Page 25 of Sweet Summer

“But..twins!” I’m still processing, but Wyatt? He’s my rock.

“Yes, but it’s us, Freya. You, me, and Smokey––and we’ve got this.”

Looking around at the home we’ve built together, and at this man in front of me who has been there all of my life––for good, for bad, and for some of the in between––I know deep in my heart he’s right.

I open a drawer and pull out two forks, handing one to Wyatt. I dig into the oversized cupcake and get a big piece on my fork for myself. A swirl of blue and pink greets me and all I can hear are his words.

Yeah.

We’ve got this.

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The Sweet Spot

Ari

“Your hand is stuck where?”

This is the perfect example of the danger when living in a small town, when calling 9-1-1 means you’ll end up part of the local gossip. Especially when you’ve given the emergency services operator a comedy gold nugget the size of the Blarney stone.

Taking a deep breath, I repeat myself slowly so Connie can hear every word. “In the toilet, Connie. My hand is stuck in the toilet.”

I hear muffled laughter on my end of the phone, telling me Connie’s not alone.

“Am I on speaker, Connie?”

“Well…” There’s a clamor as she grabs the phone, hits what I imagine is a giant button to turn off the speakerphone as she puts the receiver back to her ear.

“Sorry, Ari, but we have a weekly pool in the office for the weirdest emergency calls. I should be thanking you, ‘cause I think I won for the week.”

I can tell she’s chewing on her laughter still. I hope she chokes on it.

I stare at my bathroom wall wondering what I ever did in this lifetime, or any others for that matter, to deserve this very moment. “I guess I should say you’re welcome, but I’ll follow that up with I want half of any prize money you come into.”

My emergency call cohort snorts. “You’ll have to pry that fifty bucks outta my cold dead hands.”

“It can be arranged.” She obviously has forgotten who she is dealing with. “Once I get my hand out of the toilet, of course.”

“Your threats don’t worry me, sunshine. By the way, loved the write-up you did on the new Italian restaurant in town. Bob and I went the other night and had the best eggplant parm.”

I’ve been writing for the Lake Lorelei News-Post for a few years now, ever since coming back home after college. Notmany people get to do what they love, but I managed to find a way.

While Connie’s compliments are kind and well-received, I’m literally not in the position for them. I’m wedged between the toilet and my bathtub—like a sugar packet shoved under a table that won’t balance—and my knees are starting to cramp. I think my hand is falling asleep. What I really need right now is for Connie to focus on the task at hand—Operation Get My Hand Outta The Toilet. We can talk about the paper later.

“I am so glad you liked it. Hey, Connie, can you tell me when someone might be here to get me out?”

“Oops, okay. Sorry about that. Tell me again how it happened?”

“I was putting on a bracelet in the bathroom and it slipped out of my hands and into the toilet. I could see it just inside where the pipe disappears. So, seeing as it was clean water, I went in after it thinking I could grab it, but somehow my watch got caught on something, and the rest is history. I can’t get my hand out now so I called you.”

“Are you sure the water is clean?”

I can hear her start snickering again while my all-too-full to-do list cries my name from my living room. “Connie, I have so much on my plate. Please tell me if someone's coming?”

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