Sample pages from my books!

     I picked up a beautiful tangerine colored dress to display it for the thumbs up or thumbs down and felt a blast of cool air on the back of my neck. The cool air turned into a buzz in my head and the left side of my vision got dark. What the heck? Was I getting a migraine? Having a stroke?

     I struggled to keep focused on the bedroom in front of me but was overwhelmed by a series of images, like I had fallen into a dream. A small dance floor, under the stars, twinkle lights strung overhead, white linen covered tables nearby. Flowers everywhere, people standing around the dance floor clapping and smiling. A giggling Joanna wearing the tangerine dress stared happily into the eyes of a slim gray-haired man as they danced.

     I’ve always been intuitive but had never experienced a sudden scene like the one flashing through my head. It felt foreign and intrusive and as if it was flowing out of the dress. I dropped the dress and the images faded but the man stuck around. I felt horrifyingly disoriented, as if I had time traveled, and body traveled. I couldn’t shake the feeling I had just been looking through the eyes of a gray-haired man, staring at Joanna at another point in time.

     Up until now my intuitiveness did not involve such clear scenes or other people. It was more that a thought would come into my head and I’d say it without thinking, like when I was six and told my mother not to worry, the baby was ready to come now. She stared at me with watery eyes, and not long after joyfully told me I was going to have a little brother or sister. Or the time I screamed ‘wait!’ at a green light only to see a huge tractor trailer come screaming through the intersection right where our car would have been. 

     Those had always just seemed like hunches. Channeling a person was completely new, if that’s what this was.

     “Izzy?” said Joanna. I must have looked like a zombie, standing still and staring into space. 

      “Izzy?” said Lauren, right beside me now.

     “Oh, uh, yeah, nice dress,” I said pointing at it. I was afraid to touch it again.

     Joanna picked up the dress and beamed. “This was actually my wedding dress. I did the whole white dress thing in my first marriage. Thomas and I were both so happy to find love again we decided to throw out all the boring traditions. My Thomas.” Her eyes crinkled in sadness. “The reason for the Heart Gala, of course.”

      I knew that we were preparing her house for a heart disease charity gala and that it was in her dead husband’s honor. 

     My chest stabbed in pain so badly it took my breath away. Not a stretch to know that Thomas had died from a heart attack.

     “So, uh, what did Thomas look like?” I asked, still feeling out of it, like I hadn’t fully made it back to this place and time.

     Joanna gestured towards pictures on the built-in wall shelves. “That’s him.”

     It was the man in the images. I had just inhabited a dead man. Or he had inhabited me. In fact, he was still hanging around, I could feel him. This was a whole new development.

     “Ahh, Sunny, so beautiful,” I said, my voice deeper, almost accented.

      Joanna went still. “What did you say?”

     “The dress is so beautiful,” I said, struggling to understand what was happening. I felt oddly detached from myself.

     “You said ‘Sunny,’” said Joanna.

     “I did,” I said. “The color must have seemed like a sunset or sunrise.” I realized the words hadn’t been mine. Must have been Thomas. There was no way I was letting anyone know that I thought a ghost was around. It made me seem like a wackadoo. 

     Lauren was on her knees adding shoes that had made the cut to clear plastic boxes. “Beautiful! Definitely keep that dress, we can put it at the front of the closet if you’d like.” 

     Be careful. Thomas’s words appeared in my head. It wasn’t like I could see him in front of me, more that I had an image of him and then words that appeared almost like they were on a screen. And then feelings that passed through my body that weren’t mine. Love, sadness, more love, and then a swirl of danger around Joanna.                       

       When she locked the letter in the box, her time with Raul was over until next Sunday. She wouldn’t think of him. She wouldn’t compare him with Joe. She wouldn’t imagine what life might have been like if Raul had returned from Vietnam. She wouldn’t think about what their children might have looked like, or their grandchildren. Next Sunday morning, at 6:00 a.m., for a precious thirty minutes locked in this old bathroom, she could return to that world, but for now, it was back to the life that came after Raul. 

