“Are you all right?” He spoke with a distinctly Welsh accent.
I started to laugh. One of those I’m coming unhinged sorts of sounds. I could only imagine what I looked like to him.
If I’d been Mr. Blue-eyes, I would have slowly backed away before turning tail and running for the nearest door in case the hysterical Buick driver went full-on looney tunes in the parking lot. But he simply waited for me to simmer down and respond like a human being.
I wiped away the tears along with a good portion of my eyeliner with the sleeve of my coat. “No, actually. I’m having a really terrible day and now my car won’t start.”
“Do you need me to call a tow truck?” the stranger offered.
I shook my head. “Not yet.”
He dug around in his coat. “If you need a phone—”
But I held up a hand and tried to explain. “It isn’t that. My ex owns the only tow truck in town.”
“Ah, sorry to hear that.” He flashed me a dazzling white smile that held a hint of something predatory. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“You don’t have the power to go back in time, do you?” I glowered at my wrist.
Instead of giving me the odd look my comment warranted, he crouched down beside the car. “And what if I did? Where would you go if you could travel through time?”
I leaned my head back against the seat. “October 3, 1996.”
He quirked a brow. “That’s…oddly specific.”
“It’s the day that changed my whole life.” For the worse.
“Robin?” A twenty-something woman with perfect platinum blonde hair that hung midway down her back called.
I eyeballed the woman and then the guy crouched beside me. “She’s a little young for you, isn’t she?”
He tilted his head to the side. “You have no idea. But, it’s not like that. I’m doing some work for her.”
I held up a hand. “Then I really don’t want to hear about it.”
He laughed and then got back up, fished in his back pocket, and handed me a card. Robin Goodfellow, it read. That was all, just his name. Huh, why did that sound familiar? I was positive I hadn’t seen him before. He was worth remembering.
The corner of his mouth hiked up and he nodded to the card. “That’s good for three wishes if we can strike a deal.”
I snorted, “You’re a comedian.”
His grin was infectious. “No, a fae prince. You ever want to bargain, give me a shout.”
I watched him back away before my mind could comprehend another question.
He gave me a two-fingered salute and then escorted the blonde into the restaurant.
“What the hell was that?” I grumbled and then dialed the dreaded ex.
When I’d told Robin Goodfellow that my ex drove the only tow truck in town, he probably hadn’t pictured the elegantly dressed person sitting beside me.
Red nails tipped with gold sunbursts tapped against the steering wheel. “How have you been, Joey?”
I raised an eyebrow that was nowhere near as sculpted as my companion’s. “Fine. And you…Georgia?”
Georgia—who had once been George, the human being who had promised to love, honor, and cherish me ‘til death us do part, shrugged easily. As though this situation wasn’t awkward as all get-out. “Can’t complain. How’s your mom?”
“Good. She’s taken up sculpting.” I didn’t mention that all of mom’s creations looked like penises. Not intentionally, I was sure. Mom was a dyed-in-the-wool feminist who had recently decided to express her creativity. I wasn’t entirely sure that she had much creativity to express, hence the phallus factory. But it still seemed insensitive somehow to bring that up to Georgia.
“Sculpting. Huh. Wouldn’t have thought that was her passion.” The tow truck turned onto the gravel hill that dead-ended at my mother’s Victorian.
“Mostly her passion is reserved for Wine Wednesdays.”
“I hear that.” Georgia laughed and I had to look away because it was so similar and yet so different from George’s husky chuckle.
“I’ve missed hanging out with you, Joey.” Georgia parked and then turned to face me. “Maybe we could get together some time?”
“Sure,” I said but didn’t mean it. We both knew it, too. I didn’t want to hang out with Georgia, mostly because being with her reminded me of George. Who she wasn’t. Not anymore. It was weird, like being a widow, even though my ex still lived and breathed and was kind to me and had better eyebrows. Better boobs too, because they would never fall down around her naval. I was happy for Georgia and a little bit in awe of her for fighting so hard to find her happiness.
Even if our marriage was collateral damage.
But all the dreams I had of us living happily ever after had gone up in a puff of smoke. And being with her reminded me how foolishly naive I had been. It was one thing to support transmen and transwomen. Right was right. Yet the part no one talked about was the discarded life that he or she had outgrown and slithered away from like an old snakeskin. That’s how I felt when I was with Georgia—dry, brittle, and left on the side of the road to flake away to nothing.
And on that pleasant thought, I decided to make a graceful exit by popping the door and pasting on a faux pleasant smile. “How much do I owe you?”
Georgia waved it off. “No worries, Joey. I’ve got your back.”
My smile turned genuine. “Thanks for that. I’ll see you around.”
No avoiding it in a mountain town the size of a flea circus. I wish I could afford to move. Then again, where would I go?
Slithering down to the curb, I picked my way past patches of melting snow, only turning to watch the tow truck and my mother’s car disappear around the bend in the road. I strode up to the crumbling Victorian which had been my home since birth.
It, like me, had seen better days. The porch was starting to sag, the paint on the white gingerbread trim was peeling and most of the seals had failed in the stained-glass windows. Dented and dinged, it had always been there for me in my hour of need, a constant in a life full of variables.
I picked my way across the cracked and icy concrete and clomped up the steps, dislodging residual snow from my boots. The door was unlocked, which was usual during the days. In summer when the humidity hung in the air the door would be wide open, the battered screen pulled across to let in whatever breeze the mountain saw fit to give us.
After hanging my coat and shoulder bag on the coatrack that stood in a nook by the foot of the curving stairwell, I traipsed down past the living room and kitchen and around the corner to what had once been the conservatory. The door to mom’s art studio was closed, the glass blocks long ago painted an opaque crimson. Music spilled from the speakers. Frankie Valli singing about how he couldn’t take his eyes off some random broad who was just too good to be true. I shook my head and headed into the kitchen where the coffee pot never actually went off to grab myself a mug of comfort.
My favorite mug from the 1996 Olympic Games in Atlanta was in the dishwasher. I surveyed the other options and then decided that none would suffice. Not when I’d been fired and had to figure out some way to pay for mom’s car repair.