Page 19 of Raging Inferno

Chapter Six

Vanilla Extract

I’ve lost my mind.

Any minute now the men with the white coats are going to knock on my door and whisk me away to the padded cell that awaits me. I mean there is no other excuse as to why I agreed to have dinner with Jimmy. The temporary bout of insanity also explains why I have been texting him since I gave him my phone number and why I haven’t canceled yet. It’s the very reason I asked my sister to watch Christopher and also why I’m currently staring at every piece of clothing I own.

Grabbing a pair of leggings and an off the shoulder tunic from the mountain of clothes on top of my bed, I make my way to my dresser and begin to filter through my underwear drawer. Trying to find a bra to match my panties becomes a chore and I wonder when I stopped buying sets. Not that it matters—Jimmy Casale most definitely will not be seeing my underwear. Still, there used to be a time when I took pride in what I wore underneath my clothes. When sexy underwear gave me a certain confidence in myself.

Shrugging the robe off my shoulders, I start to dress. Once I’m fully clothed, I slide my feet into a pair of stilettos I’m sure are six years old and stand in front of the mirror assessing myself.

“This is ridiculous,” I mumble, glancing through the mirror at the disarray of clothes scattered all over the bed. I’m about to grab the dress I tried on an hour ago when I hear my sister whistle.

“How did you get in here?” I question, placing my hands on my hips.

“The front door,” she replies, walking further into my bedroom. “Wait until the fireman sees you.”

“I was just about to change,” I tell her, turning back to give myself another look. “Should I wear a dress? I feel like I should wear a dress. I wore one on my first date with Chris,” I ramble on.

“You’re going on a date, not the fucking prom,” she says, stepping behind me. “You look great. Not too casual, not too dressy and sexy as fuck.”

“Do we have to call it that?”

“A date? Yes, that’s what you usually call it when a man and woman go out to dinner. Especially if they’re attracted to one another and there is a chance of getting it in.”

“I never said I was attracted to him,” I mutter, watching as she rolls her eyes.

“Why did I know you were going to freak out?” she asks as she spins around and digs into her purse. Pulling out a little bottle she turns back to me and unscrews the cap before offering it to me.

“What is this?”

“Just drink it,” she encourages, waving a hand in front of me. “It’ll calm your nerves and all that.”

Knowing I’m a jittery mess, I take the bottle and bring it to my lips. The alcohol slides down my throat easily and two sips later the bottle is empty.

“It tastes like vanilla extract,” I comment, licking my lips.

“It’s vanilla vodka,” she points out as she takes another tiny bottle from her bag. “Here shove this in your purse in case you get cold feet.”

Declining her offer, I shake my head. “He’s going to think I’m crazy,” I mutter, spinning around to meet my reflection in the mirror again.

“You open the door wearing a prom dress he’s going to think your certifiable,” Amber asserts as I hold the dress out in front of me.

“It’s not a prom dress,” I argue, pressing the fabric to my form.

“Look,” she starts, tossing my clothes onto the floor as she takes a seat on the foot of the bed. “I think you need a little sisterly pep talk.”

“What I need to do is call Jimmy and cancel,” I amend, tossing the dress on top of the pile of the clothes. Releasing an exasperated breath, I run my fingers through my hair and meet Amber’s scrutiny. “This is a mistake. I’m not ready—”

“You’re one hundred percent ready,” she interjects. “You’re nervous which is understandable. I for one am just happy it still works,” she notes, pointing a finger below my waist. “It’s good to know she still has a pulse. Yes, in case I wasn’t clear enough, I am absolutely talking about your vagina.”

I shouldn’t be surprised by her mouth yet there are times I question how we’re related. Surely, the hospital made a mistake somewhere. I bet my real sister is off living a quiet life in the mountains and is relatively shy.

“You’re impossible.”

“I bet she’s saying the same thing about you.”

“Stop talking about my vagina,” I order, moving toward the dresser. “It’s weird.”

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