     Mrs. Mango leaned back on the closed toilet, folded the letter in thirds, slowly running her fingers along the crease to get it just right. She held the letter against her heart, closed her eyes, and murmured ‘God bless’ before adding it to the stack of letters in the old steel cashbox. Almost time to move the small stack to the big box in the darkest corner of the garage, the one marked ‘knitting extras,’ not that anyone would ever notice it in a garage so packed with stuff no car had seen the inside of it for years. She slid the box of letters under the bathroom sink, pushing until it hit against the damp warping wood at the back, replaced the stack of towels on top of it and tucked the key into her bra. She didn’t notice the faint mildew smell of the bathroom or the worn-out cabinets or the peeling paint up in the corner or the rust stain rimming the tub drain; it was just a bathroom, serving all the normal bathroom functions plus one more. She firmly shut the chipped vanity doors, locking Raul away until next Sunday in an act as effective as placing him behind a three foot thick steel vault door. Mrs. Mango did not notice that a hinge on the right door had tired of its job, had relaxed enough to let the door swing just a couple of millimeters back open. Had she believed in signs, this might have been the first of several, but Mrs. Mango was too pragmatic for signs. Mrs. Mango didn’t over-interpret things and only paid attention to what she thought was necessary, which left a lot out. The unnecessary got explained away in a process most people would recognize as rationalizing, but that Mrs. Mango called common sense. My daughter just hasn’t found the right man yet. I can be in love with Raul and married to Joe. People my age don’t care about sex anymore. 

     Sunday ritual complete, only pleasant thoughts allowed to drift around her mind, Mrs. Mango slipped out of the house to get the newspaper, feeling her way cautiously down the uneven walkway. The northern California dawn was dark and foggy, like a gray felt bathrobe had been draped over the sky, producing just enough light to see the outlines of the rows of single story ranch houses huddled together in her neighborhood. One moment she was stepping carefully over the cracked edge of where tree roots had pushed up the walkway, and the next she was engulfed in a sudden blizzard of feathers and jabbing beaks, a pack of turkeys charging her with wings spread, necks extended, ambushing her like she held a nest full of their babies in her arms.

      Mrs. Mango screamed and waved her hands as she took off running towards the street. The birds were not to be outrun and in fact intensified their attack as she veered to the right, into her yard, and then circled back around to the walk, the turkeys unrelenting in their barrage of beats and pecks. Still screeching, Mrs. Mango swung her hands up, knocking against the gobbler of a furious turkey. Simultaneously she kicked, connecting squarely with the chest of another bird, but in the process losing her balance and slipping in the cold water left from the sprinklers’ middle of the night spritzing.

“Stop!” wailed Mrs. Mango, now on her back, her arms tightly shielding her face while a mound of flailing wings and jabbing beaks kept up their angry assault.

      “Oh my God,” came a tremulous voice from out of the dark. “Is that Elsie?!”

     “Holy cow, you alright?” chimed in another voice, sounding closer. 

      “Get out of here,” thundered one of the two child-sized figures as they both waded into the pack of turkeys and started swinging at the birds, the beams of light from their headlamps bouncing wildly around the bizarre scene like a strobe light. 

      “Shoo! Shoo!” yelled the second person, kicking and shoving at birds.

     “You gotta punch ‘em,” yelled figure number one. “Rooooaaar!” she added even louder as she swung her fist at a turkey, connecting with its back. The turkey took off across the lawn, the rest following after another peck or two. 

     Figure number two chased them as far as the street. “Get your turkey asses out of here!” she yelled.

     “Elsie, you okay?” one of the figures asked, as they both converged back to Mrs. Mango and leaned in over her. 

     “Oh my God,” whimpered Mrs. Mango, moving her hands away from her face and squinting into the glare of the two headlamps. “What the. . . ?” She was at a loss for words.

     They snapped off their lights, and Mrs. Mango’s eyes adjusted to see the faces of two of her octogenarian neighbors. On her left was Flora Gonzalez, an eighty-five-year-old widow who was two inches under five feet and almost weighed her age. Flora was dressed in the newest Nike running shoes, tights, and a red sweatshirt that said ‘Do it till you die.’ She had a neoprene belt strapped to her waist with a water bottle and iPhone in it. Her waist was so small that the extra neoprene left over from tightening the straps wrapped around her waist a second time. 

      Peering down on the opposite side from Flora was fellow widow Velma Costa. Velma didn’t let her eighty-three years of age keep her from wearing neon green Lycra leggings, a mini-iPod strapped to her arm, and a tight training jacket that undulated across her bulges, a few of which were in the general location of her chest. Velma was a couple of inches taller than Flora (although a few inches shorter than she used to be, what with her spine compressing and all) and more than a few pounds heavier. The bright pink lipstick she wore to match her headband had bled into the creases around her mouth. 

