Firstly, happy birthday for three hours’ time. Secondly, are you done with that list?
Dollancie:
Thank you.
And I could probably think of one or two more things.
Lucky:
None of that stuff was bad.
All that makes you who you are, and like I said, you make life a little more livable.
But I have noticed the joke thing.
The horror movie thing is the only thing we need to change.
They are the best movies.
So, if we have a date night, I’m not letting you pick the movie. Barbie is out. Sorry.
Dollancie:
Probably wise if you’re not big on cartoons.
And I’m sorry that I missed your jokes.
I’m no fun. I know that. I’ve been told.
Many times, by Shane.
Dollancie:
But seriously, you don’t wanna run for the hills yet?
Not even over my family history?
Lucky:
Maybe just the Moors.
Flared nostrils suck up the sweet aroma of vanilla that has taken over my kitchen.
He’d run if he could.
So, why is he still talking to me?
A feeling of hurt settles in my stomach, and it rumbles. I lick the frosting from a spoon in one of the cake mixing bowls I haven’t washed yet, and a burst of cherry explodes on my tongue.
I brush flour from my elbows, unsure how to respond because maybe I told him too much too soon.
Maybe I should never have told this online friend anything personal, keeping our conversations light and fun.
Leaving Bubbles outside because she’s playing in the dirt, and it’s literally making him—the Ambrose I remember—itch with anxiety, he comes inside and up to the table. The scent on his skin reminds me of that night in the foyer.
Breathing doesn’t come easily as I take in the sweet, spicy aroma that overpowers my cupcakes and the memories of Shane’s hands around my throat. My fingers move there, feeling each bone he tried to crush in his rage.
Blinking away those painful memories, tears fall. It takes a moment for me to see clearly, and when I do, a message waits for me in the flour on the table.
