Page 7 of Every Chance After

I gasp, and my breath clouds over my face.Why am I so cold?A warm blanket settles on my belly. It’s blood, I realize achingly.

Oh, it hurts. I feel hole-punched. Gutted. Sliced.

I shouldn’t be here. Unlucky. Cursed. Fated to be alone. Mom was right.

No, Marnie. Positive thoughts only.

Don’t think about the pain.

Look for something good.

His eyes match the sky, the butterfly.

“I like your eyes.” My voice doesn’t sound like mine. There’s no energy or cheer behind my words—two things I’m rarely without. I’ve been compared to Buddy the Elf, only every day ismyChristmas, and my workshop is Sunny’s Beach Market.

“I like your hair,” he says, moving with me toward the ambulance.

I get that a lot—less than two percent of people have naturally red hair.

“It’s a mutation,” I sputter, but I don’t think he hears me. That was the second fact Mom taught me about redheads. After a particularly rough day in kindergarten, she followed, “You’re special, honey,” with, “You have a gene mutation,” and I remember being unable to sleep that night over fears that my classmates would google that tease-worthy tidbit. The world doesn’t go easy on differences—an irony since we all have them.

I can’t imagine what it looks like now. Mel worked so hard on it.

My mind drifts from the chaos around me to hours ago when I found Mel Moore on my porch carrying her 80s-style makeup Caboodle and an oversized bright red purse with a hair straightener peeking out. Seeing her was, for once, a relief. On her wedding day, a bride should have an entourage of old friends and family fussing over her, but I didn’t. This only made my small house feel quiet and empty. So, in the throes of my lonely morning, I reminded myself—it will never be like this again after today.

After today, I’ll have a family.

After today, I’llbelongto someone.

Mel interrupted my hopeful mutterings and a long-winded game of pretend in front of my full-length mirror.

“This is my husband, Ashe.”

“This is Marnie, my partner, my lover, my best friend, my wife,”said in my deep-man-voice.

I giggled over my game, remembering the sweet satisfaction I felt when he first introduced me as his girlfriend at a ritzy charity event—that’s how I knew Iwashis girlfriend. I couldn’t wait to hear him call me hiswife.

When I opened the door to Mel, I was blushing. Gawking, too—seeing Mel was a surprise. We aren’t exactly friends.

“Mel, hi. What’re you doing here?”

“What’s it look like?” she bit back, eyes rolling like two bowling balls released down the lane at the same time. If she were a dog, she’d be a bulldog, gruff but warm under all those layers—not that I’ve ever gotten close to the warm parts. But she was good to my mother and let me sweep up around her salon for extra money sometimes when I was a teen. “It’s your wedding day, Marnie. Your mom would haunt me if I let you DIY it.”

My heart palpitated and sped up, hearing those words. “This isn’t your terrible way of telling me she’s dead, right?”

“No, but I see your curse ideas are alive and well,” she scoffed. “Why agree to a wedding on your birthday if you think you’re cursed?”

“Because… it’s what Ashe wanted.”

“Marina,” Grady’s voice stirs me awake again—no one ever calls me by my full first name. It’s always Marnie. But I like hearing him say it. It makes me feel important. We’re in the ambulance now, and it bounces down the road. It’s weird being in a vehicle without seeing the outside. I crave a window. My plants. My cats. “Marina.”

I fixate on his crystal eyes to redirect my brain away from the pain. He’s handsome, in a rough and rugged way, like he was once a kid who climbed trees rather than played video games. His heavy five o’clock shadow covers strong cheekbones and a dimpled chin—Tripp family traits—and matches his buzz-cut hairstyle—short, dark, but patchy with dirt and salted with grays. He’s older, mid-thirties at least. Worry creases his forehead, but small starbursts around his eyes tell me he’s no stranger to laughter.

He’s not laughing now. He looks serious, even distraught. He listens to the paramedic, calling out numbers and words that don’t make sense. Grady’s worry lines deepen with the information, and this predicament is scary enough without knowing my heartbeat isthready, whatever that means.

Thready like threadbare? Tattered? Coming undone? Falling apart? I suddenly feel like a torn sweater, stringy and discarded, left forgotten on a heap in the back of the closet.

No, Marnie, no. Good thoughts only. No frowns, no fears, no tears.

---