Page 2 of Follow Your Bliss

“Wait—” The line went dead. “Annnd, she’s gone.” I started digging in my purse for my lip balm, cackling to myself about how she thought I was actually going to dig up a time capsule on someone else’s property.

Spool of thread, spool of thread…matchbox from Punk Decay, the dive bar where Isaac, the guy I was seeing, played back in June—ouch!I sucked on my finger. Found that pin cushion I’d lost earlier. Ooh—travel-size Febreze. I sprayed a couple of spritzes into the air and twisted my body through it. Almost as good as a shower.

Lip balm applied, I went through my dress to-do list to see if there was anything I could get done until I got more stabilizer in the morning and final measurements at the couple’s shower at night. I read the same sentence twice before admitting defeat.

The front door to the house opened, and Mom and Steve’s gentle laughter filtered down the hall and through my closed door. I smiled, stretched my back, and snipped the excess threads from the petticoat. This house needed thicker walls, but they were so stinkin’ cute together. So happy. It made me miss Isaac.

Well, I missed theideaof him more than the man himself. I hadn’t had a serious relationship in nearly ten years. Not since—well, it was too damn late at night to think too hard about Michael the Asshole. He hardened my heart for the perilous world of dating at the tender age of nineteen, proving what Mom taught us from the day we were born: don’t get attached because men don’t stay.

Michael had been a Level Three relationship: the nope-not-ever-again-with-anyone place where the L word lived. Since him, I’d only had Level Two relationships or below. Level Twos—friends who fuck—were harder to come by and a lot more fun, but messier to end. Level Ones like Isaac were only about sex. And when they ended, there were no hard feelings.

I rolled my eyes toward an inevitable breakup with Isaac who was skittish about long-distance plans and had barely texted since he’d been on tour the past two months. Seeing someone or not, I was somehow always alone.

Rose Guidry, Proprietor and Designer of Sweet Roses Bridal: her love life will never interfere with your wedding day, guaranteed.

Mom’s bedroom door opened, and within moments, loud moaning reverberated through the wall.

I chucked my scissors onto the sewing desk in a huff. Jesus, not again.

Ohhh, Dahlia.

For fuck’s sake.

Steve, I need you to fuck me,Mom begged. His answering, guttural moan made me dry heave.

“Ohhellno,” I muttered. I threw down the petticoat and grabbed my purse, but since there was no fucking room to move, my foot twisted in my Hello Kitty comforter. I faceplanted onto the plush mauve carpet, banging my elbow on Mom’s antique dresser. The rhythmic squeaking of their bed made me a frantic squirrel, and I jumped to my feet like a prize fighter. Heart racing, I burst out of my room with my purse and phone in hand and ran to the kitchen, grabbing keys from the hook. I was out of my childhood home in under three minutes and standing beside Mom’s Camry.

They weren’t used to having anyone in the house, but that didn’t make it okay. I’d have to unpack this bullshit with my therapist when I found a new one.

The streetlight in front of the house buzzed against the backdrop of crickets chirping. Literally every house on my street was dark. I was stuck for another hour, at least, and I wasn’t even wearing a bra.

Now what? Even this late, the humid, relentless, August heat was sending rivulets of sweat down my back. One of the things I hadn’t missed about New Orleans. A car whooshed down Power Blvd., the cross street at the end of the block. Somewhere, an owlwhoo whoo’ed.

“Guess I’m digging up a time capsule,” I said to no one.

I snuck into my own backyard like a thief, took the pointiest shovel from the shed, and set out for St. Dorothy’s. As soon as the AC blasted the sweat from my face, I peered into the rearview mirror. Confirmed: I was a trash gremlin. When was the last time I washed my hair? My knees manned the steering wheel down the residential street while I pulled out my bun to finger brush some order into my mass of curls and corralled them back on top of my head.

Less than ten minutes later, I parked on Mimosa Street under a sprawling magnolia tree. My headlights swiped past the for sale sign posted in the churchyard, a red “sold” sign stuck diagonally across its top right corner. Lights from inside the church filtered through the stained-glass windows onto pallets of construction materials covered with tarps.

Shit. Maybe I shouldn’t do this.

But…still no movement by the church or the rectory, so bad decisions were a go. Lily would owe me the biggest fucking favor I could think of. It might even be bail. No. If she has to bail me out, thatstillwon’t be the big favor.

I slipped out of the car, stashing Mom’s keys in my shorts pocket as I quietly shut the door. I crept to the trunk where I’d stashed the shovel, and with the tool of my impending crime in hand, I stole through the bushes like a lunatic toward the statue of St. Dorothy that was, thank God, still marking the spot.

It was as hot as the hell I was going to for digging up someone else’s holy property. Not like the bridal fashion world would miss me, as many rejections as my designs had gotten from my dream firms. Termites swarmed around the streetlights, and I slapped away eight mosquitos before I made it to the statue. I pulled down on the legs of my short shorts. They barely fit me anymore, but most of my other clothes were still on a moving truck somewhere between New York and New Orleans, not due for another two days.

Sweat dripping down my back, I estimated three feet out from the statue where the time capsule was buried—one foot each, Father Dorio had said, for the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Crazy, the things that stuck in your mind.

X marked the spot mercifully between two scraggly azaleas. At least I wouldn’t have to dig up any plants. With any luck, no one would notice the area had been dug at all. Light from a decorative post lamp in the church yard vaguely lit the area without putting a spotlight on me, which was helpful since the only light I had was my phone.

Thrusting the edge against the weedy garden, I stepped on the shovel’s shoulder to drive it in. Why did Lily drop the necklace into the time capsule in the first place, and what cosmic bullshit made it my problem?

Five shovels in, I was making woefully little progress, and my un-bra’ed boobs were a menace. I paused, peeking at the church through the trees. All still quiet on the lot, and no one had passed in the street the whole time I’d been here. Like Mom always said, the only people out at this time of night were drunks and skunks. Stone cold sober, I knew which I was.

About a foot in and two feet wide, I leaned against St. Dorothy cursing my recent lack of exercise and how easily I gave in to my sister’s demands. Maybe I should’ve just told Becca about the necklace. Maybe she would’ve had a good laugh over it.

Maybe not. The deranged look in Becca’s eyes when I suggested she might want a lace wedding dress—when clearly, she was a bride who needed silk chiffon—still haunted me.

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