Page 4 of Accidentally Engaged
Because marrying a regular human would probably lead to divorce, permanent injury, or even death to the groom, that’s why.
“Yowwwwwl!”
I stop singing abruptly as Marmalade is pushed off the counter by a now six-foot fern with an attitude, snapping fiddleheads out of its soil like whips.
I groan and start humming something dark and threatening, making the leaves and vines that are now running across my floor shrink and shimmy back into their pots. It stops the new growth—but doesn’t really fix the fact that my small shop now looks like a jungle.
Except for that damn African violet. It sits, small and complacent, gloating at me.
Maybe someone cursed that pot. I’ll have to replant it.
Can most banshees do this? Well, yes and no. We all have some power that aligns with our elemental sign. Mine is earth. My mother’s is water.
Every time I backtalked her growing up, the spigots in the house exploded on me.
“I’m going to be up until dawn pruning my own little shop of horrors,” I laugh and let Marmalade go to work shredding and boxing an overgrown frond with her back feet. “At least I can sleep in.”
Note: There Isn’t Always Scientific Evidence
Popcorn scatters all over the floor as I stand up, wide awake and shaking my head to get rid of the beautiful dream.
Except the dream is still going. My heart is still pounding. I, somewhat of a neat freak, walk headlong through popcorn, smashing it into the carpet as I gasp like an asthmatic jogger.
That could be it. I’m having an asthma attack.
Except I don’t have asthma.
I could have had a sleep apnea episode—but... I don’t know what sleep apnea has to do with a racing heart and feeling like I’ll never be lonely again—like the princess is in the tower just out of sight, and I’m finally the knight who can save her!
I sit down hard on the dining room chair and put a hand to my chest. Fast, but in perfect rhythm.
Should I call 911? Seriously, should I? I feel...
There’s no word for this feeling. Blessed, happy, ecstatic, tingly, and confused.
Oh no. Someone laced your popcorn.
No, they didn’t, idiot. It was a fresh bag, sealed in a box, wrapped in plastic, and popped by your own microwave. There is no such thing as popcorn euphoria. Probably.
“Come here. Come to me, my love. My one. My only.”
“Arh!” I leap back up and look around for the voice, my heart speeding up all over again.
I’m going insane.
No, I’m not. My name is Jared Lochenko, I’m thirty-eight, I live on Pine Crest Avenue, I drive a battered old Subaru SUV, my parents' names are Susan and Mikhail, and I can recite every president in order. Washington, Adams, Jefferson, Madison, Monroe, Quincy again, Jackson, Van Buren...
Wait, that’s how they tell if you’ve had a stroke, not a mental breakdown.
“My love? I’m right here. Can’t you hear my soul’s song?”
“Yes! I can, but I don’t know where you are. Or who this is. Or if I need a straitjacket.” I put my hands in my hair and pace, ignoring the popcorn I’m grinding into the carpet.
Like a whip crack in my brain, I suddenly turn and look out the window, and there she is.
My beloved. My betrothed.
The beautiful blonde, willowy woman who owns Chloe’s Curiosities is in the window of her shop—even though it’s way too late to be open—throwing some green clippings out of the window and humming over her plants.
