Page 65 of Rizzed Up By My Alien Neighbor
I power down the tools. The basement grows silent outside of occasional creaks. The world hushes, but everything inside me hums with possibility.
Family isn’t forged in declarations or destinies. You build it—moment by moment, honesty by empathy, respect by presence.
Tonight, we built that.
And tomorrow, we’ll stand sentinel again.
CHAPTER 18
VANESSA
The Collinsville Horseradish Festival hits with all the subtlety of a jackhammer—an explosion of green-dyed whipped cream, bands sweating under sweltering heat, and people waddling around in root-shaped hats. It’s one of those bizarre small-town spectacles that you both love and loathe. Every year, I find myself drawn to it like a moth to a lantern, despite the overwhelming odor of spicy might-have-killed-you brews and the unnerving grin of Horseradish Harry, who looks like he’s two bad puns away from a crisis.
I stand near a funnel cake stand, the air thick with powdered sugar and nostalgia, juggling my purse and a half-finished lemonade. Sammy darts around my legs, her notebook out again, recording “Horseradish Halloween Strategy” ideas. She beams with childlike glee, weaving through the crowd and hollering every time someone topples over or someone else slathers horseradish sauce on a corn dog.
Normally, I’d be laughing, fully immersed. But today, I’m a coil of tension wrapped in skin. My nerves crackle with every flash of Rychne's image in my mind—jeans, red skin, questions I haven’t asked. And then there’s Buford, who showed up a week ago claiming “visitation rights” like he’s shopping for groceries.The court can mediate, sure…but he remains like a dark cloud on my horizon, whispering danger even when he’s gone.
Sammy tugs at my hand. “Mom, check it out!” She points to a waist-high slingshot contraption aimed at a rotating hay bale. Nearby, women and men wearing root hats load horseradish-filled balloons and fling them with reckless precision. She’s bouncing, eyes alight. “It’s not a real summer if we skip the horseradish slingshot.”
I sigh—and laugh, despite myself. I loosen my grip on the lemonade. “Okay, kiddo. Let’s do it.” I bend down and wrap an arm around her. Just for a moment, I let the normalcy distract me.
Then I hear it: the unmistakable rumble of denim against fabric, the confident stride approaching. I turn, heart stuttering in my ribs.
There he is. Richard—no, Rychne. Wearing jeans and a crisp white tee stamped with bright green letters: I LOCAL TUBERS. His sleeves are rolled up, showcasing strong forearms, and his hair, perfectly human, still catches sun like spun gold. He holds a small water bottle and a curious, slightly shy grin.
I nearly choke on my lemonade.
Sammy sees him and squeals. She pushes free from my hug and rushes forward. “Uncle—or battle-dad—is here!” She jumps into his arms, and he flexes to catch her, steady as a father should be.
I stand frozen, the sweet-sticky festival air feeling like syrup in my lungs. Around us, music blares, laughter echoes, the scent of fried stuff drifts upward, but everything narrows into this one surreal moment.
He meets my eyes—brighter than horseradish heat. I sense he’s conscious of the absurdity. Jeans. T-shirt. A declaration. I nod once, blinking so rapidly my cheeks sting. He steps closer,offering a hand to me. It trembles—confidence wrapped in vulnerability.
“I—thought…I’d come,” he says, voice steady but soft. “To… support tradition. And you.”
I swallow, heart pounding like festival drums. Summer chaos surges around, but I’m still. I take his hand—and feel real again.
Sammy pulls him toward the slingshot station, chattering a storm of instructions. He kneels, helping her load a horseradish-loaded balloon on the giant rubber bands. He listens to her, then repeats her words back in a way that’s just a touch too earnest—but genuine. She smirks and bounces again. “You got rizz.”
They huddle like conspirators against a backdrop of cheering watchers and green tables decked with root-centric treats.
I stand there, lemonade in hand, feeling something shift. My worry and fear and uncertainty still simmer beneath my skin—but maybe, just maybe, there’s room for laughter now.
Because he showed up. And that might be the first time I actually believed we could do this—together.
There’s something almost tactical about the way Rychne moves through the festival—like every booth, every sizzling aroma, every blast of music is intel waiting to be cataloged. He sidles around funnel cake stands, sniffing intensely, eyes narrowing as powdered sugar rains down on his shirt.
Sammy’s in full command. She’s dragging him from booth to booth—“Mom, look! He’s trying to figure out how they dice the Oreos!” She nudges him toward the deep-fried Oreo exhibit. Rychne leans in, watching the vendor lower the battered cookie into oil. A pop, a bubble, a golden flip—he blinks and whispers, “It’s… surprisingly tactful.”
I hang back a few steps, purse swinging, watching him absorb everything. This isn’t performative. He’s not pretending to enjoy small-town charms; he’s genuinely intrigued. When the folk dancers take center stage—resplendent in ginghamand suspenders—he tilts his head, ankles flexing, a predator analyzing gymnasts. He tries a basic step, toppling into rhythm. The crowd laughs good-naturedly; he stands, face pink, but grins. And I catch myself smiling too.
Then we move on to the pickling competition. Rychne lifts a jar of dilly beans like a relic, whispers, “These are… fermented water nuggets?” Sammy giggles, “Just taste,” and he dips a finger. The vinegary burn nearly dooms his composure, but he nods fiercely and deepens the sniff. I can’t help snorting—because it’s absurd and earnest and beautiful.
I linger near the artisan booths—really old dudes hawking radios, wood carvings, random candles. One booth features a row of DIY gadgets: a bright espresso on the table, vacuum tubes, dials. Rychne walks up, amber eyes lighting with curiosity. He swipes a curious pen-looking device from the table and logs onto the ATM across the path. I freeze, heart plummeting, as the screen flickers, pauses, and spits out cancel prompts.
He looks toward me, eyebrows raised, tip-taps the "pen", and says in that earnest voice: “For research purposes.”
I blink, mouth half-open. “So glad my alien boyfriend is also a digital anarchist.” The words slip out before I can stop them. He shrugs like it's no big deal. A security guard turns fast, scanning—but the ATM coughs and spits the pen back into Rychne's open jacket pocket, jammed in like he’s always carried one. The guard passes by without a second glance.