     “Damn turkeys,” said Flora, leaning down to wipe something gooey off of Mrs. Mango’s face. “They’ve come at us before out on the trail. Never seen them this far into the neighborhood. I literally kicked one in the ass.” Flora laughed, pleased with herself.

     Mrs. Mango felt around the back of her head, locating a painful bump, not to mention more goo. “Oh my,” she said faintly. She tried to pull up to her elbows, but after sixty-something years of use, her arms weren’t up to the job. As she squirmed around feeling for injuries, she tugged the hem of her housedress down around her thighs. Only a complete knockout would make Mrs. Mango forget propriety. She looked at her hand. “You don’t think . . . “

     “Nope,” said Flora, making eye contact with Velma, both of them knowing Mrs. Mango was splattered with turkey poop. “Just a little bit of dirt.”

     Velma crouched down. “Are you hurt?”

     “I  must have hit my head when I went down.” Mrs. Mango shuddered, still unable to understand how she could be so viciously attacked in her own front yard. 

     “Why are you two out so early?” asked Mrs. Mango, straining again to pull herself up.

      “We’re going long today, and the pace we move, we don’t start early we’ll still be running when the sun drops again,” said Flora, reaching for Mrs. Mango’s arm and holding her steady as she sat up. 

      Mrs. Mango patted her head to see how badly her hair was messed up. Her helmet of wavy brown hair wasn’t cut much for style, but she didn’t like it sticking out in funny ways. “Ouch,” she said, coming across another bruise and then, as she felt down her neck, collected more goo on her fingers. “Oh my.”

     “Do you want us to help you stand up?” asked Velma, rubbing her forearm against her forehead to stop the flow of sweat that, despite the cold morning air, was streaming through her wrinkles like they were straws.

     “In a moment,” said Mrs. Mango. Just sitting up had made her a little dizzy.

     “I can’t believe they actually knocked you down. Looks like what got you was the sprinkler water,” said Flora, gesturing to the wet sidewalk. “Now, that was Velma on her back, I’d assume there was a man around somewhere,” Flora laughed.

     Velma pretended to be outraged but laughed too. Mrs. Mango grimaced. Bad enough she was wet and bruised, she didn’t want to have to hear about Velma’s private life.

     “Should we get Joe? Or Christine?” Velma asked. Joe was Mrs. Mango’s husband and Christine her twenty-eight-year-old daughter who still lived at home. Christine was the youngest and only unmarried one of the four Mango kids, and her mother was both dreading the day she left and longing for it, because it would mean Mrs. Mango could plan a wedding. The three older Mangos were boys, and their mothers-in-law had all gotten that privilege. 

     “Joe’s still asleep, and Christine’s not here, stayed at a friend’s house last night,” said Mrs. Mango. “Went to some late concert I think.” Mrs. Mango rolled to her knees, steadied herself with one arm and reached out. “I’m fine, just give me a hand.” 

     Velma grabbed Mrs. Mango’s hand, leaned back, and levered Mrs. Mango’s pleasantly pillowed frame up as Flora grabbed her under her arm to steady her.

     “You sure you’re okay?” demanded Flora.

     “Yes, I’m fine,” said Mrs. Mango, not sure at all but feeling more herself standing up. 

     “Do you want us to help you into the house?” asked Flora. 

     “No, no, I’m fine,” said Mrs. Mango. “How far you girls running?” 

     “Doing a good seven miler,” said Velma. “That’ll put some steps on the old activity band,” she added, shaking her wrist in the air.

     Mrs. Mango shook her head, unable to comprehend running, especially at their age.

     Flora nodded. “I need my shot of endolphins, you know?”

     “Don’t go near Gilly Street,” Mrs. Mango said. The working class neighborhood they were standing in was only a couple of blocks from the low-income/no-income section of town, and Flora and Velma wouldn’t return with anything of value if they ran that direction.

     Velma laughed. “Not much they could take from us.” She looked down at her wrist. “I’d hate to lose this watch, though. Cost me half a check.”

     “Don’t worry, not headed towards Gilly until my time’s up,” said Flora. “It’s my end-of-life plan but I’m not ready yet.”

     “Huh?” Mrs. Mango was confused. Was it the bump on her head?

     “Didn’t plan on living this long so not sure my money’ll hold out,” explained Flora. “I figure once it runs out, I head to Gilly and let nature take its course. Wouldn’t mind going out in a hail of bullets.”

