“Whatever fair thing you’re trying to rope me into, absolutely not.”
“But, please? I’d owe you.”
“I’m not wearing those damn breeches. End of discussion.”
“Why won’t you wear breeches for me?” I whine.
“Sorry, Alouette.Even I have my limits.” Gus’s usage of my childhood nickname does little to soften the blow.
“Fine.”
Emy picks up her piece of tourtière as Gus and I continue sparring. “You tried.” She moans, slowly dragging the fork out of her mouth. “You seriously nailed the clove to all-spice combination with this one.”
“It’s still slightly off, but it’s getting closer to her recipe.” I doubt I’ll ever be able to recreate Memere’s recipe for her famous meat pie perfectly. Translating her recipes is an art. “A pinch of this, a dab of that,” is really “pour half the salt-shaker in and dump in a carton of butter.”
Adding that much butter to anything hurts, but it’s a necessary pain.
Unlike the one currently spasming through my pelvic region. That one hardly seems necessary. I breathe through the cramp, keeping my face flat. No one needs to know I’m in pain.
“Please, at least consider playing Lydia, Aulie,” Emy begs.
“Why are you so invested in this?”
“You were so happy on stage. I want you to have that again. Don’t let the dickwad fiancé thing—or whatever he was—”
“A womanizing ass I warned her about multiple times,” Gus contributes from the living room. A symphony of keyboard clacks follow his grumpy diatribe.
“What Gus said.” Emy smiles softly. “Don’t let him take more from you than he has.” She gathers her sleeve and wipes some moisture off my cheek.
When did I start crying?
“I love you, Aulie. He was never worth it.”
“I know.” I nod, and I am over it.
It’s just—that part of me that loves so intensely and gets emotionally attached to people has a hard time with the “letting go” part. I loved Tyler more than I’d ever let myself love before. We were engaged. And when I opened his dorm room and found a woman lying there waiting for him, something broke inside.
Worse yet was how Gus looked at me when he realized I’d lied and snuck around with Tyler for years even though he told me he was bad news. I thought I was being sensible, telling Tyler I wasn’t comfortable going all the way until we were engaged. But all I did was foolishly put myself and my heart in a situation where Tyler never intended to keep his word.
He was seeing another woman behind my back and using his minimal power as the student director to make advances on the women at his new school.
Acting, which used to be our main point of bonding became tainted and joyless for me. There was no way around it.
“I am happy with you and planning things. Planning things makes me so happy. Do you realize how happy planning things makes me?”
“Yes, now plan yourself into a bigger role in the fair, since you don’t have another option.”
I toss a bonnet in Emy’s direction. It falls slowly to the ground with an anti-climactic plop. Darn. Not exactly the cutting effect I was looking for. But Emy has a point. The first weekend of the fair is a week away, and Lydia is integral.
My shoulders droop. I have a few late nights ahead of me, which is fine. Since my Memere passed away, earlier this year, I’ve slept terribly. Nightmares plague me—ones where I frantically clear the dirt away from her grave. There’s been a mistake. She’s not gone. She can’t be. I’m too young to navigate the rest of my life without her.
“I’ll have to make a few things for Lydia’s costume since I’m twice Emma’s height.”
“You’re going to do it?” Emy shouts, flinging tourtière everywhere, before wrapping her arms around me.
Willoughby’s placid countenance perks up, suddenly accessing stray meat pie filling.
“I kind of don’t have a choice, do I?”
