STORIES

8 thoughts on “STORIES”

1. Snow days
   I thought I was prepared, that I knew what was coming. The storm of a lifetime was about to hit my small ski town. The weatherman, a friend from childhood named John, said that following the storm the skiing would be absolute bliss, powder up to your stomach. For me, that just sounded like a nightmare. So I prepared the only way I wanted to with lots of tea, snacks, and fostering animals. I stocked up on dry food, canned food, and anything else I could need for all the puppies I would be fostering during this scary storm. I headed to the rescue, where I’ve been volunteering for many years, to pick up the lonely animals that wouldn’t be getting the love of visitors during this storm. I couldn’t imagine them alone and cold in those pens at the shelter. I ultimately ended up with 4 dogs of varying ages and sizes. The pups consisted of two German shepherds named Daisy and Sweets, a Doberman pinscher named Booth, and a blue-nose pitbull named Bones.
   Whining. That whole car ride home was just full of the dogs whining to be outside running around and getting loved on. Luckily I had a large fenced-in yard and could let all the dogs out while I focused on getting the beds and bowls settled in the rooms I had gotten ready for them. The yard wasn’t too large but had a patio as a nice hangout spot. It had a wildflower meadow vibe allowing me to worry less about mowing. My mom had encouraged it when I moved in and I found help through my neighbors to help bring in trees for a hammock, mulch beds, and other non-grass lawn needs. The majority of the flowers were gone as the cold snap had foliage dying back. The dogs ran around while I watched from my window running around organizing everything.
   The main room I set up for the dogs was what I consider my library. The furthest wall from the door consists of windows that let in the most beautiful forest views and sunlight. The walls on either side are completely covered in books of all varieties. The one on the left is dedicated to romance and supernatural stories. Continuing left, a fireplace lies with a sectional couch that has a pullout. It’s perfect for a rainy day covered in fuzzy blankets and weighted stuffed animals. The other wall has turned into miscellaneous books of all varieties from books I was required to read in high school to books I fell in love with and continue to reread for comfort. In the middle of the room, I added an ottoman complete with the comfiest floor seating for legos, game nights, and puzzles. This room held many childhood memories and I made it my mission to upkeep what my mom and dad had started for me.
   I went all out for my dream library and plan on spending this storm deep in the stories I have yet to read. The rest of my house feels much more quaint. I’m not a fan of cooking, so the kitchen is small with an abnormally large fridge and pantry for all my “necessities.” The main room is open concept connecting the living room, kitchen, and a small dining room accommodating a table fit for 5. My room is small with a giant bed as the focal point, a closet filled with thrifted clothes (especially hand-me-downs from my parents), and a bathroom with the only requirements being a big enough tub and a shower with a bench. The rest of the house is storage full of things my parents left me or rooms I haven’t figured out a use for yet.
   It has only snowed a little so far, but I make sure to wipe the dogs’ paws as I let them in one at a time. They still hate the feeling, but I’ve been doing it every time they come in from walks or playtime when I’m at the shelter. After receiving a small treat, they walk around sniffing out all the smells before we find comfort in our new spots falling asleep quickly.
   I love having a full home. Living alone has always been my nightmare. I hear every creak, always think something is watching me from the forest, and never expect the knock on my door when a package arrives. In preparation for this storm, the company I work for as an editor and author decided everything that needed to happen could be taken care of online from home. This is not something new to me as they offered this while hiring me due to disability concerns. No one knew when the roads would be clear again. “Prepare for the worst, hope for the best” is what my mom told me over the phone earlier this week. I began preparing that day. I have first aid kits and everything under the sun if something happens to me or the animals in the foreseeable future. All I wish was that I had someone here with me.
   I didn’t have anyone to be with, my friends were more like acquaintances or work friends who were kept an arm’s length away. After mom left me the house, my neighbors were rotating out constantly, I never knew how long they’d be there. Since then I’ve pushed myself to meet a bunch of them, including the most recent one, Emory. We’ve only met a handful of times, but he’s been a consistent visitor at the shelter and helped me manage to get my fosters adopted by loving families. He was the only one who knew the basics of my daily struggles after I missed a brunch due to a flare-up. My mental health was a battle even just getting up and going to work while my physical health was constantly up and down. Good days let me do whatever I wanted, while bad days left me bedridden and begging for help. No one knows that though, except Emory. Instead, everyone sees someone strong and confident, always wondering why I don’t have anyone to love. I always respond the same, “I love what I do, it makes me feel fulfilled and successful.” But this storm reminds me how alone I feel in my home. Maybe that’s why I’m always fostering.
   I wake up crushed by Booth on my legs and Daisy cuddled into my shoulder. I hate to move them but if I don’t make sure they get to go outside a couple times a day then I’ll be dealing with accidents constantly. Begrudgingly, I adjust Daisy off my shoulder and wake up the cuddly Doberman that has claimed my legs. He looks at me like I ruined the best sleep of his life. I nudge him out of bed after I take my medicine followed by a large glass of water. I quickly change and head to make breakfast for all the animals and myself. While my tea steeps, I open the backdoor and encourage all the dogs to run around and do their business.
   I make a simple breakfast every morning for myself. Today I added some strawberry yogurt, a favorite from childhood, and some of my mother’s granola she made last time she was in town to a small bowl. I bring my tea and breakfast to the couch after laying out the animal’s food. I grab the remote hidden by the blankets on my couch and turn on the local news to see what the storm is looking like. I walk away during an ad to let the dogs back in. I let them in one at a time to check their paws and allow the older ones to go start on their breakfast without the younger puppies in the way. “Hi Daisy, sweet girl, so nice giving me your paws. Okay Sweets, good boy sitting and showing me that fuzzy little belly. Booth, come on let’s go inside. What are you staring at buddy?” Then I realized with a quick scan. Bones is gone.
   I immediately throw on my boots to go find her. She’s a pittie, she couldn’t have gone far, but still, she’s like ADHD in a puppy. As I throw on some shoes and grab my keys, I throw open the front door distractedly. I’m about to send a text in the neighborhood group chat when I run smack into a hard chest with a yelp. I look up at Emory, a bearded man who in the winter looks more like a lumberjack than anything else, holding Bones like she’s the most precious thing to him. I smirk, I’ve always had a crush on him since he’s been so helpful to me in the past. He’s even more attractive holding my foster, looking all big and burly, even slightly scary with his recent scar on his face from work. Blushing as though he could hear my thoughts, I awkwardly process aloud, “Hi Emory. That’s my new foster puppy, Bones, you are holding.” He smiles. Just like every time I see his smile, I swoon knowing how mushy his heart truly is when on the outside he is covered in tattoos and scars. His deep voice responds, “Hey, this little pup decided to invite itself to my house after seeing me outside prepping for this storm.”
   I immediately invite him in; the cold front pushing into my house chills my bones. He better explained how she wiggled out of my yard letting me know that there was a hole in the fence that I’d need to get fixed. “Would you be willing to help patch it up come spring?” I ask not wanting to deal with it myself knowing how accident-prone I am. He laughs reminding me of the time he saw me attempting to fix my mailbox and almost cutting off a finger before he rushed in to teach me the proper way to fix it. After discussing plans for this storm and the aftermaths of it, we both realize that Bones has claimed this man as her cuddle buddy. He doesn’t complain in the slightest, just accepting the love and kisses she keeps giving him. We decide to spend the day together as Bones won’t let him stand up, not like I was complaining. Maybe Bones was being my wingwoman. We sit on the couch and talk about how we haven’t seen each other recently.
   My alarm for my lunchtime medicine goes off and I begin to feel ashamed both for interrupting our talks, but also for the more obvious reason. He notices and tells me it’s okay and he won’t judge me for whatever I need to do. He watches the animals that are in the living room with the TV broadcast on. I return to see him cuddled up with Bones and Sweets with Booth claiming my spot on the couch. Emory has his eyes closed and I snap a photo quickly before he notices I’m there. We spend the day in each other’s company talking about everything we’ve been up to recently, he asks about my mom and how she’s doing now that my dad’s gone. We then reach out to the rest of our neighborhood making sure the other has everything they need for the storm. We set a plan to check in on our older neighbors just in case, apparently, he had been chopping wood for them earlier today. He heads home that night but promises to keep in touch throughout the storm just in case something happens to either of us.
   I wake up in the same position as the previous morning with an additional Bones cuddled up into my upper body under the blankets. I begin our morning by setting a plan for the day of what needs to be done. I looked outside and realized it snowed a bit more than I was expecting overnight. I will need to shovel in case I, or any of my neighbors, have any last-minute needs before the true blizzard. I walk to the kitchen in my pajamas to make hot cocoa and breakfast for everyone, even making a pot of coffee in case Emory comes over. Sweets has claimed the couch completely taking up the whole thing. I clean everything and let the puppies outside play in the fresh snow for a little while. After a couple of minutes, I go out in some boots and throw some snowballs up into the air for the puppies to catch and chase after. It reminds me of my childhood dog, we did that every day in the winter until my hands would go numb.
   We all head inside and I decide now is a good time to go shovel the driveway. I look out my window only to see Emory just barely finished shoveling my driveway. My heart melts at the thought of him doing this for me. I ask him to come in, thanking him and letting him know he didn’t need to but that it was appreciated. He says he was already done with his and saw mine needed to be done, so he did. I quickly ushered him further in, locking the door out of habit, and offered him coffee and my pantry if he was hungry. Bones and Daisy run up to him instantly, following him around on his heels as if begging to play or cuddle. We talk endlessly about hopes, dreams, and goals, like how he’s planning on helping the community more, and how he’s adjusting his company to accept more parolees and other marginalized people who are often overlooked for jobs or internships in our area.
   Emory asks for my advice on how to go about it. I remember that my dad had written a book about his company and the changes he made. I realize it’s probably in the miscellaneous section of my library. I get up telling him to follow me to the library, feeling like I was letting him into my heart a little bit more than I was truly comfortable. I walk over to the sectional where Booth and Sweets are splayed out, but turn to see his face change when he walks in fully, looking like a kid on Christmas. I’m scared of what he’ll say, hoping for no rejection, he surprises me. “I would never leave this room. This is amazing! How long did it take you to build and organize?” I tell him about how my mom helped me make the house mine before she handed it over. He never realized this was my family home. “I changed it a lot,” I said, “I wanted it to feel like me, so a lot of construction happened with the help of mom and her construction people. She has so many people on speed dial with all their talents. I also adjusted it to allow for fostering, I wanted space for the dogs to feel safe and loved and able to adjust to home life.” He looks around taking everything else in. He asks about certain books, including the one my dad wrote. He immediately grabs each book that pulls his attention and starts a pile for his to-be-read list next to a chair that would soon be occupied by him and Bones.
   We then spend the day in the library chatting about scenes in books we’ve read or our favorite movie adaptations before we turn to more serious work topics. We take a break for lunch and he tells me to go grab my medicine, which I had opened up to him about earlier that day in the library, and he’ll make us food. After lunch, we go over what he’s learned from my dad’s book both of us taking notes and working some kinks out with the fine-tuned details for his company. The days pass with ease, him coming over sometime after his meetings, me spending time with the puppies while I do some easy work, and then us talking and playing with the dogs the rest of the day.
   He was so respectful and helpful every day with all the dogs and what they individually needed. He’s rotated taking them out, feeding them and just making sure they’re happy. We talk about each of the dogs and our favorite things about them. We both agree that after the storm I would be adopting Sweets, and Booth as they’re older and need some extra love, but are lower energy which would be good for my bad days. Obviously, he’s become obsessed with little puppy Bones, but has also become attached to Daisy and how good she is with Bones. He has already thought about adopting them and giving them a loving home full of energy and things to do, he’s even thought of ways to bring them to work.
   One of the days my mom called to check in and she got to meet Emory while giving me the mom look. I invited him over for dinner, per my mom’s request, where I cooked one of my few specialties, Mac and Cheese. It’s my mother’s recipe, very dear to my heart, and he loved it. Emory takes care of the dogs and their food while I clean up. We walk into the living room to the weatherman stating to not be alone at this time as the weather would soon become too dangerous to be outside. Emory and I look at each other and decide then and there that we’re getting snowed in together. I’ll be feeling a lot less lonely now.

