Page 21 of Missed Exit

I want to believe I won’t rescue him twice, but even as I watch him with his mouth hanging open, sleeping off last night’s drunken antics on my couch, I know I’d do it again. His dad can (and will) buy his way out of any trouble he gets into, but that won’t save him from himself.

Money can’t buy what Derringer Wells needs most. And it’s damn sure not a recording contract. He needs a swift kick in the ass. On a regular basis.

11

Greta

Musty Memories

EvenasIsnapmy last photo before we exit the cavern, I know I’m never going to use these pictures for anything. It’s a type of beauty that the camera on my phone can’t capture, anyway. But we all photographed every new section we entered like the predictable tourists we were.

I’ve deleted so many pictures from my phone over the last few months. At least the cavern shots will never be painful.

I pull out of the parking lot and head downtown. I’ve promised myself I’ll stay out and about for at least three hours today. Baby steps.

The first inhale as I push through the door of a dusty, musty antique shop transports me straight back to my childhood. Mom dragged me to so many small-town shopping districts, and in and out of every antique store that was open.

I have some fun memories of going to the big antique fairs with her, but those were mostly outdoors, and the smells I remember are the kettle corn and the strawberry lemonade she’d buy to keep me happily tagging along from booth to booth.

But the indoor shops? They all had this exact smell. I hated it back then, and to be honest, it still stinks, but I loved the shops because in those, Mom bribed me with whatever silly trinkets I fell in love with. They were my own antiques.

She’d have her find-of-the-day, and I’d have mine. Whether I was getting a new giant pencil or piece of old, but cheap, costume jewelry, I was happy because I’d found it for myself.

No matter how hard Mom tried, I never developed her love of real antiques. The mall won out. I wanted things that were new. But sometimes now, something with a little history to it catches my eye.

I snap a picture of an old cash register and send it to her. There is one just like it on the buffet in her dining room. As a little girl, I’d give everyone at the table a handwritten bill and then ring them up on that cash register after dinner.

My family would all play along with my pretend restaurant, but my favorite aunt would give me a dollar every time. She’d say, “A woman should always be able to pay for her own meal. Promise me you’ll never be so dependent on a man that you can’t take yourself out to dinner.”

I had no idea what she meant, but I was always happy to get the dollar. Once I was old enough to understand the message, I was happy for the advice, too.

At least I wasn’t financially dependent on Brick. I may never be wealthy, but my life won’t be a lie.

Traipsing through these shops is not how I want to spend all my Saturdays, but I’m content with antiquing this afternoon.

Mom responds to my message. She loves the cash register, but she wants to know if I’ve checked out the schools here yet. She’s more worried about the fact that I quit my job than my canceled wedding.

I’ve tried to explain this isn’t a permanent move, but she’s never going to believe that I can actually afford to take a little time off. I have to live frugally while I’m here, but I can do that.

There is nothing I want to buy right now, anyway. Shopping doesn’t cheer me up the way it does her. It’s only fun for me if I’m already happy. I will be again someday.

Today, I’m just looking. Just browsing to keep my mind off other things.

I’m not as sad and angry as I was when I arrived in Agate Ridge. I’m just sort of here, walking around in a semi-emotionless haze every day.

But not all day.

I can laugh again. And I catch myself smiling at least once every day. It’s progress that I mostly owe to Law, but I’m not hanging my happiness on him.

I’m my own happy little hermit. Almost.

12

Law

Raising the Stakes

Idecidedagainstflowersbecause I remembered Greta had a bowl full of individually wrapped chocolates on her kitchen counter when I came over to hang her TV. It was nearly empty the last time I was at her place.

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