Page 52 of On the Run
And then… he did.
9
Toby
Help Me Hagatha (Issue #2441)
Dear Aunt Hagatha:
I’m not like most of the people who usually write you. I’ve actually got a perfect life! My job pays well, my girlfriend is amazing, and my family loves me a lot. I remind myself each day to be grateful.
But every once in a while, I wish I could just walk away from it all and start over. That I could build something… different. How can I stop myself from feeling this way?
Roberta in Ridgemont
Dear Bobbikins,
You can’t.
I mean, you could. Or you could try, anyway. But, like… what for? You get one life. So cowgirl up, get thee a therapist (no, but for reals, tho), own your feelings, and make some big changes. You just might find your perfect life gets even perfect-er.
Best of luck darling,
Your Aunt H.
* * *
“Listen,missy, what did we discuss earlier today?” I lifted one eyebrow. “I don’t need you over here, rubbing yourself all up in my business, while I’m trying to cook and I’ve still gotta get ready for Littlejohn’s Trivia Night.”
Marjorie twined herself around my ankles, looking as innocent as a ginger floof the size of a small tank possibly could—which was to say, not innocent in the slightest—and I shot her a warning glare before continuing to spread the cinnamon sugar topping on the french toast casserole I was preparing for the following morning.
Yes, to reiterate, I, Toby Elford, was standing in a tiny Florida kitchen, drowning bread products in cream and covering them with enough butter and sugar to give myself a contact high, using a recipe of my mom’s I somehow remembered perfectly, despite not thinking of it since leaving Ohio a billion years ago, whilst chatting with a cat and preparing to engage in a trivia night organized by a man who’d shouted at the television the other night that Europe was a country in Asia.
Who the fuck was I?
How the fuck had I gotten here?
Why the fuck wasn’t I running away as fast as my shapely legs could carry me?
Excellent questions, all.
I recalled only vague glimpses of my descent into this madness. There was that blow job by the pool on Saturday, after the harrowing horror of our trip to the Island of Plovers. A decidedly non-platonic night in the guest room with Marjorie locked firmly out and Beale’s arms locked firmly around me.
Breakfast at this little restaurant called the Concha on Sunday, followed by a barbecue at Rafe’s house that had ended up being way too crowded for the inquisition Big Rafe had wanted to give me, and which Beale and I had left early so we could walk on the beach at sunset… holding hands, because apparently that was a thing fake soul mates did.
More coffee at the Bean yesterday, after which we’d checked on the contractors at Mason’s house and attended a town meeting about the end-of-summer Whispering Key Extravaganza that, in retrospect, should not have intrigued me as much as it did.
Then, this morning, I’d been cuddling in bed with Beale—yes,me,cuddling—catching my breath after a very enjoyable sunrise frot session in which Beale had done 90 percent of the work because he was a quick study like that, when we’d gotten to talking about breakfast foods. Beale had mentioned missing his mom’s french toast casserole, and I’d found myself promising to recreate it for him… and that was when I’d felt my first faint awareness that something strange was happening to me.
Still in that fugue state, I sort of remembered driving Beale’s Jeep—yes,me,driving a vehicle with a manual transmission and no doors—to the little store on the island, where I’d used my precious cash resources to purchase enough white sugar and heavy cream to float a barge, just to make Beale smile… and that same feeling had come back right in Pickles’ dairy aisle, but stronger.
When I’d come home with my groceries, Littlejohn had waved from across the street, and I’d spent a solid fifteen minutes chatting with him about deadheading his dahlias before they bloomed—yes,me, engaging in conversation about dubious methods of horticulture—then when he’d pressed a dish of his “Homemade SpaghettiO Surprise,” into my hands and begged me to come to his trivia night as a member of Team Whispering Key, I’dagreed. Red flags had been hoisted all over my brain, but Beale had grinned and kissed me when he’d heard, so I’d found it hardly any trouble to ignore them.
I was pretty sure if you asked Aunt Hagatha, she’d say that I should examine my motives and stop living in denial posthaste, since I was building myself a house of cards on a rickety table, lying to the whole damn town and lying by omission to the guy I was sleeping with. But then, Hagatha had never found herself having Beale Goodman’s luscious body and gorgeous smile at her beck and call for days on end, nor found herself inexplicably enjoying a town of wackadoo misfits… so once again, Hagatha was utterly unqualified to say what a person should do in this situation.
Marjorie jumped up on the counter just as I finished snapping the lid on the casserole dish. “Excuse you, what did I say? No counters! It’s impolite and unhygienic. Recall, please, that I am the alpha in this relationship. My word is law. Also, Imighthave gotten you another rotisserie chicken at the grocery store earlier if you behave.”
She butted her orange head against my arm, and I sighed as I stroked her soft fur. I had to admit, I felt a sort of kinship with the beast. Both of us were a little wary and reacted poorly when stressed. Plus, she hadn’t tried to murder me in days.