2. Safe

   “Come on. Let’s do it!” Oliver tugs on my knit sweater, his dirty blonde hair bouncing with the wind.
   “I don’t know Oliver…I don’t think it’s a good idea…”
   “But what about everything we’ll find, James? It’s been broken down for years. Who would live in a place like that?” He raises his eyebrows in question. I sighed, finally giving in.
   “Fine, I’ll go. At what time?”
   “How about 6 o’clock? The rain is supposed to stop around that time.” He cocks his head to the side, waiting for my response.
   “Sounds good. See you at the tree near the corner of my street?”
   “Deal. See you!” Oliver puts on his jean jacket and runs away to class while waving to me. What had I just agreed to? Is this even a good idea?

   I walk to the tree, arms wrapped around myself to fend off the strengthening winds as they howl against the trees, whispering to me, do not go. The wind picks up stronger, pushing me to my destination. The great big old oak tree stares down at me with its bark peeling off, showing the grooves under its dry leaves. They sway in sync, whispering enticing words to me; sometimes, words that I fear. I look up at its branches, analyzing how they intertwined with one another in an attempt to ignore their hushed voices. They say what the town’s silent glares say to me. You don’t belong here; he will leave once he finds out.

   “You have a leaf in your hai-”
   “AH!” I stumble back, tripping against a tree root, and slam into a sturdy figure. I clench my scab-covered fist, ready to hit whatever is behind me.

   I swing my fist into the air, eyes closed, and hear Oliver yell and slightly dodge my hand.

   “You’d really hit your friend, James?” Oliver rubs his chin with a pained expression. He wears a half-hearted smile and furrows his eyebrows as if asking me to do something.
   “Oliver! What are you doing there? Don’t do that; you know how scared I get!” I yell at him, then realize that I did not apologize. “I’m sorry…” I reach out to his face to see his wound but stop myself– a friend does not do this. I hold myself back.
   “It’s fine. Let’s get going before it gets dark. It’s supposed to rain again later today.” He waves his hand in dismissal and looks down. Is he disappointed? Is he mad at me? Why do always make these types of mistakes? I trudge behind him in smaller steps, giving him some space to enjoy the peaceful silence of autumn.

   I stare at his back as he leads the way. He walks with long strides, his jean jacket hanging loosely off his shoulders, small tufts of hair poking from behind his ears. Oliver is tall, pale, and has soft brown eyes. You can see it in his eyes: he has a look of curiosity, of danger. His eyes sparkle when he does something he is not supposed to. Yet, I follow along. His curiosity is contagious, just like he is.

   We walk straight for quite a while until we reach the edge of town. This town– strange yet curious– knows too much. It’s too small, too judgy. But it hides something from newcomers like me– something I have not been able to figure out.

   I stare up at another tree’s leaves, feeling goosebumps from the cold, and catch Oliver staring at me from the corner of my eye. He gives me his special look, the one with that sparkle in his eyes – the one that sends goosebumps over me– then looks up at the tree. Before I can say a word, he quickly extends his arm up to a tree branch, yanks it with full force, and laughs as water droplets drizzle down from the leaves onto us. He nudges me, trying to get a smile out of me, and succeeds. He never fails.

   “We’re almost there, just down the hill and into those trees,” Oliver says as he points to a rooftop in the forest. We slowly make our way down the hill, arm in arm so as to not fall on the slippery grass. Sometimes, I forget how beautiful autumn is. I am surrounded by oranges and reds.

   We reach the edge of the forest. It’s funny how every animal is gone now; how silent it can be when they start to hibernate. The only sound you could hear were our breaths against the cold and the crunching of the leaves beneath our feet. The trees now resemble that of a naked being– bare and vulnerable, just like me in this silence. Should I tell him? It’s only us two in this isolated forest.
   No, I cannot. He’ll run away.

   “I hope we don’t get lost,” I huff after almost falling.
   “I don’t think so; it’s not too far,” Oliver responds as he collects spider webs with a stick.
   “You aren’t trying to murder me…right?” I jokingly say and awkwardly laugh when Oliver does not respond.
   “Why are we going here again? Hasn’t this place been abandoned for a long time?”
   “Well…I thought you’d like it since you love fall so much…” Oliver looks down to the ground. Did he want to say something else? Oliver looks back up.
   “Anyway, didn’t you say you felt like this town was hiding something? Well…you’ve probably heard the story, right?”
   “What story?” I stop dead in my tracks and look him in the eyes, a sense of uneasiness creeping upon me.
   “Well, the story goes that long ago, in the sixties, a family used to live here. They were a wealthy family and decided to live on the outskirts of the town– not a very good idea because they were so isolated. Anyway, it was a family of three: a mother, a father, and a three-year-old daughter. Then one day, she disappeared while playing games. They searched for her everywhere and put pamphlets up, but she was nowhere to be found. The mother and father were devastated and moved to a different state, wanting to forget about their pain. Now, their house remains abandoned in this forest.”

   “Why didn’t you tell me this before we came here?”
   “Because I knew you wouldn’t come,” Oliver says skeptically, hands in his pockets, and looks away.

   We continue down the path. A house comes into view. The river is now twenty feet away from the house after the summer rain. I stare at its beauty and wonder what it would have looked like in the prime of its life.

   Large off-white wooden pillars lift the triangular porch. The roof shingles are no longer in their original place — they dangle from trees and on top of stones, some floating in the riverbeds. The house is now lopsided, its second floor appearing as if it was going to cave in at any moment. Moss had taken over the outer walls of the house, with small vines that intertwined themselves onto the pillars. The front of the house displays two windows—both broken—and a grand brown door. It has an angel engraved into the wooden design, with a golden doorknob. The door was slightly ajar.

   What a beauty.

   I have never seen anything like this before– its intricacy and detail. The house looks like it longs for the attention that it was deprived of. It spoke to me, luring my curiosity inside its shambles.

   Oliver pulls me inside, exposing the musty smell of the house. The inside was surprisingly intact– excluding what nature had touched. Oliver stands there with me, admiring the old building and its contents.

   “Wow…”
   “I thought you’d say that,” Oliver says with a smile on his face.

   Books are sprawled on the ground in the study. The chair and desk lay on their sides, with scattered papers across the ground. The lamps are missing their lightbulbs. The next room over– a living room– has furniture covered in white cloth to protect it from decomposition. The kitchen has nothing except a sink with plants growing from the drain and splattered cupboards.

   I imagine what life was like for the family. I imagine a loving family; a mother chasing her daughter down the hallway, trying to get her into the bath whilst the father read a book in the living room. I imagine the life the daughter had, one where she was free, young, and innocent. She had the life I always wanted, one where I would not be the subject of judgment and be true to myself.

   I look over to Oliver. He touches the wall with delicacy as he walks. Should I tell him now? No one will interrupt this moment– it is just us two. It is my moment. He looks around the hallway next to me, like a child who just received a toy. No, I cannot ruin this for Oliver.

   We walk deeper, noticing the smell becoming fouler and stronger.

   “Let’s see what that is,” Oliver insists.
   “I don’t think that’s a good idea…” I say while Oliver continues dragging me along.

   We reach a door at the end of the corridor. There was something interesting about it. The door was closed. Locked in fact. The smell also worsened. Oliver looks around in search of a hidden key, so he does not have to break down the door. He looks under the rug and around the door framing, but he finds nothing. His face lights up as an idea comes to him. He goes to the sconce, touches the inside of the glass, and pulls out a silver key.

   “Do you think it will work?” he asks.
   “Doesn’t hurt to try.” I hold onto my already aching stomach, on the verge of throwing up.
   Oliver inserts the key, turning it. We hear a faint click as the door unlocks, creaking open by itself. Dust fills the hallway, and I hurl on cue, disposing of all the contents within my stomach. A foul stench fills the corridor.

   Inside the room lay untouched furniture, paintings, and boxes. In a corner, something glistens against the faint light of the hallway. Oliver dons his classic smile and starts to saunter over, but stops when I grab his arm.

   “Be careful. Don’t do anything dumb,” I tell him. He nods, careful to not fall.

   A big black safe, three by three, occupies the corner. The smell intensifies as we approach. Where is that smell coming from? I look around trying to figure out its location and slam against Oliver’s back as he stops, pointing at something near the corner of the black safe. Something squeaks and makes a squelching sound. I jump back, startled.

