Page 69 of Set on You

But today, I have no time to reflect on my pent-up sexual frustration, because I’ve been tasked to gallivant around the greater Boston area to pick up décor items Grandma Flo found dirt cheapon Facebook Marketplace (her new obsession), as if she needs an excuse to buy more junk.

Centerpieces and miscellaneous décor are about the only things Grandma is not inheriting from what was formerly Tara’s wedding. Apparently, Tara’s décor lady issued a partial refund after she broke down crying in her office days after the wedding was canceled.

Fetching items from random people online is always an adventure. And Scott has volunteered to join me, despite delaying me by an hour and a half with no explanation.

When I pick him up, he mumbles a bored “Hey,” but makes no eye contact.

He’s hardly speaking, aside from one-word answers. He’s the opposite of his normal, happy-go-lucky, smiles-when-he-talks self. He doesn’t even crack a smile when I blast “Thong Song” by Sisqó at maximum volume. Listening to the dirty anthems of our millennial youth in ridged, thick silence is hella awkward. And it’s not just my imagination that he’s also pressed as far as possible into the passenger window, scrolling on his phone for thirty long minutes while we’re stuck in traffic.

I sneak a sideways glance at him while committing the ultimate crime of lowering the volume on Beyoncé. “You know, you didn’t have to come if you were going to be a miserable twerp the entire time.”

He arches his brow at me for a split second. “A miserable twerp? That’s a new one.”

“I stand by it.” I tighten my grip on the steering wheel. “Seriously though, just say the word and I’ll drop you back off.”

He keeps his stare locked straight ahead. “No. I want to hang out with you.” His tone does little to reverse my clouding doubt.

But though I’m curious about why he’s acting like an emo sixteen-year-old boy tormented by thoughts of his mortality, I have little time to dwell, because we’ve reached our first stop. We’re picking up a box of unused votive candles from a man sporting a hideous beige turtleneck that might as well be a federal offense, as Mel would say. His name is Spike.Why Grandma thought it would be safe to send me to the address of a man named Spike is beyond me.

On our way to the second destination, we’ve advanced to making stilted small talk about the oppressively humid weather like sixty-five-year-old retirees. Or random coworkers who have absolutely nothing in common forced together on some dreadful business road trip, which strangely sounds kind of hot.

I try to push his behavior to the back of my mind as I journey inside to retrieve faux greenery from a seemingly cheery lady with bountiful mom-energy who insists I come in and peruse the other décor for sale. But when I hear pounding and exorcist-style screaming coming from a door to what I assume is the basement, I bolt, feigning digestive distress. When I return to the vehicle, alive to tell my tale, Scott barely even looks up from his phone. Had I perished inside that house, he’d have been none the wiser.

Thankfully, the third stop is uneventful, save for the heavy, hideous candelabras Scott has to Tetris into the trunk of my car.

The final task is to pick up lanterns and fairy lights from a farmhouse wedding venue that has closed its doors for good.

When we arrive, it’s abundantly clear why the venue is outof business. It literally looks like a scene fromThe Texas Chainsaw Massacre. The barn is dilapidated, and quite frankly, I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s haunted. There are a bunch of sketchy-looking farm tools left for dead, decomposing around the premises among weeds extending to my belly button. I don’t even want to think about how many wild creatures are lurking about. It doesn’t help that the encroaching darkness is casting eerie shadows every which way.

Scott puts his hand out in front of me as we approach the barn, as if expecting some sort of attack. “Are we sure we’re in the right place?”

When we knock on the barn door, there is no answer. I don’t think there is another human being for miles. It’s located on a property deep down an unkempt dirt road, if you can even call it a road, what with the dense bush on both sides. In fact, it doesn’t even appear on Google Maps. I’m surprised we found it in the dark of night.

I cast my gaze around, listening to the swish of the leaves blowing in the wind. A long string of lanterns droops in between a big oak tree and the roof of the barn. I seriously pray those are not the lights I’ve been sent to fetch.

I call Grandma Flo.

“Grandma?”

“Hi, dear, how are you?”

“I’m okay. Look, Scott and I have gone around to get your décor and—” I cut myself off the moment I remember Scott’s talk with Martin and his request that we take things slow in the lead-up to the wedding. While I’ve been tempted to ask Flo about thissudden change of opinion, we haven’t had any one-on-one time over the past week.

“How do the candelabras look?” she asks excitedly, apparently unbothered at the mention of Scott.

“Um, they’re nice,” I flat-out lie. “Anyway, I’m at—”

“Did you get the greenery for five dollars? I really don’t think it was worth ten.”

“We compromised at seven,” I lie again. After the exorcist sounds, the last thing I wanted to do was stick around and barter. “Anyway, I’m at the last stop at that wedding venue to pick up the lanterns and lights. But there’s no one here.”

“Really? Give me a minute.”

I can hear the clicking of her furious taps on her iPad. Scott has gone wandering around the premises while I wait, vulnerable and alone, searching for any sign of movement among the shadows. I fully expect something to emerge from the bushes and attack me, whether person, animal, or pissed-off spirit with unfinished business.

“The lady just responded. They forgot we were coming to pick it up and they’re out of town. She said you can grab it all for free, given the inconvenience.”

I sigh, relieved when Scott comes back around the front, waiting. I force my gaze from his biceps straining against his navy fire department T-shirt back toward the height of the tree. “It’s literally still strung up in the trees. I don’t think I can get up there,” I say, taking stock of how high the lanterns are. Scott follows my gaze and shakes his head, silently telling meDon’t even think about trying itwith his eyes.

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