Page 15 of Late Bloomer
“We’re closed,” I say briskly, striding toward her. “In fact, we aren’t open to visitors in general.”
Pink Hair screeches, throwing her bundle of (now confirmed) shoes in the air, which land with a dull thud on the dirt.
“Oh shit, you scared me,” she says, gripping her hand to her chest but managing to give me a wobbly smile. “Sorry. I’m Opal.”
Opal holds out her hand. I stare at it with narrowed eyes, my lip curling a bit. Opal eventually lets it flop to her side.
“Do you live nearby?” she asks, tugging at her bubblegum bob.
“You could say that.”
“Oh. Awesome. That’s great. We’ll be neighbors!”
“That so?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest, apprehension snaking through me.
“Yeah! I think so. I just bought this place.” Opal sweeps her arm grandly toward my squat cabin. “I’m so excited.”
The words echo in my head, each syllable feeling like a blunt strike to my skull. As they sink in, my heart plummets out of my chest, worry dissolving into my bloodstream, making my muscles tense and prickle. “You… what?”
“Bought this farm!” she says, gathering up her (absurdamount of) dropped shoes. “I’m going to convert parts of it to an art studio. Have a sort of working-living space.”
“Like hell you are,” I say, taking a step toward her.
“Um, what?” Opal’s eyes—an unnerving pale blue—shoot wide with fear.
“This is my home. The Thistle and Bloom ismine,” I say, pointing between the cabin and my chest.
You haven’t found the will, an awful, honest voice whispers in my ear. I shove the thought away. Will or not, I would know if someone bought the place I’mliving in…right?
“I… uh… This kind of maybe feels like the most uncomfortable moment of my life,” Opal stammers out. “But it’s… it’s actually mine.”
I’m silent, face hot with anger and confusion and, more than anything, dread.
Opal adjusts her sack of shoes to one arm, riffling through the giant purse at her hip before pulling out a handful of papers. Staring down at the dirt like a guilty child, she holds them out to me.
I snatch them up, eyes scouring over words, too anxious to actually read them. With a shaky breath, I try to steady my hands, the text still blurring in and out of focus as blackness creeps into the edges of my vision.
It doesn’t take long to get the gist of what they signify.
I flip to the final page, looking at the signatures, the familiar swirl of a gratuitously largeTtelling me everything I need to know.
My heart sinks so low, it’s melting into the earth’s molten core.
Of coursethat name is on these papers.
The worst person I know.
My fucking mother.
Chapter 6PEPPER
“Explain it to me again,” I demand, leaning forward to rest my forearms on my knees. It’s all too much to process, words jamming up in my head as I make Opal repeat them over and over. I pull out the sprig of chamomile from my front pocket, nervously twirling the stem between my thumb and forefinger.
Opal sighs and pushes her bangs off her forehead, swaying a few times in the creaky rocking chair on my porch. She repeats the story for the third time.
“… and then Trish asked me to meet up and we talked about the farm a bit more and then she said there was a notary in the FedEx next door and we walked over, I signed the papers, and she told me where to find the key.” Opal’s eyes flick to the tiny ceramic snowman by the door, which Grandma Lou had left out year-round to hide the spare key for as long as I can remember. “I packed up all my stuff, bought a ton ofsupplies for my shoe business I’m starting and… yeah. You know the rest.”
I groan, dropping my head into my hands, my spine curling up into a protective shell. I want to cry. Scream. Throw a tantrum. Get this pink-haired stranger off my porch.