   “Don’t leave me.” Did that just come out of my mouth? No, no, no. I hide my face, digging deeper into my scarf to hide my embarrassment. If only the earth would swallow me whole this instant. Why did I just say that?
   “I promise I won’t, who do you take me for?” Oliver responds with a smile. He misinterpreted it. I cling to my sweater, disappointment washing over me. How long must I shut and contain myself? How long must I hide within the confines of my four walls to not ruin what I treasure?

   The squelching sound brings us back to reality. We stare in horror. A rat holds onto a rabbit’s carcass, munching peacefully on the rabbit until we catch it. Oliver sighs in relief, while I hurl one more time. His eyes drift to the safe, silently telling me that he wants to see what is inside.

   He looks over to me, seeking approval. I nod. Oliver kneels on the ground to inspect the safe.

   “Locked,” he says.
   “What now?”
   “There is one way…”
   Oliver gets up, grabs a large rock, and begins hitting the safe. After many attempts, Oliver succeeds.
   “What do you think is in there?”
   “Gold?” He laughs.

   The door slowly opens and we cough in sync as dust fills our lungs. I swat my hands until my vision clears.

   There she sits. She lay there motionless, her head leaning back against the inside of the safe, mouth open. Her hands hold onto her bony legs. Her tiny figure is clothed in a pink dress and brown Mary Janes. A bow hangs loosely from what used to be hair. Inside that safe are brown stains– scratches that left bloody marks on its four walls in an attempt to escape.

   I stand there. Why is she here? Did she not go missing? I am scared. I feel my stomach do cartwheels, forming tangled knots. I try to say something, to move my mouth but nothing comes out. All I can do is question, wonder, and imagine.

   I imagine her playing hide and seek with her family. I imagine her running down to the first floor as her mother counts on the second floor. I imagine her looking for a good place to hide and finding the door that was always closed, is now open. I imagine her crawling into the open safe and pulling the small door closed. I imagine the dad noticing the room door ajar, pulling the key from its hidden spot, and locking it. I imagined her thinking that inside this room, inside this box was a spot where Mommy would not find her. No one found her, not until now.

   She became the town’s hidden secret. A hidden gem. She was a secret stuffed in a safe to protect her from the world. Yet, that safe only put her in danger. She never lived. She is stuck in her youth, never finding peace. I look at her figure; I feel pity for her for being so lonely. How many times did she yell? Did she pound on the small confines of the safe in desperation?

   A wave of sadness washes over me. I have lived five times longer than her, yet, I am scared to lose everything I treasure because of who I am. She was not: she was carefree. I feel as if I am the one truly stuck in the safe– stagnant perhaps because of my fears – instead of her. I am slowly rotting away as I cling to my secret.

   Oliver suddenly moves from his spot and falls back onto the floor. He skids back and hits my calves, making me fall over on top of him and feel his trembling limbs. He covers his ears to shut the world out. Is he okay? Why is he reacting this way? He shakes even more, panic rising within him.

   Oh no.

   I sit up immediately and grab Oliver by his shoulders. I look into his eyes, pleading for something in the heavens to stop his panic attack. Not right now, not at this time.

   “It’s okay, calm down…” I stare at him, slowly breathing in and out for him to follow my lead. I pull him into an embrace, hoping that it will calm him down feeling some warmth. His breathing slows down.

   I look behind my shoulder and stare at the bony figure while Oliver calms down. I realize that I am just like her: trapped, alone, pretending to be something I am not because ultimately, I think it is the safest option. Yet, I am not alone. Oliver is here with me through thick and thin. He keeps his promises despite his fears.

   I am not scared of her. I am scared of myself. I am scared of the safe that I will break free from.

3. Moments You Forget

   His wife and his job, those are Jack’s two great loves in this life.

   He began suffocating from the moment his feet, with a mind of their own, walked him out of the hospital and into the dark parking lot. He’s trapped in limbo, yet the world is still moving, slipping away and leaving him behind. Somehow oblivion feels as natural as breathing, The drive home is mind-numbingly silent as he hurries to escape a never-ending maze of crisp white walls and sterile floors. He watches as the car begins winding up the path to the abandoned farm, a dilapidated treasure hidden between acres of deciduous overgrowth and golden fields of hay, where with each turn he is deeper in the forest and farther from home. The barn’s rusted weathervane comes into view, and suddenly he’s gasping for air, clawing at the invisible hand squeezing him by the neck. The sight of the farm brings back a flood of memories, welling up and filling him with such heaviness that he can do nothing but drop to his knees and let them wash over him all at once. His wife is his oxygen, and now he can’t breathe.

   …
   Twigs snap as they trample through the underbrush, circling round for the thousandth time in their attempt to find the small lake he’d been raving about for days. He is twenty-one again, a shameless slave to pretty girls with striking eyes and long silky hair – pretty girls like Katherine, where he finds himself naturally taking her hand without a second thought and leading them in a different direction until they stumble upon a little clearing where a red barn dwells. They don’t notice the peeling paint or the handfuls of missing boards as they make their way through the barn, climbing over bales of hay and artfully avoiding rusty nails until they are situated comfortably in the loft, heads resting softly against each other and limbs intertwined like vines. As the sun casts its last rays upon their faces and paints their bodies in its brilliant golden hue, Jack turns to gaze at the girl in his arms, pausing as if collecting his thoughts.

   “Call me Kat,” she whispers before he has a chance to speak, not noticing how he freezes up, visibly irritated at being cut off. Instead of saying anything, Jack grasps her chin and pulls her into a bruising kiss. He smiles at her, momentary displeasure buried beneath a mountain of new possibilities.

   …
   The barn is surrounded by a halo of burnt orange and deep crimson as leaves begin falling in droves, littering the forest floor with a sea of rustic color. It’s now autumn, just shy of half a year after their chance meeting. He watches his girlfriend set down the wicker basket and lay out the blanket before methodically taking out the assortment of miniature sandwiches and tea cakes he had spent all night preparing. She seems hesitant, eyes wildly roving around the pasture as if searching for him, only to quickly look down and avoid his gaze once she spots him standing near the edge of the clearing. Jack nervously thumbs the box tucked away in his back pocket as he strides toward their picnic spot. It was a moment he’d dreamt about for months, how he’d walk up and give her a gentle kiss on the forehead before dropping to one knee and baring his soul, completely at her mercy. So he does.

   “Kat, will you marry me?” his voice does not waver as he waits for her answer, taking her hand and looking up expectantly, but he can tell she thinks it’s too soon. She opens and closes her mouth before meekly looking away. He feels his face twisting with anger, a seething black pit forming in his stomach from the humiliation of her snub. His grip on her tightens, and suddenly she feels the crushing pressure on her hand, sees the dark expression on his face, and can’t help but nod to give him the answer he is waiting for.

   …
   They’re basking in the bright morning sun, feet swinging while perched precariously on the open ledge of the barn’s loft. Together they gaze at the wildlife chittering and fluttering in their vicinity, watching as a flock of songbirds land to peck around in the clearing, only to burst into a squabbling cloud of feathers, beaks, and twiggy legs. They stay like that, her head resting contentedly on his shoulder, until the midday sun begins beating down uncomfortably on their skin. He begins to stand up, but his wife tugs at his shirt, silently beckoning for him to sit back down.

   “Jack, I’m pregnant,” she blurts out breathlessly. He sits there, motionless, as she reaches into her purse and pulls out a pink stick, handing it to him. Her eyes flicker between his face and hands, watching carefully as he registers the two blue lines. It’s unbearable, and so he rips himself away from his wife, crashing through budding green branches and razor-sharp foliage as he makes his way back to the truck. Within minutes, he’s reversing down the dirt path, wife forgotten.

   …
   The farm is littered with bits and pieces of their love. A blanket folded haphazardly in the corner, hay bales pushed together to form a bed, a rope swing that shudders and makes an awful creaking noise the moment any weight is piled on, or even their initials carved into the faded red wood of the barn. They are the Sullivans, fortified by their union in name and covenant to one another. But Jack, he is a lost man without his better half, cursing the cruel world that took his wife from him. The invisible hand crushing his throat tightens its grip, forcing his head back to gaze upon the twinkling stars. They burn brightly, mocking him, and all at once he realizes what he’s been called to do.

   Armed with nothing but his bare hands and blinding rage, Jack speeds along the interstate. Someone killed his wife, someone he’s going to make pay. Images of Katherine swallowed up by tubes in the giant hospital bed flash through his mind. He would never forget how she flinched as he reached to take her hand in his own, or the way she pleaded for the doctors to save her baby’s life before they operated on her.

   Yet he always failed to remember how he gripped Katherine’s throat, slamming her into the wall and leaving her to collapse gasping on their hardwood floor. Or how he screamed at her, threatening to run this car off the cliff if she doesn’t shut up and let him continue speeding dangerously on the winding highway. Or the time he slapped her so hard she was knocked to the ground and forced to hide a red handprint on her face for days afterwards. She would sleep in the guest bedroom on those days, making sure to lock the door and curl up under the covers, only to be greeted with a little gift and homecooked breakfast the next morning as he gingerly tests the water with an apologetic smile.

   The ring of purpling bruises Katherine sports around her neck is always covered by some convenient necklace, scarf, or turtleneck. This time, it was a carefully wrapped ribbon that remains in place even through an emergency c-section. Jack paces outside the operating room, roiling internally while his nerves get the best of him. As the nurses whisk the baby away, touting what a little miracle their son is, Jack returns to his wife’s bedside just in time for the heart rate monitor to flatline.

   He pulls into the hospital parking lot with their son on his mind. Their son. No, her son. That is no son of his. He stalks through the sterile hallways, car keys left forgotten in the ignition, passing first the ER, then the ICU, orthopedics, and finally the maternity ward. The endless labyrinth of identical doors and curtains appear to mock him, cooing and shushing as if he were an errant child. His anger is too loud, forming a tumultuous cloud over his head. Through the corner of his eye he spots an incubator marked SULLIVAN and realizes he’s back in the NICU, finally face to face with his wife’s killer. As Jack peers down through the clear glass of the incubator, his son’s cherublike face smiles happily back at him, blissfully unaware. The cacophony in his head vanishes, and suddenly the world is silent again.