     Mrs. Mango had no answer for that. “Well, have a good run,” she said. “Thanks for your help. See you later.” With a weak wave, Mrs. Mango hobbled up the wet walk.

     As Mrs. Mango opened her front door, a rectangle of warm light shone into the uninviting chill, backlighting her rumpled dress and hair. Velma and Flora looked at each other, shrugged, and took off running, which in their case was mostly a matter of shuffling feet forward. 

Chapter 1

The Myth of Barbie

     You want to know what the biggest pile of bullshit is? Barbie dolls. 

     When I was younger I loved my Barbie dolls. I played with them for hours, dressing them and arranging them and making their lives work out perfectly. They had boyfriends who adored them, families who were loving and successful. Their jobs were glamorous, their friends plentiful, their beauty indisputable. I really believed these little plays I put on were a preview of my life to come. When I pictured myself grown-up it was with platinum hair and a Barbie body.

     Imagine my disappointment, at age fourteen, to have no hips, no chest to speak of, plain brown hair and zero boyfriends (and that’s a lifetime stat).  As for the loving and successful family, does one out of two count? After all, we did recently move into a mansion. Too bad the amazing house didn’t come with the warm, fuzzy feelings our family seems to be lacking. Must need to purchase those separately. Or maybe we are more plastic than I thought.

     “Mimi!” Mom cooed, stopping her empty grocery cart by a mass of cut flowers stacked in a pyramid of shiny black containers. We hadn’t made it ten feet into the store before Mom saw someone she knew.  

     “Marion, how are you?” Mimi could have been a poster mom for the Kentley Heights Country Club. Her blond highlights were cut in a chic mom-bob, and she wore custom-fitted jeans with a sleek suede jacket over a green cashmere sweater. I’d bet she had a standing eyebrow appointment to get that perfect arch. Just another one of the fifteen or so BFF’s that Mom had met within days of moving to Kentley Heights. I guess it pays to be a tennis stud. Not that I have any of that talent, even though Mom says I should be great with my extra long arms. I love those kinds of comments. As if it’s a compliment that you have ape arms.

     And like I said before, it’s not like those ape arms are on a Barbie body. I wouldn’t go so far as to say I’m ugly, but no one’s stopped me on the street to offer me a modeling contract either.  No, I had to get lucky in the brain department. I’m not exactly complaining about it, but if I had a choice, I would trade some of those brains for boobs. Equal out the endowments so to speak. So I wouldn’t have skipped second grade. Big deal. Being younger just means my body looks even more immature next to the other girls in my grade.

      “Parker, stop that! I told you, if you grab one more thing, no cookie!” Mimi manhandled her toddler’s arms back into the cart and looked at Mom. “Hey are you playing Friday?”

     Mom nodded. “And Lindsey’s coming too. It’ll be fabulous!”

     How could these women so endlessly enthuse about tennis and the latest appetizer recipe? It was like they had no souls, just computer chips loaded with the latest in housewife apps.

     I stared around the upscale store where Mimi clones bustled around, piling their carts with organic bananas and green cleansers. The whole green and trendy vibe didn’t exactly match the Barry Manilow music playing through the sound system, but then again, it didn’t match the parking lot full of gas-sucking SUV’s either. Despite the crappy music the store was packed with people grabbing dinner. Why cook when you can get fresh sushi or hot enchilada pie? Throw a little money at it and the dinner problem goes away. Money solved a lot around here.  For the millionth time in the six months since we moved I thought longingly of our old home in Michigan. 

     Mimi bent down toward my five-year-old brother Davy who was crouched in the back of our cart sticking his fingers through the grid and making shooting noises. “Hi there big guy!” Mimi said in that goofy, cutesy voice that moms use for babies. 

     “Bang!” said Davy, pointing his finger straight at her face.

     “Davy! Say hello to Mrs. Vonn,” Mom said through her clenched, over-whitened teeth.

     “Pow!” Davy said, pointing at Parker, who burst into tears and grabbed at his mother.

     “Now Davy, that’s not polite,” Mom said forcing her voice to be cheery, but I could hear the anger underneath. Any show of bad manners is humiliating to Mom. Davy would pay for that one.

     “Hey girls!” rasped another one of Mom’s friends. Cece pushed her cart alongside ours and faux hugged Mom, the stench of cigarettes floating around her like Pigpen’s dirt cloud. 

