"Are you sure?" Brooke asked, her voice watery.
"I am. I'm sure. Between the two of us, we can solve any problem," I replied.
"And Jackson. We need him," she added, blinking away tears. "You're gonna have to make things right with him because he's rather handy and I will continue to push for a sister-wife arrangement."
"I'll see what I can do," I said.
"You can do better than that," Brooke snapped. "You're fucking fabulous and when you're fucking fabulous, you take what you want without apology."
We stayed there, our hands clasped tight against the home-front battles ahead of us, and drained two bottles of wine. We ducked inside for the bathroom at one point, more cheese at another. We never circled back to her father, Jackson, or my family, instead devoting our time to discussing our shared affection for a retired collection of lip colors and whether we should make time to go shopping in Portland next month. She needed something fancy for her computer, I needed a deeper pie dish. It was the most superficial of conversations but we needed this kind of mindlessness tonight.
If friends were good for anything, it was softening life's hardest edges by doing little more than being there with a bucket of wine and easy chatter.
"I'm sad that sundress season will be ending soon," I said. "But I'm also excited for boot season. And long sweater season. It's more complicated than sundress season but it's basically a game of mixing jeans and leggings with boots and sweaters. Boots and long sweaters are the best."
Brooke gestured toward her faded orange running shorts and ratty Yale t-shirt. Only she could make that look like a style worth replicating. "Yeah, same."
"We'll get you some full-length yoga pants," I said. "Some boots, too. We'll call it shut-in chic."
"Speaking of shoes, I want to go back to that prince and the glass slipper," Brooke said, holding up a finger. "Can we talk about that? Not the part about you feeling like you deserve your sisters shitting on your love life or you pushing Jackson away because you've bought into their bullshit but the actual slipper. Who in their right mind would wear a shoe made of glass? Have you ever broken a heel?" She didn't wait for my response, instead barreling on. "It's fucking disastrous. It's like a high-speed blowout. One minute, you're cruising along. The next, you're swerving across five lanes of traffic and probably rolling over into a ditch. Add a glass heel to the mix and I'm done. Honestly, the most unrealistic part of Cinderella is not the fairy godmother or the sewing birds or the dude who doesn't recognize a woman he hung out with all night, it's the goddamn glass slippers."
"You feel very strongly about this," I said, laughing.
"Yes! My biggest fear is stepping on glass. Why the fuck would I put myself in a position to willfully stab myself in the feet?"
I grinned at her, shrugging. "It's just not your fairy tale, honey. Doesn't mean you won't get one."
22
Catalyst
n. An ingredient that helps bring about change without itself being changed.
Annette
The soundof sirens pulled me from a deep sleep. I bolted upright, blinking into the darkness as I tried to remember where I was and how long I'd been asleep. It came back to me in pieces. The walk home from Brooke's house. Flopping onto my bed, fully dressed. Promising myself I'd get up, wash my face, and change into my pajamas after I cried for a few minutes. It seemed like a fair bargain since I hadn't cried once today.
But instead of shedding some dainty tears and moving on with life, I fell into spine-shaking sobs. It wasn't about Jackson or my family or the issues facing Brooke, but everything, all the hurts I'd socked away. I wasn't sure all that crying yielded anything more than a good emotional purge and accompanying headache, but that was fine. It was out and that was better than holding it in.
Pushing off the bed, my palm flattened against my forehead to keep the pounding at bay, I went to the window. It was unusual to hear sirens unless there was a fire but the engine doors were shut. Then I noticed lights flashing in the distance. Three SUVs raced out from behind the station and through the village. My heart flipped and then my stomach followed suit. Knowing Jackson was in one of those SUVs and rushing toward something potentially dangerous had me wide awake.
Since I was still dressed, I slipped on a pair of flip-flops, grabbed my phone and keys, and headed out. I wasn't alone. Sirens didn't blare at three in the morning without bringing the entire town to the streets. We were a nosy lot here in Talbott's Cove. And I couldn't go back to sleep without laying eyes on Jackson. I needed to know he was all right.
I made my way toward the station, exchanging confused shrugs and yawns with my neighbors. No one knew what was going on but everyone had theories. Car accidents, domestic disputes, wild animals at the back door. All of it was plausible.
Cindy lumbered over to me with a walkie-talkie clipped to the neck of her sweatshirt and her cane in hand, and held out a shawl. "Come on, now. Take this. You'll catch your death out here, dear."
I accepted the shawl and linked my arm with hers. "Thank you," I said. "Do you know anything?"
Her lips folded into a faint line as she shook her head. "Nothin'," she said. "But I know our sheriff was on patrol tonight, him and the other boys, too. He wanted all hands on deck."
"Does he do that often?" I asked, scanning the crowd again.
Cindy hummed to herself. "He's only been here a short time," she said. "I'm still learning his methods."
In other words, no.
"Don't pull that face," Cindy chided. "It took me twenty years to learn the last boss. I'm a slow study. Not like you, picking up new things like magic."