4. At the Altar

   The early morning crowd seemed to linger as they passed, almost reluctant to bustle their busy lives past her. She knew she looked out of place, dressed in her Sunday best, her meager belongings strewn haphazardly into a dusty suitcase. She wished they had dropped her off elsewhere– anywhere other than this awful bus stop bench. The constant trickle of rain through the roof slowly threatened to unravel the delicately woven tapestry of sorrow, fear, and righteousness she was balancing. She thought again to what the Father had told her, the atrocities that leapt from his tongue as though he had never heard the word of the Lord, as though he had never even seen her, the child to whom he had read the scripture. The child he had taught to love their congregation, even those who strayed from His divine teachings. The way the Sisters had not defended her, the pain in their eyes and silence in their mouths. Hot tears ran down her cheeks as she picked at the peeling wall. Sharp chips of paint dug into the skin under her fingernail, cracking and flaking under the pressure of her unrelenting nervous habit. She would have peeled the entire wall before she noticed, but a weary employee began to roll open the gate of the ticket station, catching her attention. As he flicked on the buzzing sign that read “OPEN” Audra read the names of the buses. Chicago, she remembered Diana saying. Audra could get to Chicago.
   —
   It was not entirely by choice that Audra almost became a nun, but neither was it against her will. As with most things before, it was just something that happened to her. She was cloistered before she knew it, a reticent child, easily drawn to contemplation. Her mother reincarnate. The nuns cared for her, partially because she was an uncomplicated child to raise, and partially because when she smiled, pink cheeks glowing, they understood Mary a little better. What choice did Audra have but to stay?
   The church attached to the convent was a towering building that aspired towards God architecturally and spiritually, straining for the clouds. Flowering ivy covered the stone foundations, wafting its floral scent and lilac petals down the gently sloping street. A basin of holy water greeted those who entered, inviting all to rinse their hands of impurity before they prayed. The pews were archaic, creaky, and often interrupted services as various members of the congregation shuffled in their seats, trying to contain their wandering children or their own wandering thoughts. Audra knew the priest to be a kind man, but he had a habit of keeping his voice from rising for entire sermons. He thought a passionate tone distracted from the message of God, but instead he produced a monotony that lulled even the most devoted listeners to sleep. Just in front of the Father, holding his faithful hands, stood the cedar-wood altar, stately and commanding. The platform was elevated, three steps leading down to the aisles that faithfully bore parishioners up to the altar.
   Audra had been eighteen, newly minted in her aspirancy, still shining like a quarter. According to the Sisters, the aspirancy was a necessary formality before she could become a novice, but Audra would have committed to the Convent as soon as it occurred to her to do so. She had heard the verses recited by other nuns that just knew, intuitively, to devote themselves to God. I have chosen you and appointed you to bear fruit, John 15:16. It was not their choice but their calling, and Audra too must have been called. It was all she knew to do—read scripture, contemplate. On occasion, hear the word of God. Feel His presence. Audra would have said she saw God most often in the light that streamed through the stained glass windows of the clerestory, golden and colored by the images of her faith; she was certain, in those moments, that she knew God and His generous path for her. She was happy to follow.
   —
   The door opened early during Sunday services, and a sliver of light chased Diana through the entryway. She closed it softly behind her, pausing as her eyes adjusted from the brilliant, diffused sunlight of the cloudy morning to the dim, low lighting of the nave. She turned, plunging her hands into the stoup, choosing to focus on the ritual instead of the religion. The rinsing of her hands, the cleansing. The water swirling. She wondered what exactly they thought they were cleansing from her, from her body. Her shoulders tensed as she forced herself forward, shaking and drying her hands on her sweater. One foot in front of the other. She had not been back since she had told the priest and the velvet curtain of the confessional, unable to catch the words between her teeth before they tumbled out. She was sure the whole church knew. She could feel their eyes, their whispers. May judgment day come to us all. She chose a pew in the back, a pew that betrayed her faith by creaking indignantly when she sat, causing the woman in front of her to turn around and make eye contact, one prim brow raised. It was rare enough that Diana came into the church on a normal Sunday, and rarer still that she came alone. It was one of those days where contemplative solitude was almost enough, but her legs walked their way to the wooden door, the lilac flowers under her feet, and she had no choice but to follow. In a way, she had missed it—the ritual of it all, the songs, the way she could see God in the grain of the wooden pew in front of her, in the pattern of the leather bound Bible.
   The priest began his sermon, welcoming new and old faces. She sank lower into the pew, hoping that he had forgotten about their last conversation. It had not ended well; she had told him that she would never come back, that he was a failure of a religious leader. He had chased her out, promising to tell her parents, imparting to her in his infinite holy wisdom that she would grow out of it, that she would find her way back to God. Diana had always made her way back to God, despite insisting adamantly that she would not—after David died, the idea of God watching over her made her nauseous. He could not, should not, have let her baby brother die. David was just a kid; his adult teeth hadn’t even grown in. Hers had just finished. He was buried incomplete, and there she was, intact and incapable of smiling without him. As far as Diana knew, He was all knowing and awful and not a God she wanted. Still, her body arranged itself in a church service a few months later, eyes bloodshot, teary, and glued to the stained glass above the preacher’s head. She needed to know why David, why not her. If God could do anything to assuage the guilt, she had to know if He cared. She needed someone to care. She made tentative eye contact with the same image of Jesus she had scorned for months, worrying her lip with the focused, uncomfortable dedication of peeling an overripe peach with her teeth.
   Diana didn’t know how to come back this time. She didn’t know why she wanted to, why she kept trying, why she sat through the sermon despite his pointed words about “those who do not love as God intended.” If she wanted God to care about her again, she thought, she was in the wrong place. She looked around, trying to avoid the priest’s piercing eyes that seemed to land on her with the weight of all of humanity’s sins. Her gaze caught on one of the women standing to the side. She looked familiar, younger than the nuns around her. She was dressed modestly, her eyes soft and focused on the Father and his sermon. Her brow furrowed as she turned, and they locked eyes. She seemed to take in Diana’s messy hair, reddish brown and still wet from her shower. The way she hunched into the pew and gripped her Bible as though they could protect her in their divine glory from a bullet.
   —
   Audra knew the other woman from afar; her family attended church on special occasions and sometimes brought homemade apple pie in the fall. Audra was glad to see her, even as she saw the way Diana’s lip shook as though she was about to cry. She always liked seeing those from her congregation (and she did think of it as hers, by now) after a while away: it was a pleasant reassurance that faith had the power to return. Audra smiled, hoping she conveyed the same energy as the other Sisters, who she knew to be comforting and able to coax the troubles out of even the most stubborn. Just as she turned to face the altar again, she saw the corners of Diana’s lips turn upward. Her heart fluttered– she was always nervous when addressing the most nervous church-goers. She never wanted to say the wrong thing, to snap the taut thread of their faith and leave them feeling forsaken by their community, or worse, judged for their decision to return.
   —
   Diana did not know why she approached the woman who smiled at her after the sermon. Perhaps it was because she had observed her so gently, as though she understood Diana entirely and had chosen to smile anyway. She, Diana learned, was on her way to becoming a nun. Her name was Audra. When she put a hand on Diana’s shoulder, she felt the same warmth of her God when she was little, when she prayed and prayed and for a brief moment David was getting better. Maybe the Father was wrong, maybe God was still with her. After all, as she left, Audra turned back quickly to offer a graceful smile as their eyes met again.
   “Well, even if you’re unsure, I’m glad you’re back. That takes a lot of courage—I think God would be proud of you. I hope you can make it next week.” And with that, she disappeared into the mass of bodies rising from their own pews, leaving Diana startled and flushed, temporarily unable to coax her legs into movement.
   —
   In the following weeks, Diana found herself at the door of the church, under the watchful eye of the Sisters, much more often than she would have liked. Well, before meeting Audra. There was just something authentic, something comfortingly ordinary about her relationship to God. Diana learned that she had grown up in the church, an unofficial nun since birth, but Diana liked that it did not seem like a fire and brimstone passion for Audra. It felt like she came home to faith, that she allowed it to be a companion rather than a set of commandments to follow. Diana felt as honest with Audra as she was with God—at least once a week, they sat in the very last pew and talked, occasionally being ushered out by one of the Sisters as the church closed for the evening, and even then, they would continue their conversation on the stoop. They watched the sun fall easily into the skyline, and Diana told Audra things she had barely admitted to herself: she wanted to escape their suffocating town, maybe even go to college. Chicago was the closest big city, and she was desperate enough not to care that she had no real plan.
   As the light faded earlier in the passing days, their conversations became governed by moonlight. Diana liked the way Audra seemed to come alive at night, when no one was watching, when the Father and the Sisters were cloistered indoors, peaceful and asleep. She laughed louder, talked more, and Diana couldn’t help but notice the way her dark eyes reflected the stars, the way her lips curled upwards when the tips of their fingers met accidentally on the corner of the stair as they leaned back to name constellations. Evidence of the divine, she thought.
   —
   Audra did not know why their first conversation left her unable to relax her hands, belatedly smoothing with her hair. Diana had been lovely, if a little quiet, a little uncertain. They hadn’t discussed much aside from the vague impression of Diana’s unfortunate conversation with the Father before she left. She wasn’t sure what advice to offer, but she had tried to impart onto Diana that God welcomed her back, that her place in their community was never in question, that the Father would forgive her. Audra didn’t want to pressure her to come back if she felt uncomfortable, just to tell her that the invitation was open.