     Cece’s daughter Madeleine hung back behind her mother, looking around the store at everything except me. Madeleine’s long dark hair was carelessly pulled into a ponytail and her dark rimmed eyes flicked around in the universal sign of extreme boredom. Like “why am I here and why do I have to put up with this?” Her Ipod earbuds effectively protected her from any conversation. Which was fine with me. Madeleine was in my grade, but had never acknowledged my existence. Not that Madeleine would have been high on my friend wish list. Madeleine smoked a lot of something more powerful than her mother’s cigarettes.

     “Maddy, say hi,” Cece said, poking at her daughter. Madeleine didn’t respond. Cece rolled her eyes and plucked out the white cords snaking into Madeleine’s ears. “I said, say hi.”

     Madeleine tilted her chin up a millimeter and mumbled “hey” towards Mom. Her eyes stayed focused on something about a mile away.

     “Jock-leen, say hello to Maddy,” Mom said brightly, pushing at my shoulder in Madeleine’s direction. Mom looked at Madeleine, “Jock-leen doesn’t have any friends yet, really. You’ll have to come over. I’ll bet you two could be BFF’s!”

      Thanks for announcing my loser-ness Mom. In case Madeleine hadn’t noticed.

      Madeleine continued staring off into space. Nice strategy, maybe I’d try it myself.

     Cece laid her hand along Madeleine’s back. “Maddy, Mrs. Carson was speaking to you.” Cece shook her head, looking towards Mom. “Of course that would be lovely, we’ll have to set something up for the girls.”

Really? My very own teenage playdate? 

     “Maybe Maddy could introduce Jock-leen around,” Mom chirped, prolonging my social hell. “I know she’s a year behind for her grade and looks a little, young, you know,” Mom gestured up and down around her chest. “But she’s smart, and I think she’d be a loyal friend.”

      Oh my God, she didn’t just say all that. Thanks for pimping me out Mom.

      I heard a snort from Madeleine’s direction. So all it took to get her attention was embarrassing the crap out of someone. Good to know.

      “Oh sure,” said Cece. “Maddy has just tons of friends!”

       Yeah, if you count pot-heads, drug dealers and zoners.

       I stared at the ground, wishing I could disappear through the crack in the linoleum.  My face and neck felt hot and I was sweating inside my ski jacket.  I switched my stare sideways, at the flowers. Maybe I could disappear into them, like a bee.

      “I told her to join the swim team or tennis team or something,” Mom continued, oblivious to the fact I was seconds away from melting into a puddle of shame. “Some people are just, shall we say. . .”

     “Shy?” Mimi jumped in.

      “I was going to say ‘slow,’ slow at that sort of thing,” Mom finished. 

     Too bad none of the flowers was a sword. I could have stabbed her right now in full view of all the shoppers. I’d rather rot in Juvie than stand here for one more second.

     Mom is an idiot. All I do is get straight A’s, help around the house and read a lot. And she’s so desperate for me to be “social” that she’d rather I was hanging out with the druggies. 

     Not that it really mattered, but I wondered, as I stared at the flowers, whether my mom wished a social life on me for my sake or for hers. You know, the whole appearance of having a normal daughter thing. 

      She just wouldn’t quit. “Maybe Maddy could introduce Jock-leen to some boys!” Mom said brightly. “Help her out in the boyfriend department.”

     More snorts from Madeleine’s direction.

      I could kill her. I really could.

     “Pow pow! Take that you bum!” Davy hissed, as if he heard my thoughts. I glanced sideways and saw he was gesturing at Parker who cowered behind an enormous box of Cheerios. Davy watched a lot of TV.

     “Davy! Stop it,” Mom said. “We better get moving, this little guy is just losing it!” Mom said gaily, maneuvering the cart out of the little circle they had formed. 

     Lots of peppy “Bye bye!’s” and I was free. Free to follow Mom up and down every aisle staring at the checkered linoleum floor until my flush finally faded and I was sure we weren’t going to run into Madeleine again. Free to obsess about my loser-ness. About my Mom’s cluelessness. About the fact I didn’t even mention that I actually do have a friend. A real BFF. Wait ‘til Emily heard how Mom embarrassed me. 

     By the time we left the grocery store the lights were on in the parking lot. Although it was only about six o’ clock, the dark chill of a Pennsylvania fall night made it seem closer to ten. I zipped my jacket up to my neck and grabbed Davy’s hand as we started toward the car.

