Home > Come What May(3)

Come What May(3)
Author: L.K. Farlow

The bells over the door tinkle, saving me from having to reply.

“Oh, good, you’re here,” Myla Rose says, hopping up from the chair next to me to go to her husband.

“Glad to see you, too, darlin’,” Cash says, wrapping his muscled arms around her. He holds her to his chest with his face pressed into the space between her neck and shoulder. It’s such a tender moment that it makes my heart ache a little more, knowing there’s no one out there to hold me like that.

After he releases her, Cash turns to me. “I’m sorry for your loss, Seraphine. Dave’ll be missed.”

“Thanks,” is all I can squeak out without breaking down again.

“Why don’t we get you home?” Cash holds his hand out, presumably for my keys, which I pass him. He pockets them and extends his arm down again. I stare at it dumbly before Azalea clues me in.

“He’s trying to help you up, girl.”

“Oh.” I feel my cheeks heat to nuclear levels.

I place my hand in his, and he hauls me to standing with ease. And, the gentleman that he is, Cash walks us out to Bertha, Myla’s mint-green Land Cruiser. He opens the passenger door for me before walking his wife around to the driver’s side.

He presses his lips to hers in a completely-indecent-for-public kiss, breaking it only when a random catcall from across the street rings out. “I love you, darlin’. I’ll follow behind.”

“Love you, too,” she replies breathlessly as she joins me in the cab.

A wistful sigh escapes me as she cranks the engine. I hope the sound of the crankshaft turning and the pistons firing is enough to cover it, but luck’s not on my side.

“What’s the sigh for?”

“I don’t know. Nothing… everything?” I shrug and rest my head against the cool glass of the window.

“Talk to me, Seraphine. It’s not healthy to hold it all in.”

“It’s just… between the salon and taking care of Dad, I never really dated or anything. When Dad was healthy, the boys were all scared of him, and when he started getting ill, I just didn’t have the time for it. And now, it’s just… me.”

God, could I sound any more pathetic?

“I’m gonna give you a little tough love, ‘kay?”

“Sure.”

“I was your age when I got pregnant with Brody. I was single and alone and scared shitless. I remember sobbing when I saw those two pink lines. And then I did what Grams would’ve told me to do—I put on my big girl panties, pulled myself up by my bootstraps, and dealt with it.”

“I remember.” I roll my head against the back of the seat to look at her. “But what does that have to do with me?”

“You need to pull yourself up, sister. I know your daddy’s death is fresh and that you’re hurting something fierce. I get it—I do. But I also know Dave wouldn’t want to see you like this.”

I turn back to the window, not wanting to hear her, even though she’s right. If Dad was here, he wouldn’t hesitate to tell me what an idiot I was being.

“Look, I know you don’t wanna hear this. You’re hurting and angry, and you have every right to be.” She turns into my driveway and throws Bertha into park. “But you need to hear it all the same. It is okay to grieve, to mourn, to miss him. It is not okay to throw your life away. You said it yourself at his funeral, that your daddy always said ‘it’s what you do while you’re alive that matters.’ Well, Seraphine, you’re still alive—act like it.”

In my heart of hearts, I know she is right and speaking from a place of love. Unfortunately, my brain and heart aren’t on the same page. “Thanks for the ride.”

She sighs. “You’re welcome. Take the week off and we’ll go from there.”

“Sure thing.” I unbuckle and throw open the door. “Bye.”

Myla Rose gives me a long, sad look before backing out of the driveway so Cash can park my car. He drops my keys into my waiting hand before climbing into his wife’s car.

They don’t drive away until I’m safely inside, alone once again.

 

 

Chapter Two

 

 

Seraphine

 

 

“Five.” The pungent liquid splashes into my mouth, but I no longer taste it.

“Six.” Another glug brings me that much closer to sweet oblivion.

“Seven.” A bead of amber liquid drips down my chin with my final swallow—one for each day that’s passed since they lowered my dad’s body into the ground.

Once Dad’s beer ran out, I started in on the liquor cabinet. Whatever’s in this bottle—I didn’t even bother to look—makes the beer seem like water. This is my first taste of straight-up alcohol; the first sip had me coughing and sputtering with tears in my eyes. But now, the bottle’s nearly empty, my taste buds are numb, and I’m all cried out.

A painful mash-up of past memories and future wishes race through my foggy mind, out of control, swirling like angry white-water rapids.

I sink farther into the couch as wave after wave of should-haves crash over me. My dad should have lived long enough to see me married. He should have had a whole gaggle of grandbabies to call him Papa. He should have just… been here—too bad all of these should-haves were stolen from me with a mouthful of pills.

My eyelids droop as I give up fighting the current of my thoughts. I’m nearly down for the night when my phone starts vibrating in my back pocket with a notification. I’m half tempted to ignore it—but I don’t.

Lord knows, if it’s one of the girls from the salon, and I ignore them, they’ll call in the calvary to deal with me. I’ve done my best to avoid the concerned trio—evading them with texts full of emojis that hopefully mask the self-destructive path I’m on.

Truly, I’m a mess. A sad, sloppy, angry mess.

Lucky for me, it’s no one. Just a calendar notification. I move to swipe it away, but draw up short at the words on the screen.

No… surely not. I squint and move my phone closer to make sure I’m reading it right.

“Fuck, how could I…” I mumble to myself as I try to sit upright. Clumsily, I double-check the date. But my phone is right. The fair starts tonight, and for the past eighteen years, Dad and I have gone to the opening night.

It’s our little tradition. We’d walk the block to the fairground, kick off the night with a corn dog, ride all of the rides, and end it with cotton candy.

Before I can think better of it, I’m up from the couch, shoving my feet into the first shoes I see, and stumbling out the door.

Looks like tonight, I’ll be carrying out our tradition on my own.

 

 

The lights and sounds of the fair wrap around me, the familiarity a much-needed comfort. Even the smells—fried food, cow manure, and bad decisions—put me a little more at ease.

I wander around, taking it all in before finding the courage to kick off the first of what will surely be my new normal—aloneness.

On unsteady feet, with my newly acquired foot-long corn dog in hand, I make my way over to the small food tent. I claim a rickety plastic table and dig in, ready to make the best of things, except the golden-fried goodness tastes like ash in my mouth without Dad here to enjoy it with me.

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