   In the following weeks, Audra could not tear her mind from Diana. Before their conversations, she had never really had trouble focusing on her studies, but God knows she tried and failed to return her mind to the easy, empty, comfortable contemplation, to the Sisters’ lessons, even to the feeling she loved when the light filtered through the stained glass windows at sunset. It all became about her, somehow.
   Early one Sunday morning, she entered the nave to prepare for services. She wanted to drown her feelings in the basin of Holy water in front of her. Oh, how they would burn. Diana’s quick smile, the warmth of her shoulder. She felt as though the family of sparrows that lived under the awning had nested themselves in her chest, threatening to take flight, and she couldn’t even tell whether or not she wanted them out. She watched the water flow over the smooth marble. Cooled by the morning air, it washed over her hands. The more she thought, the harder she scrubbed her fingers, leaving them raw. She had not registered a set of commanding footsteps behind her when the Father spoke.
   “Good morning, Audra. I wonder if you would be willing to have a word about one of the people you’ve been counseling?” Audra’s eyebrow raised and she smiled sweetly, even as she wrung her hands behind her back.
   “Of course, Father. Who did you have in mind?”
   “I believe you met Diana, the one who spoke to me about her…” He paused, holding Audra’s eyes as though he saw the feathers in her ribcage, the taking-flight that she couldn’t bring herself to stop. “Deviance. I hope you have success leading her back to God’s path, but be careful with women like her. Take care.”
   As he turned away, Audra had never been more glad that he was a man of few words. She did not know how to respond to him, to what may have been accusations folded in on one another, to the gleam in his eye that he reserved for the people who spoke to him in the absolution of the confessional and never returned. Women like her? She swallowed the bile that rose in her throat. She knew she was being ridiculous, it was the Father for God’s sake, he was a kind man. She almost believed herself. She felt warmth trickle down her fingertips, and as she brought her hands back to the basin, blood dripped into the clear, innocent water. With still-distracted horror, she saw that she had absently picked one nail open entirely. She gasped, placing the wound between her lips before she tainted another vessel of the Lord’s spirit.
   She could still taste the metallic tang of blood in her mouth when services started. There was no sign of Diana, and Audra was almost glad of it—the less she saw her, the easier it was to forget the Father’s words. The sermon was quieter than she was used to: she had been reluctant to disrupt services after leaving to bandage her finger, and had resigned herself tersely to a pew in the very back. As the prayers drifted around her, Audra’s eyes wandered to the stained glass, where the birds chirped indignantly from behind the windows. Audra softened; birds of all sorts, especially sparrows and starlings, had always been her favorite of God’s creations. Their wings, particularly—what more proof of God could you need?
   The wooden pew creaked next to her, and Audra turned to find Diana doing her best to shuffle into place quietly. Smiling ruefully, she sat, mouthing a quick apology. Audra shook her head. God’s timing is always right and all that. The sermon continued, but Audra wasn’t paying attention. She could feel the air between her leg and Diana, the way she could have sworn it was alive and dancing specifically to distract her. She shifted, and suddenly Diana’s hand was in hers. Audra’s stomach dropped. Women like her. Be careful. Their weeks of conversation, the undeniable flush in her cheeks whenever Diana turned her gaze towards her during services. The hush of the confessional, the silence that followed those whispers. The rebuke, the terror, the yelling. Audra had heard some of their conversation, although she hadn’t known who it was at the time—she had stolen away in the back of the nave, quietly giving herself into her prayers. She knew it was wrong to listen, but it was not often that the Father raised his voice loud enough to hear from outside. The cruel instructions issued, to repent, to pray. The way he exploded out from behind the velvet curtain, one hand up, preparing to do God knows what to the terrified woman. The way he saw Audra for a moment and stopped, the way Diana ran. The way she hid from the Father and his divine anger. Audra pulled her hand away. Back to God’s path. It was cold.
   They sat in stiff silence. Diana shifted again, away this time. Her arms were crossed over her stomach, like she was protecting herself from a blow. She bit her lip. The moment the Father raised his arms to dismiss his loyal congregation, Diana was walking towards the door with the same shaky resolve Audra had seen when she had walked up to introduce herself. Audra felt like she was being pulled to follow, like she had no other choice, like if Diana left she would break in half completely. She stumbled as she stepped past the pews. The leaving crowd engulfed her, leaving her surrounded with her faithful peers, the people she had spent nearly every Sunday with since she was born. Mrs. Sullivan, the woman who volunteered in the library and helped her find as many books on faith as she had ever needed, holding hands with her husband who carried her purse. Mr. Anderson, a friend of the Father’s, trying to coax a jacket onto his youngest daughter, who was emphatically protesting in the arms of her bemused mother. She wondered what they would think if they knew, these pleasant people, their faithful and beloved families, if they could see the garden God had put her in, the fruit her sinful hands reached for. The desires she couldn’t contain, the feelings the Father insisted not a soul was ever supposed to have, the tree that whispered to her with its forbidden knowledge. Why, then, would God make Diana’s hand so right for hers?
   Maybe He could understand the way she would have wrought a Bible of her own, one that allowed her love. If God bestowed these feelings, they must have been in His plan for her. She caught up to Diana just as she crossed the threshold into the street. The daylight was blinding, and they both stopped—there must have been nothing wrong with admiring the way Diana’s auburn eyelashes curled upward and fluttered as her eyes adjusted, with the pull in her stomach as Diana’s delicate fingers grazed her wrist when she turned to walk away. Audra reached for her hand again, and it was like being baptized with fire, dangerous and thrilling and may God only help her sacreligious heart. This time she would not let go—as she pulled her back into the aisle, away from the doorway, away from the safety of the street where the Father stood with the ambling crowd, Audra swallowed the sinful air with the lump in her throat. Surely if God gave her this, he would understand. He had to.
   Later, they knelt behind the altar, limbs tangled blasphemously, perilously, past the chancel steps. Audra could feel the hardwood under her hands, her knees, evidence of the priests that had paced for centuries as they preached, wearing a hole in the carpet to reveal the paneling underneath. She wondered what they would think of her now, what the Father would say if he knew. She had attended countless weddings in that very church, listening to his words about love and hearing the way God blessed certain unions; Audra knew she wasn’t the only one to kiss a beloved at the altar, but perhaps she was one of the few to do so hidden precariously underneath it. It felt just as reverent. She laughed, suddenly nervous, feeling as though she had dropped something precious, and was about to watch it shatter. She pulled back and looked into Diana’s eyes. Diana cocked her head and smiled, waiting for an explanation. Audra shook her head. The evening light dripped languidly like honey, gilded, stained by the glass of the window that hung like the sun above them. Above them, the icon of Christ. Watching. When Diana’s mouth landed on hers again, clumsy, desperate hands tangling into her hair, she knew with startling clarity that God must have been with her, that Diana must have been a saint in a past life. Audra’s hands felt where her wings should have escaped her shoulder blades, and she sighed into Diana’s lips.
   When Diana left, the fragile glass of Audra’s faith fell. Diana, heartbreakingly lovely as Audra knew her to be, refused to understand that Audra could not just leave on a whim. Abandoning them, the Father and the Sisters, the only family she knew, was not Diana’s choice to make. It was hers, and Audra would not do it. She wasn’t ready. Maybe she could help them change, and Audra felt as though God Himself had commanded her to try.
   When they found out, the glass shattered. It was a cloudy morning that threatened rain, a Sunday, as with everything that seemed to happen to her in the past few months. It appeared that God did not intend to allow her to rest—the Father had chosen that morning to inquire about Diana again.
   “So, about Diana. I’ve noticed she hasn’t been around recently—does this have anything to do with your reticence these past few weeks? You’ve been distracted,” he said, with the same air of cool, concerned authority that he typically presented to his congregation.
   “She left town for a while,” Audra explained, unwilling to elaborate. She tried to keep her voice steady, devoid of feeling, but she couldn’t help that her voice always softened when she talked about Diana. Somewhere behind her, by the altar, a candle clattered loudly to the floor. A Sister hurried over to place it back to its divine home. His eyebrow twitched.
   “Perhaps it is for the best. You were not as focused on the Lord as you should have been, Audra, and I believe she was a poor influence. I suppose that is what you get when the impure are allowed to worship with the pure.” His lip curled into a sneer as he spoke. Audra thought she could feel the blood rushing to her every extremity as he continued.
   “May He shepherd them to their holy path. Disgusting.”
   That was it for Audra.
   Before she knew it, she was thrown into the back of a church-owned car, as old and creaky as the pews. She regretted nothing that she had screamed at him—that he was the one who disgusted her, that his faith was as shallow as the rivers of hell he must have bathed in to become so unforgiving. That she loved Diana, that there was nothing impure or unholy about it. That she regretted none of it. That Diana had taught her more about God than he could ever have hoped to. One of the sisters had silently packed her things into a suitcase that, judging by the thin layer of dust that clung to every inch of its surface, was older than the church itself. The driver, a man she dimly recognized as Mr. Anderson, did not speak to her. The car jostled over a pothole, knocking her luggage against her knees, bringing tears to her eyes. She would not cry where one of them could see her. When the car finally rolled to a stop, she thought he might say something, might tell her that she had learned her lesson and drive her home, but he opened the door without ceremony and dropped her things onto the wet sidewalk.
   —
   Sheets of rain danced around the bus stop, producing a thin stream of water that made its way down and through a crack in the glass that separated Audra from the street, pooling beneath her. She lifted her feet, holding her suitcase close. This was no home for her bruised heart, no home under the watchful eye of the Father. As the bus slowed before her, Audra steadied, taking one last breath of sharp winter air. She closed her eyes, offering whatever God was still with her a prayer. Forgive me. Forcing her foot onto the first step, she thought of Diana’s cedar-brown eyes, the spark in her laugh. No, I don’t want to be absolved of her. Audra was not ashamed of Diana, there was no forgiveness to ask for. She refused to be drawn back to the church, back to their doctrine, back to the Father who spoke with his inferno of hatred, spite, and all that her God could not condone. Enlighten the darkness in him. Amen. The doors closed behind her.

