Page 6 of A Little Twist

“But it says, ‘Follow your path.’” I position the bucket so it won’t overflow, getting a splash of oil on my chest before scooting out from under the vehicle and placing my back to the tire. “I’ve got to follow my path.”

My friend since middle school sits on the concrete beside me, her green eyes bright. “You’ve found something you love?”

My shoulders drop. “No, but it’s time to get serious. I’m going to be thirty in a few months, and I have no purpose.”

“Good lord, don’t sail off that cliff. You have purpose.” Britt bumps my shoulder with hers. “We just have to sort through all yourerasand find the one that resonates with you the most. The one you keep wanting to go back to.”

“Oh, sure, Taylor. It’s just that simple.”

“It’s what I’d do!”

She’s right, I guess.

Britt is so positive. Even when she’s twisting her fingers with anxiety—a quirk that happens less and less now that Aiden is around to cover her small hands with his strong ones—she’s able to look at problems as opportunities. I’d like to say it’s because she had a better home life than I did growing up, but her family is even weirder than mine, consisting mostly of magicians and tarot readers and escape artists.

Maybe it’s because of her job as a forensic photographer. She’s forced to find meaning in terrible situations. I could never do what she does, but it led her to Aiden, the drop-dead gorgeous sheriff of our town.

Their relationship is enough to make me reconsider my permanent ban on men since Drake Redford announced I’d never get over his conceited ass. He had the nerve to say I’d be just like my mom, alone and aimless by the time I’m thirty.

I’d said he was jealous I actually had a life, but now that I’m twenty-nine and a half with no direction, no job, and no place to live, I’m getting nervous he might be right.

“Personally, I thought your pastry chef era was the best. I’m so happy you agreed to make your cinnamon-almond snickerdoodle cake for my wedding. I dreamed about it so long, I had to buy snickerdoodles to dunk in my morning coffee just to kill the cravings.”

“First, I’m not a chef. I’d have to go to culinary school for that title.” I bend my knee and rest my cheek on it. “Baking’s okay, but it doesn’t spark joy for me.”

“Marie Kondo knows we can’t have that,” she teases. “What about your preschool dance teacher era?”

Studying my oil-blackened fingers, I can’t help a smile. “I did love those squishy little baby arms and their sweet little faces when they were working so hard.”

“They were so cuuute!”

“My favorite part was when I’d tell them to turn their toes out and they’d turn them in.” I snort a laugh.

“Remember that one little girl who had her tongue out the whole time?” Britt joins me in giggling.

“She was so focused! I loved her!” Warmth fills my chest, and I feel like we’re close to what I want. “But baby dance lessons don’t pay enough to sustain a life.”

The air fizzles out of my happiness balloon, and we both sigh. I glance over to see the oil has finished draining, and I lie back and scoot under her truck as she tilts her head to the side.

“You’re really good with cars. I’d imagine owning your own garage would support a life.”

“And go up against Bud?” I laugh loudly as I replace the bolt and unscrew the filter. “That would be a major town scandal, and to be honest, as fun as it is blowing the old guys’ minds with my automotive skills, I’m not really interested in being a grease monkey for the rest of my life.”

“Rude!” Britt cries, which only makes me laugh more.

Scooting back out from under the truck, I sit up again. “I’m a lost cause. I only love things that will leave me homeless.”

“No negative talk!” She holds up a finger. “We’ve only just started our pro-con list. What about hairstylist?”

“It killed my lower back.”

“Clean beauty?”

“Too much mess. Too many products. It took over my life.”

“Pet groomer?”

“The last cat with mites cured me of that.”

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