Thankfully, his loafers recede from view. I place my hand over my heart and take deep breaths until its tempo slows. With one last flush, I begin the tedious task of cleanup. My tongue runs over my cracked, dry lips. Once I’m free, I may dunk my head in the punchbowl to hydrate. Then I’ll load up on medication and head outside. My body will recalibrate itself in the cool, damp May air…before I propose to a woman who hates me.
Frankly, I don’t know her well enough to hate her.
“Oh, and Horus?”
“Yes, sir?”
“You should see a doctor. No man should shit like that.”
“Thank you. I have several specialists for congenital ulcerative colitis.”
“Does that mean you’ll pass the shits onto Junior?”
“Most likely did, sir,” I say as I wobble to standing. I’m dizzy from lack of water and sunken blood sugar. But oh, so close to freedom…until the next flare-up.
“Lord, help us,” he mutters as he walks out the door.
“Yes, indeed,” I say to my reflection in the mirror. Time to clean up my mess…with Amber.
Chapter 2
Horus, Late July
What a piece of work. My future-wifey is as slimy as her father. She accepted my proposal with the radiance of cubic zirconium. She stained my shirt with her makeup and fake tanning lotion by enveloping me in a cloud of perfume that probably cost more than my beater truck. Weeks have passed and I’m still stewing with rage. While planting kisses on my cheek and promptly wiping them off, she spun a tale of our secret romance. Amazing, since I don’t remember dating her…ever.
The real secret is I don’t remember how we met or the one night we spent together. I was drunk as a skunk at an electronic music festival on Ohio University’s campus with my fraternity brothers. With my New Year’s resolution to attend one social event not related to work, I forced myself to go. Good music drowning out any chance of conversation is my jam. I blacked out with my brothers at an off-campus dive bar and woke up at home with Amber raiding my fridge. Six weeks later, I got a message on social media saying she was pregnant with my baby. Why couldn’t this be a catfishing scam?
After the most awkward brunch date in the history of mimosas, I took responsibility for whatever decision she would make for our baby. Without a hug goodbye, Amber never spoke to me directly—until today. She blocked me on social media. Dumb move if the reporters did their research. Who would block someone with whom they share a secret relationship? Wouldn’t the block call more attention to me than just ignoring my presence?
I doubt anyone will care after her award-worthy performance in the butterfly garden. The local reporters ate up her story of how we met at a charity event and sneaked into the forest to hide our budding romance. She sighed, leaned her head on my shoulder, and giggled at all the correct parts to sell her bullshit. I listened with a fake smile, like a student in an exam review session. I know I’ll be asked to repeat her romantic story at our wedding.
Our wedding. Our farce of a wedding.
I slam the pole of my butterfly net into the dirt next to a stand of goldenrod with the force of my anger. The ground yields less than an inch, so I lean my slim build against the wood to push it further underground. I chuckle to myself—didn’t Amber say I carried her through the forest on my back? Hopefully, my wimpy arms will never have to reenact that part. However, dropping her in a puddle would give me a smidge of satisfaction.
My stomach gurgles with my rise in temper.
Time to focus on my job before my bowels act up. Spraying the pheromones into the net and waiting for my subjects to fly into it is much easier than trying to chase down the little critters. Once in the net, I will dab the nano-bead tracker on their back—avoiding their fragile wings—and shakethem out of my trap. Undoubtedly, the best part of my job is sitting in silence to avoid frightening them.
Yes, the forest sounds, critters, and plants make my indentured servitude to Eli Carter Jr. and his duplicitous daughter worth it. I’ll trade my life for the bugs, birds, lizards, and mammals. Not to mention the plants that give the Carters the oxygen to fuel their lies. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if Amber proved too high maintenance for tromping through the forest with me? This land will be mine after the wedding, so there’s no reason I couldn’t live in a tent instead of inside a mansion with her. I’ll be a modern-day primitive. Even if she insists on living with me, I bet she won’t last a week.
Freedom.
Stretching out on the cool earth with my long legs splayed over the wet ground anchors my racing thoughts. Petrichor fills my nose and soothes my soul. This is the life! I recline on my elbows and hit the back of my head on a red construction flag.
What the hell is this doing on my land?
Not mine yet…
I’ve found some strange litter—syringes, condoms, shoes without their mates, flesh-filled magazines, millions of beer cans—but never a flag. The best find was a food processor. Clean, sitting upright, and ready to use without a power source, the machine rested against an elm tree. I marked its location with the GPS on my phone and retrieved it at the end of the day. The lost item sign I posted on the forest’s welcome center yielded no takers, so I got a free gizmo.
The first bug to fall prey to my pheromone trap is a spongy moth—not a coveted monarch, but still a piece of the puzzle. Saving this ecosystem not only requires more monarch butterfly pollinators but also fewer spongy moths. These pestseat the foliage at an alarming rate. Leafless trees become forest fire kindling and—shudder—goodbye forest. I’d love nothing more than to squash this invasive interloper, but tracking him to the nest is vital to forest preservation.
When I nuke your egg sac, little asshole, there will be justice.
Shaking out the spongy moth, the stunning wings of a monarch flutter inches from my face.
Of course, you show up when my net isn’t ready. Cheeky devil! With the pace of a sloth, I lower myself onto the ground and anchor the net between my knees. Deep inhale. Hold it in. If the net rattles a millimeter, the butterfly will flee. Please digestive system behave for a few seconds…a grumble would echo like thunder in this environment.