5. Simulacrum
   I’m eighteen, almost nineteen. I’m 5’9. I’m becoming a woman. My favorite color is blue. I never wear blue. I have the same birthday as Kurt Cobain. I don’t know if I have a passion. I enjoy photography. I’ve used the same Canon DSLR camera for 8 years. I have a few friends. I drive a 2000 Honda Civic DX Hatchback 2D, silver. I only speak English. My parents only speak English. I’m from Pennsylvania. I’ve never moved. I have a tendency to hoard small things, gifts, cards, trinkets. I have an iPhone, and the screen is cracked. The town I live in is dinky, small, and having a car is the only thing to do. I want to go to college. I don’t know where. I didn’t apply after graduating high school. I’ll get to it eventually.

   My eyes hurt from the light from my phone screen under my covers. It’s so silent in my room, in the house, the world feels like it’s in a standstill. My dad’s old grandfather clock chimes— once, twice, thrice. The time on my phone screen reads 2:53. The clock is off again. I’m watching the three dots on my screen move, they’ve been going for at least a minute now. Their little dance feels mocking, and I almost wish I wasn’t such a good friend. Finally a short text pops up. She’s definitely drunk, the letters on the screen seem even more slurred than speech could ever be. It’s illegible to anyone who isn’t me. THrrss.. Ontje their therei’s tron bck I dobt kn[pq when t. There’s one train back, I don’t know when… She’s saying she doesn’t know when the next time she’ll take the train back to see me. Nothing new. I click my phone off and listen to the silence around me.
   I have two parents and they love me. I have an older sister and she hates me. I have an older brother and I hate him. I work as a server at a Denny’s. I make bad money. I need an oil change and my tires rotated, probably. The pressure’s low too. I want a new job, preferably at 7/11. My best friend moved after we graduated, but she’s still my best friend. She might be more than my best friend. I’m not sure. I know she doesn’t feel the same way as I do. I tell myself I don’t care. My parents don’t want me to move out yet. When I’m bored I look for roommate postings on Craigslist. I love my bed, even though it’s probably what gives me back pain. When I wake up, I feel a deep fear in my stomach, like I’m on one of those drop tower amusement rides that make your guts experience zero gravity. That feeling doesn’t go away anymore.

   I’m white-knuckling the steering wheel as I pull off to the side of the road. I’m clenching my jaw, staring forward, I can’t blink, I can’t hear or see or feel anything. I can’t breathe. My throat is tight, everything is tingling. I’m breathing too fast. My eyes are angry, livid, filled with hate, and the rest of my face is disgusting in the rearview. I hate her so much. The heat radiating from my face is too hot, too red and distracting and suddenly my head is pressing on the horn and it’s blaring through my ears. My foot won’t move from the brake pedal. I keep willing it off but I can’t control anything. I cannot blink and there’s water drops on the vinyl seat between my legs and I hate her and I can’t move my fucking foot from this pedal. My phone flashes, my eyes shoot over and I turn my head, I scream in frustration at Mom flashing on my screen and I sob as I release the steering wheel to text her that I got home safely. My foot is still on the brake. Thank God.

   My high school career was a blur. I could never wake up to an alarm, and my dad would shake me awake every morning with just enough time to jump out of bed. I like the mountains, but I feel comforted by empty parking lots. At work, I hear about people I used to know checking into rehab, last week, a few days ago, did you hear that Amelia OD’d last night? None of the lighters I own have been bought by me. I find them on the ground a lot. My favorite lighter is hot pink. I haven’t been to church in a few months because I think I’m atheist. I like the people there, but I feel guilty being a non-believer, like I’m tainting God. I want to go explore one of the abandoned mills by the river, but I’m scared to go alone. I don’t know anyone anymore. I can’t stop picking at the skin on my left thumb. My cuticles are always bleeding and my nail polish is always chipping off. My black hoodie has some bandaids in the left pocket, but I’m wearing my brown one right now. The strings on my brown hoodie are gone. I used them for something else one time and they snapped. The broken strands are shoved somewhere deep in my closet.

   “Jealousy, turning saints into the sea, tur- swimming through… damn, this song’s so good.” I reach for a brush out of the sparse collection of makeup tools on my desk, speaker booming, small table mirror in my left hand and desk lamp making me sweat. The smokey eye tutorial on my laptop plays silently on half speed, and I’m blending my upper eyelid. It looks good, as far as I can tell. Mascara, I need mascara. Then it’s perfect. I place the blackened brush back onto the desk feeling around for my mascara tube. I touch my phone, a hair tie, a cotton ball, where’s the mascara? I stand up from my seat and scan the desk. I pick up the stack of papers and move them to my bed. I scan the desk one more time. I frown, and lift up the other brushes and palettes on the desk. I shift my attention to the floor and scan my carpet. Another hair tie, laptop charger, no mascara. I drop the brushes back onto the desk and turn in circles where I stand. “What the fuck, where did I put it. What the fuck?” I’m rifling through my desk drawers. I slam them shut when I come back empty handed. I turn to my bed, I shove the stack of papers across my mattress and search the pages, I’m throwing the papers onto the floor and ripping the comforter off my bed and the music is too loud so I turn around and slam my hand on the speaker’s power button. I’m on my knees, face pressing against the floor, looking under my bed and my dresser and all I see is dust and lonely socks and no mascara. I pick up my head and there’s a black smudge on the carpet where my face was. I stand up and look at myself in the mirror on the wall. I reach for a makeup wipe and smear the mixture of powder and tears off of my face.

   My shoe size hasn’t changed since 7th grade. I love how Converse look on me, but they squish my toes. My dad had to glue the sole back on to my favorite pair. I think I’ll start my college applications tomorrow. I said that yesterday, too. The chapstick in my back pocket is mango, but I hate that flavor now. It makes me nauseous. I love Smuckers Uncrustable sandwiches. I wish I knew how to braid my own hair. I haven’t gotten a haircut in two years. My mom tells me I look slovenly every few days. I owe the library money because I haven’t returned a book. I spend too much time online shopping. The weather’s getting colder, but I don’t like wearing winter coats because I’m always sweating so much, even when I’m freezing. My dad always insists on waiting to turn the heat on.

   I avoid her eyes.
   “Do you think you’ll be happy there? It’s so far from Scranton, you know? And I’m on the other side of the country.” She leans forward on her left forearm, makeup soft and perfect, brown eyeliner instead of black today. Her lids glitter with her movements under the shitty LED light. I remember I’m trying to avoid her eyes. “I guess it makes sense, because that school seems like your type. Liberal artsy and stuff. It would just suck never seeing each other.”
   “We never really saw each other after you moved, though.” That was harsh. Try again. “I guess I just don’t see how anything would really change since, uh, we already do a pretty good job of keeping in contact now, you know?” My arms are splayed out straight on the table between us, back hunched in an embarrassing way and my body slouching so far down in the booth that my ass isn’t even on the seat anymore. I’m looking up at her again. My eyes flit to her dangling necklace, my matching pendant tucked beneath my shirt. She sighs, looks thoughtful, and then takes a fry from the half empty basket between us. The waiter passes our table and picks up the 20 dollar bill waiting for him. “Besides, I don’t even know if I’m even applying to college yet.”
   “You’re right. I guess I just miss you. It would be so fun if you came to school in the Bay Area, it doesn’t even have to be SF State. You could meet my girlfriend, and you could find yourself one, or maybe a boyfriend or something, and we could have fun and stuff,” she takes another fry, “and then we can graduate and try to find jobs together,” she starts to trail off. “I really do miss you.” Shit.
   “I miss you too. I do.” I swallow hard. “But you’re more stupid than I thought if you seriously think I’d ever go to school in the Bay Area. Freaks, all of you. No way.” She looks at me, silently and expressionless. I hate when she does this, when it isn’t obvious what she’s thinking about, what she thinks of me. Her eyes narrow for a split second before she cracks a smile and sighs, leaning back and crossing her legs under the table. I’ve successfully broken the mood, I think.
   “You’re not funny.” She reaches into her purse next to her and pulls out a small gift bag with a letter sticking out of the top. “Open this when you’re home.” I take the bag from her hand, and we slide out of the booth as soon as the waiter places the change back on the table.

   My face in the mirror looks tired. I squeeze acne on my forehead for 10 minutes before I take showers. I wish I had money for a nose job. My screen time averages 16 hours this week. I wish I kept playing trumpet in high school. My sister hasn’t responded to my text from last month. She blocked me on Instagram after she moved out. I dread opening SnapChat. I have a 803 day streak with a boy that used to bully me in 4th grade. My brother called the house yesterday and asked my mom for 50 bucks. My parents cried once because none of their children get along. I hope Christmas is fun this year. I “forgot” to get my brother a gift, and my mom and I had a screaming match. I downloaded Tinder to get out more. It makes me want to stay in. I’m always in my bed when dinner is ready. If I go to college, who will keep this spot warm? I’m never hungry. I always want an Uncrustable. I never miss dinner. My parents are always waiting for me at the table.

   I stare at the small bag on my dresser. It’s been three days since she gave it to me, and I haven’t had the nerve to open the gift or the letter. Maggie is carefully scrawled across the envelope. I reach for it and fiddle with the tape keeping it closed. A small bit of the corner is peeling up. I fit my nail under the edge and gently pull, watching the paper and tape separate until it’s barely keeping the seal flap down before I stop. I’m destroying my bottom lip with my front teeth, a habit I thought I had kicked a few months ago. I guess not. I put the letter down on my dresser and flop into bed. I glance at my open laptop, the first few paragraphs of my college essay staring back at me, before resting my gaze back on the letter. Maybe tomorrow.

6. The waiting had become boresome. They were ready. She found herself at the clinic one morning waiting for test results. She worked in medicine and while she knew testing wasn’t a necessary means for pregnancy, there was no harm in checking. Young women shuffled in and out of the lobby, leaving with pamphlets and happy smiles. For them this was the beginning of something life changing. She was called back by the nurse and left in a room. The room was crisp and sterile and the vent above her sent chills down her spine as she sat on the covered table. The medical brochures lined the counter, Embracing Motherhood, Single Parent Handbook, You and Baby, Navigating Infertility. Infertility. The doctor had arrived and she was handed a folder of her results. The nurse walked over to the counter and grabbed a pamphlet for the doctor, Navigating Infertility. She thought it was a sick prank, a gag to make the good news that followed feel even better. But nothing followed. They spoke to her about adoption and surrogates, but she wasn’t listening. Infertile. The room had dimmed and the air seemed to have been sucked away, she was suffocating. Her cold hands gripped her purse where she had stashed the wretched papers. They guided her back to the lobby, their encouraging words floating in one ear and out the other. There was no smile on her face as she stumbled to the exit. Her body had failed her. What she wanted most, she could never have. There would never be an empty nest for her, as it had crumbled before she could even fill it.

   When she was 15, she had made up her mind. I’m never going to have kids. When she told her mother this, she laughed in her face. “You’re more nurturing than I am, you have no idea what you’re talking about, of course you’ll be a mother”. Sitting in the parking lot of the hospital, she was angered by the bigoted younger version of herself whose ignorance had now become her reality. Oh mother, how I wish you had been right.

