I gave myself a concussion on a Matchbox car—a Mustang that I slid into my purse and kept as a memento for the bestweekend I’d ever had in my life. All in thanks to my meddling, matchmaking daughter. I’m not even mad.
Nope. I am hopelessly in love with this man.
We left first thing Saturday morning. I admit the car ride made me so nauseous that a quarter of the way, we stopped at a rest stop and bought Dramamine out of one of those dispensers I thought only distributed condoms.
A handful of miles away, I got a call from Lark. Keeping my eyes closed, I answer, “Hey, kiddo.”
“Hey,” she replies with so much hesitance that all the alarm bells in my head go off with one goal—to shatter my eardrums, which is ridiculous because the sound is all in my head.
“What’s wrong?” I move too fast, my eyes flying open to see big, fat snowflakes landing on the windshield.
“Just calling to see how close you are,” Lark says, changing her voice to that Southern saccharine drawl. I flip the phone to speaker so we can both hear Lark. One of us needs to have our wits about us, and it isn’t me.
There is one assurance in this world, and that is the fact that my daughter is exactly like me in every way. We don’t yell, we are Southern, after all, but we call someone annoying us ‘honey’ and explain things so slowly, you think we are just being sweet.
We aren’t, not at all.
So when Lark lays it on thicker than honey butter, I know without a shadow of a doubt that something went down that I will not like.
“A few miles out,” I answer, glancing at Arlo whose brows furrow into one big Bert brow. You know, the Muppet.
“Perfect.” Oh no, she says that word as though it pours from her lips like molasses.
“Code red?” I whisper.
“Don’t be silly. You are so graceful.”
My eyes widen, and I look at Arlo, who gives me a quick glance and speeds up the car. “Ten minutes. We will be there in ten minutes. Are you safe?”
“So, you remember that show with the zombies?” she asks, knowing damn well that I hate zombie movies. They just aren’t believable. I mean, compared to ghosts, it’s a no-brainer. One is more believable.
“No.”
“Oh, you know the one, with Daddy Winchester.” She giggles in the background like she’s aSweet Valley Highteen.
But it does the job. I know exactly what she’s talking about. “The bat!” I gasp.
“Turns out Autumn made one at the last craft night.”
“Oh no,” Arlo whispers.
“Yeah, so I’m safe, Mama.” The line goes dead.
“Why does your sister have one of those bats?” I hiss at him as I glare at my black screen. I can’t believe she hung up on me.
“Lucille?” Arlo laughs, then leans back in his seat without a care in the world. “All of my sisters have one, so does my mother. And yes, before you ask, they made a craft night out of it, and yes, Lark is safe with them.”
I relax a little bit.
That’s when he adds, “I just hope they don’t kill whoever they are using it against.”
“Arlo!” I exclaim, moving far too quickly and causing my head to swim.
“I mean, if they broke out Lucille and her sisters, then I hope we aren’t driving home to bury a body,” he remarks with so much seriousness that adrenaline pumps through my veins until I can taste it on my tongue.
“You can’t…” I shake my head. Surely he isn’t serious about this.
“Relax.” He chuckles, reaching for my hand as he turns down the road toward home. “I would never.”
