Page 105 of A Not So Merry Rescue
Shania beams, missing the indifference in my tone. “It’s the best. Willa’s the best. She sent all the books in the series, some stickers, Vellum pages, and cool fan art.” I don’t know what half those things are, but the way she’s carrying on about them, I’m guessing they’re good. Of course, Willa followed through with sending stuff.
“That’s cool.”
“The coolest. The kids in my English class are going to be so jealous I met Evelyn Ravenhurst. I can’t wait to rub it in.”
I go to correct her, but I don’t have the energy. It’s not Shania’s nature to make other people jealous, so for this one time, I’ll allow it. She deserves the best things in life, and this tops the list for her.
Wish I could say the same for myself.
Because I wasn’t miserable enough, I read all the books. Twice. I wrote questions in the margins, wanting to know how she came up with some things. When it hit me I’d never be able to ask her the questions and get the answers, the stupid cycle of depression started again.
“Want to go to the bar?” my brother prods.
“Not particularly.”
“Get a bite to eat at the diner?”
“No.”
“Go for a drive?” he tries.
“We’re not a couple.”
“Hit the strip club?”
“Is it even open on the holiday?”
Dax takes my question as interest, looking up the info on his phone. “No. Rats. You need to get laid, my friend.”
“Language, Dax,” our mother chides. “Little ears.”
“It’s okay, Gram. Uncle Beck does need to get laid. Though with the way he hasn’t shaved or taken a shower in however many days, no women will be lining up to do the deed.” Seven pairs of eyes swing Shania’s way. She holds up her hands and shrugs, like she’s an adult and speaks this way every day. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
Except no one does.
Fuckers. All of them.
“I do not need to get laid.”
“Yeah, brother, you do. Willa did a number on you. You gotta fuck that girl out of your system.”
Now it’s Dad’s turn to reprimand Dax. “This isn’t appropriate language for Shania’s ears. Nor for New Year’s. Be respectful.”
“Uh, sorry, Shania.”
“No worse than what I watch onOuter Banks.”
This conversation is going nowhere fast. Standing from the couch, I’m a little unsteady on my feet. I lost track of how muchalcohol I consumed since I arrived. “I’m going to take off. Early morning at the shop tomorrow.”
Dad stands up. “I’ll drive you home. Come back for your truck tomorrow.”
“Solid plan.” I swipe the half-empty bottle of wine from the counter for later. I haven’t tried drowning my sorrows in wine. Perhaps that’s the solution.
ONE WEEK LATER
Drowning in alcohol isn’t the solution. Unless my goal is alcohol poisoning, then I’m achieving it. But trying to banish Willafred Gibson from my head isn’t being accomplished.
She’s there when I wake up, when I’m working, when I’m cooking dinner, and as I drift off to sleep. The term “invading my waking hours” doesn’t do how often I think about her justice. She’s constantly on my mind. I don’t know how to get her out of it.