   Driving back home, she thought back to when her husband and her had sat on the sofa wine drunk imagining the family they would make one day. A family they would now never have; not in the way she wanted. His eager eyes had stared at her as she promised him that future.

   She drove below the speed limit as the world around her flew by. When she returned to the neighborhood, she noticed the street lights flickering, fading, dying. A young bird had fallen on the sidewalk next to the light from its nest, motherless. She pulled into the driveway and scoffed at the brown lawn, their grass was the only one that refused to stay alive. The fence seemed to droop towards the street, and the window shutters hung crooked. This house is a mess. When she went inside she was chilled by the eerie silence of the house. The warmth of her home was gone. Her paintings on the walls were faded. The collection of baby trinkets in the garage that her husband and she had mindlessly collected over the years, because one day they were going to have kids. Now they were merely toys to hand out to the other women whose baby showers she’d be forced to attend. She lay back down on the sofa and bawled. Infertile. She would spend the rest of her life filling the space of her home with things she never wanted because to her, she was made to me a mother.

7. The Last Laugh

   Standing in front of the mirror, she looked as put together as she ever did. Fortunately, the dress fit her perfectly. Inside, however, she was terrified. Overthinking, was, after all, her specialty. It was the sound of laughter from the direction of the doorway that brought her back down to reality.
   “You can see it in my eyes, can’t you?”

   Her husband Matt, looking every bit the dashing doctor that he was, gave her a soft smile. “The only thing I can see in your eyes, Gigi, is joy. The one you always have when people are coming over.”

   “Something is going to go wrong; I can sense it.”

   “Grace Elizabeth Foster, nothing is going to go-”, Matt was interrupted by the doorbell. “Wrong. Everything will be fine. Just relax.”

   As Matt went to open the door and greet their guests, a sigh of resignation left her body. Yes, it wasn’t planned. But I’m happy. Maybe he was right. Matt and she had held onto this piece of information for so long now, she simply couldn’t keep it in her anymore. Maybe tonight was the night? As she walked down the hallway and heard the sound of laughter and people talking, she became calmer. After all, these people loved her. They would be excited when they heard the news.

   The smell of turkey invaded Grace’s senses. Ugh, olfactory sensitivities. Matt had said this was normal, but it bothered her. She was Grace Foster. The most ruthless lawyer at her firm. She had things to do, and nothing could stop her. But here she was, getting nauseous over the smell of turkey. Wait, who was going to bring the turkey? Oh, that was Janice. Grace hadn’t wanted a turkey for Friendsgiving this year. To be more specific, she didn’t want a turkey cooked by Janice.

   The dining table finally came into view. And there she was, again. The guts of Janice Weaver.

   “How can she flirt with my husband in my own home?”

   “Well, Gigi, I can’t answer that question, but I can give you a glass of wine.”

   Oh no. “Did I say that out loud?”

   “No, my dearest Gigi. I just have the brilliant ability to read your mind”, Andy said. Andy had been Grace’s best friend from her years at Duke. It was strange how Andy and she became friends. Andy had been a friend of Matt’s from high school, but the moment she met Grace, Andy knew she was switching allegiances: #TeamGrace was where she belonged now.

   They were a fierce group of three: Andy, Matt, and Grace. They had only become closer since graduating from Duke, especially in the past year or so, which coincided with Andy’s move back to Boston, which is where Matt and Grace were based.

   Why do we invite Janice to things? Oh right, she was Matt’s childhood friend.

   “I don’t how you do it, sissy. If I had to interact with my husband’s ex-girlfriend on a semi-regular basis, and then see her confident, but sad, attempts at flirting with him in front of me, I would lose my mind”, Grace’s sister, Marina chimed.

   Why do we not want to invite Janice to things? Oh right, she’s also Matt’s ex-girlfriend.

   Joining Grace and Andy as they saw how Matt rebuffed Janice’s attention for the millionth time, Marina added, “At least, it’s funny to see how Matt physically pries her off of himself.”

   A loud laughter left Andy’s body.

   “It’s my favorite thing to see when we’re hanging out! That, and Janice’s face when Matt leaves her to be with Grace. Priceless! I’m glad you’re getting to witness this, Marina. But Gigi, a glass of wine?”

   Oh, how I would love a glass of wine right now.

   “Thanks, Andy, but I’m good for now.” Hopefully, no one gets suspicious.

   Friendsgiving was Grace’s favorite holiday. She always hosted it, and now that she was married, Matt had become her official co-host. Grace was a self-proclaimed narcissist, and this event was her way to receive compliments and thanks, yet not feel guilty about it. Making sure everyone’s schedules were aligned was a hard job.

   Marina lives in New York, after all. I have to make sure Friendsgiving is on the one weekend she’s visiting in November and everyone else is free on that weekend.

   The list of friends invited wasn’t that long: Matt’s friend from the hospital, JP, Andy (her new ‘situationship’ Mike came too, and Grace and Matt had high hopes for this one), Marina, and Janice Weaver.

   Grace met Janice for the first time while she was still at Duke and things had started to get serious with Matt; Janice had just transferred to Duke. Long story short: Grace hadn’t liked her then; she didn’t like her now.

   Even before meeting her, Matt had always been open to Grace about the fact that he had dated Janice at the end of freshman year of high school for all of two months. Matt had broken it off as he felt they were better suited as friends. At that time, Janice had given off the impression that she had felt the same.

   However, the first time she met Janice, Grace knew: that Janice never got over Matt. This was confirmed by Andy, who also knew Janice in high school.

   “Oh, she definitely still has feelings for him. She pretended to be alright with it but was actually crushed. I’ve known both of them for years now, and if I know one thing, it’s that Janice had planned her entire future around Matt – like the fact that they’re going to have multiple babies together and she’s already decided on their names – and will stop at nothing to get it.”

   Janice’s ill feelings may have been centered initially around her jealousy towards Grace, but now, it was a full-blown competition on all levels. She wanted to one-up Grace at every possible instance and Grace, being the competitor she was, took Janice on.

   Oh, I’m going to Harvard Law. Look, Janice got into Columbia Business School.

   Congratulations on getting tenure at MIT, Janice. Oh me? I passed the New York Bar on my first attempt and was just promoted to junior partner, the youngest at my firm in the last 10 years.

   However, what cemented Grace’s hatred of Janice was her behavior at her and Matt’s wedding a little under two years ago: Who wears a white dress at someone else’s wedding? Thankfully, Andy, oh lovely Andy, had a feeling something like this would happen and forced Janice to change into the backup dress that had been brought for that reason specifically.

   Maybe it was the narcissist in her who disliked the fellow narcissist in Janice or the fact that Janice still saw Matt in a romantic light that made her hate Janice a little bit more, one thing that Grace knew was that everyone was perplexed by Janice’s behavior in social situations. For example, Janice decided to publicly announce her big summer internship with the Reserve Bank at Andy’s 21st birthday party. Oh, that day. Grace and Matt spent the entire night physically restraining Andy, to ensure she didn’t kill Janice. Needless to say, Andy has hated Janice with a passion since then.

   Breaking Grace’s thoughts, Mike asked as he and JP joined the trio of her, Andy, and Marina, “Why is Matt still even friends with her?”

   JP answered his question instantaneously, remarking, “Andy, do you remember that last game night at my house? When Mrs. Weaver somehow got my phone number, forced me to invite Janice and she actually showed up. Not even 5 minutes must have gone by.”

   “Of course, I remember! She must have been waiting nearby and the moment her mother gave her the green light, she came over”, said Andy.

   Her being Matt’s childhood friend was a reason, but this was the actual reason why she was invited, always: no one wanted to deal with Mrs. Weaver and her outrageous phone calls demanding that an invitation be extended to her daughter immediately. We don’t like Janice, but the dislike of Mrs. Weaver is much greater than that.

   As the five of them looked at the car crash that was Janice flirting with Matt, Matt had started looking increasingly uncomfortable with Janice’s advances and kept sending discrete looks towards them that screamed the words ‘help me’.

   Andy sighed. Let’s put the man out of his misery. Turning to the group, she said, “Looks like I need to rescue my husband.”

   As Andy’s heels clicked across the hall and she winced in pain, Matt glanced over to her with a smirk on his face. Yes, you were right, Matt. I shouldn’t have worn the heels with those swollen feet. Reaching the disaster site, she placed her hand around Matt’s waist. See that wedding ring, Janice, he’s mine.

   “We’re waiting for you guys to begin eating.”

   Matt, whose eyes turned brighter, for he knew that it was almost time for the secret to come out, said “Perfect timing. Let me go grab the turkey.”

   As much as she would have loved fish tacos instead, Grace had never met a fish taco she didn’t like, she forced a smile on her face and said to Janice, “It wasn’t needed, but thanks for the turkey, Janice.”

   “I know you don’t mean it, Grace-oh Matt! Let me grab that from you!”

   The turkey was taken to the table and carved, while Janice harped about her day appearance at a conference where she was a keynote speaker and usurped Grace’s moment to shine. However, as Matt’s quivering hands came into view, Grace knew something was wrong.

   Looking down at her plate, her face went green. At the same time, Grace heard a gasp from Marina’s mouth. Looking up in Matt’s direction, she saw him whispering in Andy’s ear, and deducing from sudden expression changes on Andy’s face, from an evil grin to annoyance, those words were something along the lines of ‘keep your mouth shut.’ On the other side, she could see JP trying his best to control his laughter, and Mike, poor Mike, just seemed confused and unaware of how he should react to what was on his plate.

   Everyone was shocked. How could she be so unaware? Unlike Janice, however, the rest of the people weren’t ungrateful or evil. As she harped about how great the turkey looked and ate her lovely meal of mac and cheese, green beans, and mashed potatoes, the rest of the group looked down and nudged the food around their plates. They should’ve expected a raw turkey when the vegetarian Janice offered to prepare it. Matt looked at Grace and his eyes said everything:

   “Let’s share the news to improve the mood, and then we can all eat ramen and enjoy the rest of the evening”.

   Grace had only started to speak, “Um guys, this wasn’t planned and very much a happy surprise, but…”, when Janice interrupted, “Oh Gracie, you’re so very welcome about the turkey!”

   Gracie? No one calls me Gracie!

   “Also, I’m going to my parents’ house in Cape Cod in a couple of weeks, you guys should come too!”

