“Which one of these dresses do you want to take on our trip?” Vale emerged from the walk-in closet, tall and willowy, with pale white skin and bicolored hair, half the color of snow, half the color of midnight. Thick dark slashes rimmed her hazel eyes; the tattooed liner gave her a perma-smoky look and the best Resting Bitch Face ever.
In one hand, Vale held a red dress with more cutouts than material. In the other hand, she held a conservative black dress usually wore to funerals. “The one that says my body is a wonderland, and there’s a price for admission,” she said. “Or the one that says come near me, and I’ll remove your testicles with the power of my mind.”
Nola chuckled. “You’ve met me, right? Wonderland. Obvi.” Once upon a time, she’d longed to fall in love and become someone’s wonderland. She’d had crushes, she’d flirted and she’d dated. For some reason, she’d vomited every time she’d tried to be intimate. Ultimately, she’d given up on love, relationships and romance, instead focusing on getting healthy and making money for her trip.
Well, she’d mostly given up on love. A few years ago, she’d started dreaming about a gorgeous man with golden everything, and the muscle mass of a hulk. No other man had ever measured up.
A breathy sigh escaped. Her golden god never called her the “Asian chick” or “the living sex doll, Korean edition.” He never lied to her, or stole money from her purse. He only ever referred to her as “princess,” and asked—demanded—she find him in Russia. The Khibiny Mountains, to be exact. His presence had become a nightly comfort, and dang if she wasn’t halfway in like with him already. Maybe because he wasn’t real, so he would never die?
Her parents—dead. Her favorite doctor—dead. Carrie, the world’s greatest foster mom in history—dead. Other foster moms and dads, foster siblings, caseworkers, friends had died metaphorically, leaving her in their dust. So far, Vale was the only exception.
“Excellent choice.” Vale gave her a thumbs-up. “Carrie didn’t raise a fool.”
With a wink and a grin, Nola said, “But if she did, it’d be you.”
Vale snorted. “You are such a meme queen. Just be sure to carry wet wipes in your purse, in case people drool on you when they see you in the dress.”
“In case? Please,” she retorted, playing along. “It’s as good as done.”
“Ohhh. I like this confident side of you. Sick or not, you are a prize among prizes.”
Was she, though? What did she have to offer? A house filled of “treasures” she’d hoarded—pretty glass shards, buttons and coins she’d found in the street; junk to anyone else. A mountain of medical bills. Refusal to ever have children and pass on this terrible disease. An inability to leave her bed for long periods of time. Any man she loved would ultimately become a caregiver and have to bathe and change her in bed. No, thanks.
But she kept her lips zipped, camouflaging her inner pain. Vale battled too many burdens already and didn’t need to worry about Nola’s mental health, too.
“You know, a trial reveals a person’s true character,” Vale said as she strode back into the closet. After insisting Nola conserve her strength, she’d started packing for both of them. “Before you invested too much time and energy into a relationship, you discovered just how badly a potential love interest sucked. That’s priceless intel, baby.”
Well, Vale wasn’t wrong. Whenever Nola had decided to ignore the initial onset of nausea and forge ahead with a guy, he’d either treated her like spun glass sure to break, or worse, like a hypochondriac who’d exaggerated her symptoms for sympathy. The last guy had even made her doubt herself. And she couldn’t not tell a man about her array of health problems; he had a right to know what he was getting into.
“You think everyone sucks,” she reminded her sister.
“Yeah. Because I’m, like, supersmart.”
True. “Well, onward and upward for us both.” When they returned from vacation, they planned to buckle down and open a gourmet donut shop as fifty-fifty partners. Vale would do the paperwork and interact with suppliers; Nola would bake and interact with customers.
Baking wasn’t her great passion—what was?—but she had a major talent for it, thanks to Carrie. Plus, she’d happily do anything with Vale.
—Where are you, princess? Come. Find me.—
Nola jolted. The deep, husky voice belonged to her golden god, and doubled as a sexual caress. But how the heck had a dream man spoken inside her head while she was awake?
Was he a delusion caused by her plethora of medications, maybe? But which one(s)? And why now? Nothing new had been added to her regime.
She should probably call her doctor. Okay, she should definitely call, and she would. Upon her return. He’d tell her to cancel the trip—again.
No way, no how.
First, she and Vale planned to visit Jukkasjärvi, Sweden, to tour ice castles, go dog sledding and view the northern lights. Then, they’d travel to Russia to get their hike on.
Nola’s heart rate spiked. She didn’t know why she felt like she had to get to Russia, just because a dream man commanded it; she only knew the need never faded, only ever grew.
So badly, she wanted to discuss the golden god with Vale. But, whenever she tried, something odd happened. The words died on her tongue—literally!—and she experienced selective mutism.
An internal warning? Maybe. Or maybe it was some sort of undiagnosed mental disorder. Either way, the golden god’s nocturnal existence remained a secret, a sense of urgency growing. Hurry! Must get there.
Tomorrow, no matter how bad she felt, she would board the plane and hide her pain; Vale would never know, would never suggest they put their plans on hold until she felt better.
Bottom line: nothing would stop Nola. She’d scrimped, scraped and saved every extra penny, forgoing college while working two jobs, even when pain and fatigue plagued her.
For job number one, she sold baked goods to employees around town. For job two, she wrote a how-to column, dishing out romantic advice for Oklahoma Love Match. Oh, the irony.
Crap! “I forgot to write this week’s article.”
“Chuck it in the fuck it bucket,” Vale called. “The time for work is over, and the time for play has come.”
If only she could chuck it. “I promised my boss I wouldn’t leave him high and dry, so I’ve got to draft something up.” Call her old-fashioned, but Nola believed your word was your bond. When she made a promise, she kept it, always.
“What’s this one about?”
“How to win any man you desire.” Her boss always picked the subject matter, and Nola usually had fun researching the answer.