     “Oh shit,” Mom said. She shoved the cart and car keys at me. “Take these to the car, and put Davy in. I left my latte on the checkout counter.” 

     Before I could answer she turned and hurried back into the store. 

     “Mama said a bad word!” said Davy.

     “I know,” I said. “Don’t you say that, okay?”

     One more of the “do as I say, not as I do” deals. Parents are full of them.

     As I maneuvered Davy and the cart through the parking lot, Davy suddenly yanked his hand out of mine and ran for our car, several spots away. The red glow of rear back up lights headed toward him from the other side of the lane.

     “Davy, stop!” I yelled, letting go of the cart to chase him. A flood of fear propelled me to his side in less than a second as the car stopped backing up inches away from his little head. I grabbed his jacket and pulled him out of the range of the car. I bent down and put my face in his. 

     “Don’t ever do that again! You ran right behind that car!”

     My heart was pounding so loudly it felt like it was coming out of my ears. What if something happened to Davy? How could I have let go of him that easily? All of a sudden he seemed incredibly precious. Sometimes he just had too much boy energy, karate chopping around the house, yelling and banging around corners knocking me down, telling infinite poop jokes, but mostly he was a good kid. And in this moment all I could see was Davy’s soft brown eyes and the way they crinkled into dimples on the side when he smiled. And the way he had of cracking me up with lines from TV. Just yesterday he strolled in the door after a play date and announced “Davy’s in the house,” like a rapper about to throw down. Funny how that could all happen in a second. 

     “Hey,” a voice said behind me. That casual, chocolate rich, smirking voice could only be Alex Madigan. Yikes.

     I held onto Davy and turned around. Yep, it was Alex, pushing our cart. My adrenaline went up another notch.

     “Need some help, Jock-leen?” he asked, managing to mock Mom and me at the same time. I didn’t even think he knew who I was, but he must have heard Mom call me that at the country club.  My name is Jacqueline and everyone else pronounces it “Jack-lin.” Mom likes to pretend she is fancy and French when she is really just from here in the good old Pittsburgh area. It’s not a bad place, but no one would confuse it with Paris. Alex didn’t belong to the club, but Tommy Thornton had brought him to the pool a number of times last summer.  Who knew Alex had noticed the new girl, the ape-armed, shy girl huddled in the far corner lawn chair?  He rumbled the cart toward us, smiling with teeth so bright they lit up the dark parking lot. 

     Alex was fifteen and the top of every girl’s wish list (probably some women’s too). The rumors about Alex flashed through my head. He had, you know, slept, with a bunch of different girls. He had been arrested. He imbibed all sorts of non-performance enhancing substances. He had tattoos. I’d seen the tattoos but had no evidence of the rest of it. Not that any of it was hard to believe. My best friend Emily said that Alex was so hot she couldn’t even look directly at his face, like he was a solar eclipse or something. He looked at a person as if he could see directly into your brain and right through your clothes. And like he was thinking of doing something to you when he got those clothes off. 

He was looking at me that way right now. 

      Predictably, I froze. What good are all those IQ points if your brain freezes up when you need it? 

     “That’s our food!” Davy said, pointing at the cart. 

     “Yeah,” said Alex pushing it up beside us. “Where’s your car?”

     Davy pointed to the next car over, and I hit the remote, beeping up the back door.

     I pulled on the cart and managed to mumble, “Thanks.”

     Alex seemed in no hurry to leave, and I felt the flush starting up my neck again. Just standing near him did weird things to my body. I didn’t like it at all. Well, maybe one percent of me liked it. The adventuresome part. The rest of me wished he would go away.

     I hauled Davy up into the back and nudged him towards his booster seat.

     Alex started unloading the groceries into the back of the SUV, and I felt idiotic because I couldn’t think of one thing to say. I had used up my entire repertoire with “thanks.” 

     “So, you’re out here by yourself?” Alex said, casually running a hand through his wavy dark hair. His bulky jacket made his already broad shoulders seem even wider. Even seen through peripheral vision his body was hot. “Driving without a license, huh? I like that in a girl.” Still laughing at me.

     I couldn’t speak. It was like my tongue and mouth had forgotten how to form words. 

     Alex loaded the last bag into the car. “I’ll take this back,” he said, grabbing the cart. He gave me a wave, as if we had actually had a conversation. As if I had actually spoken more than one coherent word. 

I barely even nodded. I just stood there watching his fine butt walk away with the cart.

Sometimes I really hate myself.