   As Janice harped about the house in Cape Cod and its beach view and ten thousand bedrooms, Grace sat back down, tightly clutching the knife in her hand. Her knuckles were going white. Matt held her hand, forcing her to relax. And that’s when she knew.

   I’m just going to say it. This is my evening, Janice. You’re not taking away my moment to shine from me.

   Grace looked at Matt for confirmation, and he smirked at her. Looks like you have the same idea in your mind, babe. They knew each other too well. She knew exactly what he was thinking about. He knew Grace was going to have the last laugh over Janice. Remember those kids you dreamed of having with my husband, Janice? Forget about them.

   And that’s when Grace uttered the two words that would, hopefully, shut Janice up for some time.

8. Sweet Autumn

   The charming town of Honeysuckle, Virginia—where the vibrant autumn leaves of maple trees line up the cobblestone streets, the aroma of pumpkin spice lattes lingers, and vibrant flannel sweaters adorn each passerby. It truly is sweater weather. Here lives a young woman named Emily Smith. Emily loves everything about fall, especially Halloween. She is known for her extravagant house decorations, annual scary haunted house, and elaborate costumes.

   Every year, Emily transforms her brownstone colonial house into a scary haunted house, and everyone in town is invited. But this year, Emily wants to go all out and captivate an even larger crowd, so she decides to host a masquerade party. In preparation for the event, she went to her local cafe to make a list of all the necessary supplies and decorations: from fog machines to pumpkins.

   While scrolling through Amazon and Party City, Emily overhears an unforgettable voice from her past. Nervously, she looks up, hoping to the stars that it’s not him. Her prayers fall on deaf ears when she spots his familiar figure. There he was, standing in line with his gray three-piece suit on while talking rapidly over the phone with the same deep, intense, and commanding voice. Seeing him for the first time in ten years brings back all of her bottled feelings to the surface.

   His name was Mark. Everything between them had started with a small, crumpled up note in middle school. With poor penmanship, he had asked her to check off the “girlfriend” or “not girlfriend” box; a cherry lollipop taped to the side. After sending back her answer, the two exchanged anxious glances and impatient smiles for the remainder of the class. The moment the bell rang, they beelined for one another and walked throughout the halls proudly holding hands, announcing their new relationship to the entire school. Later during their freshman year of high school, he became one of the popular football stars while Emily remained on the sidelines as a percussionist for the school’s marching band. Despite his newfound popularity, Mark always made time for her: from movies to late-night rides to dinner dates. He made her feel seen, heard, and loved. Everything between them would come crashing down one unfortunate, hot summer night of June 21, 2014, when he fucked someone else. Yet, Emily stayed. At the time, she stuck by his side. Mark was all she had had, all she had known for years, so she stayed. From that night on, the two never spoke of the infidelity, and quietly moved on with their relationship despite the broken promises and resentment. The last time the young lovers saw each other had been during senior year on the day of their graduation. The next day, he decided to go to the Big Apple for college, leaving all their plans behind and her with a shattered heart in their small town for all to see.

   While still on the phone, Mark grabs his coffee and heads to the furthest table in the cafe, pulling out his laptop from his oak Mulberry briefcase. Not believing her eyes, Emily hurriedly packs her laptop in her tote bag and heads for the door.

   The next morning Emily goes to Maple Treasure, the town’s diner, to eat her usual breakfast of pumpkin pancakes with a salted caramel cream cold brew. When Sarah, the waitress and Emily’s high school best friend, glides her plate on the counter with a teasing smile and mischievous eyes.

   “I always knew he would come back for you. You were the cutest couple in town!” squeals Sarah.

   “Shhhh, lower your voice, everyone can hear you,” says Emily as she takes a quick glance of the diner. “I didn’t know he was coming back…” she trails.

   “Yeah, his mother has been having a hard time being alone ever since her husband died, so he decided to spend the best holiday ever with her.”

   After a moment of silence, Emily begins recounting yesterday’s events,“When I saw him at the cafe, I felt a wave of emotions but I realized last night that we have two different lives and I don’t see a future with him anymore.”

   Sarah opens her mouth, but before she can say anything, the diner’s old chime rings as the door swings and she sees a familiar figure approach the counter.

   “Hey, long time no see,” a deep, resonant voice cuts through the girls’ conversation.
   Sarah’s eyes slightly widen as her brain remembers the man standing before her. The two women fall silent: one in awe at her new customer and the other in shock at the unwelcome guest.

   “Mark?! Long time’s an understatement,” she breaks through the tension; her grin and eyes curling with excitement. “Have you seen the love of your life yet?” Sarah coyly questions, nodding her chin and pointing with her eyes in Emily’s direction.

   “Love of my life?” Mark repeats, his eyes quickly scanning around the diner. Suddenly, his gaze meets Emily’s. The same smile from all those years ago breaks through his composed facade, and his arms reach out to eagerly hug the woman seated in front of him. “Emily!”

   Mark embraces the tall brunette and squeezes with a lingering sense of longing. Nervously, Emily reluctantly reciprocates, making sure her hands don’t fully touch the man she hasn’t heard a single word from in years. Sarah loudly snorts and attempts to suppress her laughs while the brunette glares daggers at her best friend rejoicing in her suffering.

   He sits next to Emily, nudges her arm, and with a chuckle says “We must catch up, what’s it been… ten years right?” Emily responds with a bland yes, but he continues on to say that he’ll be in town all weekend. Suddenly, the dull vibration of a phone ringing is heard coming from Mark’s pocket, so he gets up and leaves the diner, entirely empty handed.

   The next day, Emily walks down every aisle in the store looking for some last minute items. The store is decorated from top to bottom in lights, pumpkins, spider-webs, and tree branches with reddish orange leaves hanging from the ceiling. As Emily stops at her final aisle, she reaches for her favorite wine before she spots something or someone from the corner of eye. As she turns her head slightly, Emily catches Mark staring at her. Startled, she jumps back and drops the bottle of wine on the floor, shards of glass and red fluid scattering across the aisle floor. Quickly, Mark walks over to see the mess.

   “Oh no, I didn’t mean to scare you. Are you okay?” Mark worriedly apologizes.

   Annoyed, Emily dismisses him by curtly stating, “No, you didn’t scare me. It’s all ok.”

   As she carefully steps beside the glass to search for help from one of the store’s workers, Mark’s hand closes in on her wrist, gently tugging Emily’s body back and stopping her from leaving.

   “Are you sure everything’s okay? You never reached out to me…” Mark questions her.

   “Well, I have been busy preparing for the party and making sure everything is perfect so everyone can have a good time. Anyways, I really have to get going. I have a couple more errands left on my to-do list, so I have to go,” Emily forces her hand out of Mark’s hold, and leaves before he can say anything, leaving him standing there stunned.

   It’s the day of the party and the house is finally done. The white beams of the colonial house are covered in spider-webs, pumpkins on the steps, bats stuck on the door and windows, ghosts and zombies on the lawn, and skeletons on the roof.

   Emily slowly descends down the stairs in her blue flowy ball gown embroidered with butterflies while wearing a leather blue-green butterfly mask and opens the French double doors to her living room. Everyone is dressed in their finest gowns and suits as they admire the “Phantom of the Opera” themed decorations. Emily walks through the crowd, making sure all of her guests are eating, drinking, and having a great time, unaware that someone is looking for her, circling the party multiple times. Finally, Emily stops at the desert table, inspecting her next possible snack. The table is completely filled with tiny apple pies, pumpkin cheesecake, white chocolate cookies, and pecan pie bars accompanied by fall themed flavored seltzers.

   “There you are! I have been looking for you everywhere,” a hand grasps Emily’s shoulder and turns her only to come face-to-face with Mark.

   “Hey, I’ve been busy hosting and making sure everything is running smoothly,” she manages out, recollecting herself after his sudden encroachment on her personal space.

   “Everything looks perfect. You did an amazing job! Say, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something. You have a minute to talk with me outside?”

   Emily blankly stares at him and says “No, I’m ok. I want to enjoy the food and mingle with my guests.”

   Mark’s eyes glint in desperation as he adamantly begs, “Come on, I really need to talk to you. I want to apologize. Please?!” Hesitantly, Emily goes outside with him, interested in hearing his apology.

   Outside in her backyard, Mark takes her hands and looks deep into her eyes, “ I am sorry about everything that happened ten years ago. I didn’t mean to leave you without saying something, but it would’ve made it difficult for the both of us if I saw you before I left. I hope that after all this time you don’t hold any anger or resentment towards me.”

   Not believing her ears, Emily with a firm voice tells Mark, “Like you said, it’s been ten years and truthfully it was very hard at first. But I have moved on and made a life for myself, so I have no negative feelings towards you. I have no feelings towards you. Period.”

   Mark takes a deep breath, surprised to hear that she has completely moved on, and says with a wicked smirk and his hand caressing her arm “Well I am back… so what if we have a fun night together.”

   Before Emily can turn him down, a tall blonde in a short red dress walks toward them and says, “There you are sweetheart! What’s going on over here?”

   Mark’s mouth falls open and Emily’s eyebrows are knitted in confusion. The blonde woman puts her arm through Mark’s arm and Emily’s eyes diverge to the big shiny stone on her ring finger. Mark gulps loudly then says “Honey, what are you doing here?”

   “Well your mother called me and said that you miss me, so I decided to come join you and see your quaint town.”

   “Oh, that’s great.” His voice breaking up.

   “So, aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend, honey?” Mark’s wife questions with a slight defensive tone in her voice.

   “Of course, sweetheart this is Emily, my… friend from high school, and Emily this is Aria, my wife.”

   All Emily can think about is how he’s the same cheating liar he always was and hopes that his wife saw everything. “It’s nice meeting you. I’m gonna go back inside that way you guys have some alone time.” Emily walks away and as she reaches the door she can hear the tension building between Aria and Mark.

   Next morning, Emily heads to the bakery to get her favorite fall treat, pumpkin bread with cinnamon. As she enters, she sees Mark sitting down with a gloomy expression and a right black eye, with a huge stack of papers on the table. When she passes him to get in line, she sees ‘irreconcilable differences’ in big black letters.

   Emily packs the loaf of pumpkin bread in her tote bag with unhurried ease. Heading towards the door, sunlight illuminating her face, happily drinking an apple cider.