Mr. and Mrs. Howard know they can’t compete with online shopping, which is why our hours have been steadily scaling back and they finally sold their beloved Homer-Simpson-as-Elvis statue, who’s been greeting customers in the doorway since 1997. They’re so kindhearted that they can’t bear to down-size the staff, even though two of us could easily be running the Junk Yard for them instead of five.
There’s barely enough work to go around for everybody, and we’re all desperate for more hours. The phrase last to be hired, first to be fired follows me around like the Ghost of Christmas Future.
“The store’s on the brink of collapse,” Nicholas says flippantly, waving his hand. “Won’t affect you, Naomi. You’ll be fine.”
Brandy makes a strangled sound. “What do you mean, it won’t affect her? Naomi loves the Junk Yard.”
Nicholas says nothing, just taps his cards into a neat stack. It’s the last straw.
“If the Junk Yard closes, I might ask the Howards if they’ll hire me to work at their diner.” Mr. and Mrs. Howard run a year-round haunted house up in Tenmouth as well as a diner for strange foods inspired by horror films, called Eaten Alive.
Everyone stares at me. The vein in Nicholas’s forehead pulses. “Isn’t that a long drive from here?”
It’s perfect timing that I get to roll the die while I dramatically say, “Two hours.”
His voice is deadpan. “You’d drive two hours to go to work. At a diner. Then two hours back home, every day.”
“Mm.” I pretend to consider. “If I move to Tenmouth, it would only be a five-minute drive. I could ride my bicycle, even.”
I’ve captured the whole room, and it’s magnificent. A sparkle of the old Naomi Westfield appears, blowing off ten months’ worth of dust. At least, I think it’s her. It’s been so long since that Naomi and I have been in the same room together that I’m not sure I’d recognize her if we passed each other on the street.
My minuscule Mrs. White is in the library now next to Leon’s Mr. Green, ready to accuse someone of murder. She’s got a length of rope, and I pick over my options to see who I’m going to hang with it.
My eyes fall upon the pompous little fucker loitering in the billiard room.
Bingo. Professor Plum.
This Professor Plum is a particularly hypocritical incarnation who warns children away from sugary snacks while letting Skittles pool all over his side of the bed on a nightly basis. He’s a villain escaped from Candy Land. He’s the thief of my joy and future father of my children. Right now I love him twenty percent.
Nicholas’s tone is frozen solid. “My life is here. I’m not moving to Tenmouth and giving up my life for you to serve grilled cheese to truckers, Naomi.”
When he calls me Naomi, he definitely means Mrs. Nicholas. The diamond on my left hand is too tight, cutting off my circulation. The twenty percent shrinks to a ten, an all-time low that trips my self-preservation sirens. They’re flashing and spinning, Red alert! Red alert!
“I want to make an accusation,” I say at the precise moment he says with smooth authority, “I think we should call it a night.” But my guess might end the game, so he waits and listens.
I draw it out, just to antagonize him. He hates when I let two ends of a sentence drift apart. “I accuse …”
Nicholas leans forward.
I pick up his game piece and float him over to the library. He’ll like it there, where he can stock shelves with books about brushing your teeth in circular motions instead of from side to side. “Professor Plum.”
Brandy gasps. Melissa scribbles furiously on her detective notepad. Zach’s eyes glint with malevolent joy. Nicholas just looks annoyed. But Leon, I see, is smiling. Just barely, but enough that when my eyes rest on him, he gives me an interesting look.
It says So this is where you’ve been.
In a strong, bold voice, I march on: “I accuse Professor Plum of murder! He did it in the library, like a pretentious asswit, and he used the candlestick.” I know it’s not the candlestick because I’ve got that card myself, but I throw it in there anyway because: “It’s the stupidest possible weapon.”
Nicholas stares deeply into my eyes for an eternal spiral of time, and it’s entirely possible that we are going to break up over a board game, which would be a hell of a way to go out. His mother’s going to have a bonanza getting all her deposits back. The opportunity to call up small-business owners and yell that they’d better not charge her for an ice sculpture of roses will be the cherry on top of her year.
“Go on, then.” His eyes don’t leave mine as he jerks his chin to the center of the board. I realize that I’ve fallen asleep on the color of Nicholas’s eyes, which for whatever reason I’ve been thinking are gray. Up close, fierce with challenge, they’re every color of the rainbow.
Oblivious that I’m having an epiphany, he glares and his irises darken from pale silver to forest green like a mood ring. “Check the cards.”
I do so as slowly and theatrically as possible, warming up to the old Naomi. He wants so badly to knock over his Professor Plum figurine and cross his arms, but he’s trying to remain civilized. Dentists already have a bad reputation with phobics and he can’t afford any more negative press, even among the crawling maggots of Junk Yard personnel.
I check the cards and let out a hiss. Zach looks at me knowingly.
Mrs. White, in the kitchen, with the rope. “Well, wouldn’t you know it! Looks like I’m the murderer,” I say cheerfully. “Didn’t think I had it in me.” Nicholas casts me a distrusting look. I think he’s going to be sleeping with one eye open tonight.
The worst part about this whole evening is how quickly Nicholas forgets it.
We’re at home now, where I’m still irritated and he isn’t. The man is baking cookies, and he’s promised to wash up all the dishes, and now I have nowhere to point my anger because he’s Over It, which means he’s won.
He offers me a spatula to lick, which I refuse because maybe his trick is to use salmonella to kill me, and he plants a sloppy kiss on my hair and breaks away smiling down at me like I’m an innocent child.
He knows I can’t argue with him now, because if I dredge up anything negative I’ll look petty. So I stay in my well-worn position on the sofa (far right), where I’ve logged a thousand hours pretending to watch television and pretending to listen to Nicholas and pretending to be happy.
I snap a picture of him with his back turned to me and post it to my Instagram with a rosy filter. I caption it with three hearts and Game night with my love! No better way to cap off an awesome day, and there’s no one else I’d rather spend it with. xoxo. #LivinTheLife #MarryingMyBestFriend #TrueLovesKissFromARose
#TrueLovesKissFromARose is our wedding hashtag and if you look it up on Pinterest you’ll find one million pictures of bouquets, table settings, and bridesmaid dresses that I like (but am not allowed to have). Dopamine trickles in with the first response to my post: omg you guys are so cute; but the plush, pillowy feeling grinds down to metal on metal when Zach replies with lmao. yeah right. I delete his comment.
It’s my own fault that I’m still in this mess, and I know it. I’m the biggest coward I’ve ever met. I’m doing neither of us a favor by refusing to back out. If Nicholas had half a brain he’d be calling it off, too, so maybe we’re locked in some silent draw, waiting to see who bows out first.