When I got to the house and came in the front door, Shayla was sprawled on the couch watching TV. She hit pause on the remote, turned and looked at my sweaty, red face, and said, “It just gets worse every day, doesn’t it? At least you’re not covered in dirt this time.”
“Dating a celebrity is ultra glamorous.”
“Come.” She pulled herself upright and patted the sofa next to her. “Chantalle phoned me tonight. She asked me how you got the job being a personal assistant for Dalton Deangelo.”
I slumped into the soft cushions next to her, feeling every ounce of myself, every frizzy yellow hair on my head, and every little pimple.
“That little cunt,” I said.
“Wow, Peaches. Why don’t you tell us how you really feel?”
“I’m sorry. I know you always liked her, but she puts me down.”
“It’s your fault for being offended at her ignorance. She doesn’t know what she’s saying, and she doesn’t mean anything by it.”
“Right.” I crossed my arms and turned to the frozen TV screen. “What are we watching?”
“Don’t you want to tell me why you burst in here like bears were chasing you?”
I looked over at my best friend, assessing her mood. She smelled of cigarette smoke, and there was an empty cookie bag and an empty chip bag on the coffee table, as well as a half-empty bottle of Mountain Dew on the floor next to her. Oh, she was in no mood for my problems. If I had to guess, she’d had more trouble with her boss at the restaurant. He was married, and she should have known better, but apparently he was a smooth talker, and things always just happened.
I didn’t need to hear about her frustrations, and she was likely in no mood to hear about mine. And what was my problem, anyway? A really cute guy enjoyed spending time with me and getting close to me. He made me want to tell him my secrets. I wanted to lean on him. I wanted to love him. But that would only lead to pain, because as soon as his movie ended, he’d leave town, taking the Airstream trailer and a piece of my heart. He’d probably feel good about it, too. He could draw on the experience for future acting roles.
Well, forget him.
“This looks good,” I said, and I pressed the play button on the remote control. Over the audio of the reality TV show about a family bakery, I said, “Raccoons. I worked late, got some food at DeNirro’s, and I ran into some raccoons on the walk home.”
“They’re totally adorable, with their little raccoon hands, and you’re nuts.”
“I agree. I am nuts.”
Shayla grunted and reached for the Mountain Dew. She took a swig and handed the bottle to me.
“Thanks,” I said, and we watched TV until both of us fell asleep right there on the couch.
~
Wednesday.
The flowers from the day before were opening.
I stared at the lush peonies and tried to escape the thought I was a flower myself, and Dalton Deangelo’s attention was the sunshine trying to light my darkness.
No wonder I’d run from his motel room the night before. If I’d stayed, he would have kept at me, with his kind words and soft touch, and I would have been a blathering idiot before midnight. Telling him how stupid I can be. Having him look at me with pity… curiosity… disgust.
The flowers were heavy on one side, and as they opened, they drooped, taking up more of the limited counter space in the narrow bookstore. Their sweet perfume hung in the air, tricking me into thinking a well-dressed older lady was there with me.
One thing that always makes me smile is seeing a lady in her eighties, decked out in tons of accessories, all perfectly matched to the colors in her impeccable clothes. Our generation is just not into the matchy-matchy look.
Beaverdale attracts a number of wealthy retirees looking to soak up small town life. They’re so adorable when they first arrive, the ladies clapping their hands and declaring everything “so quaint,” and the men leaning in to confide to their wives, “That same exact lamp/house/pizza would cost twice as much back home.”
I never understood how people from all over America would even hear about little Beaverdale, much less get the idea to retire here, until we started carrying a few magazines at Peachtree Books, and I discovered there are several periodicals dedicated to small town life.
Last summer, one of them ran a story titled Beavers & Passports, all about life in The Beav. They quoted a local as saying Beaverdale’s “so far off the map, you need a passport.”
Our mayor, Stephen Monroe (Uncle Steve to me), capitalized on this, and along with the Beaverdale Chamber of Commerce, they printed up a couple thousand fake passports and encouraged people through the Visitor Center (next to the library) to visit all the sights in town and get their passport stamped.
I designed our Peachtree Books stamp myself, and I stayed within the limitations mandated by City Hall, keeping it within one inch by one inch.
Those sneaky buggers over at Black Sheep Books made their stamp one and one-quarter inch in diameter, and argued that because it was round, it was taking up no more area than our square stamp. Never mind the fact that other businesses kept their stamps within the one inch diameter. Oh, no. The rules simply didn’t apply to Black Sheep Books, because they were “creative thinkers,” and perhaps the rest of the town would benefit from their many, many innovations, such as their Borrow-A-Bike program that never really took off, on account of the yellow bicycles being too attractive as souvenirs.
Not only did their stamp exceed the size limit, but Black Sheep Books didn’t take care when stamping passports, and their heavy black ink often overlapped the more artistic stamps, such as our peach-hued stamp.
I’m getting myself all worked up. I’m sorry. I really shouldn’t get started talking about those sheep-fuckers.*
*When not in polite company, I do call them sheep-fuckers. Feel free to do the same yourself, just not around children.
So, Wednesday.
I pulled a big, plump peony from the bouquet and played a very long game of He-Loves-Me-He-Loves-Me-Not with the petals.
Carter, our delivery guy, came in the door whistling. “Ten boxes!” he said to announce what he was bringing in.
“Awesomesauce.”
He stopped and leaned over my pile of pink petals. “You making potpourri?”
I stared up at his big, blue eyes, framed by orange-blond, nearly-translucent lashes. “Who taught you that word, Carter?”
He put his elbows on the counter and leaned down so his eyes were at my level. I tease Carter about being a ginger, like my father, as they both have the same red hair that curls into ringlets unless it’s cut short.