“Tourists. The ones who come to look at the leaves,” he explains. “Well, the festival started and Hartsfall changed everything down to its motto to make it work. There was no deep dedication to love, it was always about money.” His shoulders heave in a sigh then his gaze roves around the room until his eyes land on a particular letter. “All of these are replicas of the most famous love letters in history. Marilyn Monroe writing to Joe DiMaggio.” He points to one letter then another. “Elizabeth Taylor to Richard Burton. The promises written in these letters were lies we use to draw people back every year peddling the same fantasy.”

“I don’t think so.”

“That the relationships didn’t fail?”

“The promises weren’t lies,” I say. “I think they meant all of it, okay, most of it. But life just got in the way.”

His eyes narrow. “I thought you wanted my perspective, but if you just want to argue about something we can pick a more interesting topic.”

“I do. I’m listening,” I tell him then seal my mouth shut.

“You know I don’t actually have anything against happy endings or true love. But in these letters”—he gestures to the wall but his eyes jump to mine and hold them—“everyone ignores the truth. Everyone wants to be the exception.”

“I don’t think love is the exception. Love doesn’t have to last to be important, you know.” I feel like I’m talking to myself as much as I’ve been talking to him. I almost believe my own words because I have to. I want what I’m saying to be true, I need it to be. “There is one thing I don’t particularly like. These were all private once. I don’t mind the donated ones, but the ones that come from celebrities, not so much. They already had such limited privacy and then these vulnerable moments, that just feels too much.”

“I think I might be making you a pessimist,” he mutters.

“Or I’m a romantic realist and you’re finally getting to know me.”

We make our way out of the museum after the alarm goes off on Garrett’s phone. When we say goodbye and go our separate ways, it’s not like he’s my favorite person to be around but there's a black hole of unutilized time threatening to consume me. It’s not like I’m like Garrett who seems to love schedules and structure.

Before my move I was always doing something. My day job. Music. Going to the brewery Quinn, Oliver, and I found that was equidistant from all of our apartments with its live music and wobbly chairs. Now I feel like I’m drowning in time. Time that I want to be able to utilize, but instead it seems to paralyze me. I’ve spent days on my couch, balancing a pack of Oreos on my stomach, overwhelmed by the nothingness of it all. It was a paradox. Try and face the reality that all my risks aren’t paying off, do nothing and also fail.

I’m halfway back to Austen Dr. when my phone buzzes in my pocket.

Avery

You’d help me hide a body, right?

16

Evelyn

“And we’re mad about the flowers?” I ask Avery a second time as I run my finger around the rough edge of the lid of my cup from Love is Brewing.

The text I got a half hour ago, I’ve learned, would be very incriminating if Wesley suddenly disappeared. Especially after the incident during an after party in LA last night that led to him missing rehearsal this morning. It’s taken those full thirty minutes to get through the story as well as the tangents about the best way to dispose of a body if absolutely needed.

I’ve been slowly making my way along Main Street, window shopping and reading signs that I missed the other day when Garrett breezed by most of the businesses.

“I don’t think a dozen roses with a little card that saysIt wasn’t a threesome!are something to celebrate. How stupid can he be to think that I was worried aboutthat. We have press and, you know, the tour with sold out shows that he refuses to come to rehearsals for starting in a little over a month.” She fumes as I reach the sandwich board declaring that Batista’s Blooms hasdiscount sunflower bouquets. Flowers would look good in the living room. “If you’re going to send apology flowers, at least apologize.”

There are three other people in the flower shop. Two older men, one with salt and pepper hair and the other who’s gone fully white, are looking at peonies together, comparing two seemingly identical bunches. The other is the woman behind the counter with brown highlighted hair and smattering of freckles. I assume she must be Winnie from what I remember from Garrett’s tour. I’ve been putting off getting flowers for the reason of choosing between the two, but I guess it was an inevitability. I could go to both; I can afford the upcharge from whichever I choose second.

“What did you do with the flowers?” I ask.

“I threw them in the trash closest to his place so he could see them when he walked outside,” she explains.

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