Page 2 of My Merry Mistake
Great!
I close my computer, pull out a bright red lipstick—which I had to dig out of the very back of my makeup drawer—and apply it to my lips.
Fifteen minutes later, as promised, Poppy and Eloise are knocking on my door.
I give myself a last once-over in the mirror, flip off the light, and walk downstairs. I open the front door to find Poppy dressed like a 1920s flapper girl and Eloise is Rainbow Brite, complete with colorful knee-high socks, her hair pulled up in a ponytail with a purple bow, and mid-forearm gloves that stretch over her middle fingers.
Poppy looks chic and timeless.
Eloise looks cute and bubbly.
I look like a vampire out for blood.
“Ray!” Poppy practically squeals. “You look amazing!”
“Whydid I let you talk me into this costume?” I grab my purse and coat from the hooks by the door and step out onto the porch.
“Because you already sort of look like Morticia,” Eloise quips.
I only stare.
“Seriously,” she continues, blissfully oblivious. “I can’t believe we haven’t thought of it before.”
“This is not a compliment.” I walk past them and around to the driver’s side of my Altima.
“I thought I was driving,” Poppy says.
My car chirps as I click the button to unlock the doors. “I’ll drive.”
Eloise shakes her head. “Always have to be in control, don’t you?”
I pause, pretending to think about it, then say, matter-of-factly, “Yes.” I flash them both a quick smile, but they can’t be surprised. I’m the responsible one. The practical one. The one who takes charge. Someone has to watch out for them—that’s always been me.
That’s not going to change just because I currently look like a person who breeds carnivorous plants.
We slide into the car, and I start the engine.
From behind me, Eloise says, “Catherine Zeta-Jones played Morticia in that TV show, and she’s got to be one of the top five most beautiful people who’s ever lived.”
I scoff. “I don’t look like Catherine Zeta-Jones.” I pull away from the curb and out into the quiet Loveland street. Families are dotted up and down the sidewalks, walking behind groups of kids in costume, carrying bags and pails for their candy haul.
A wave of nostalgia washes over me—a flash of the three of us when we were kids—Eloise, dressed as a pirate, always running ahead, pulling Poppy by the hand to the next house, and me lagging behind, yelling at them to look both ways and make sure to say thank you.
Even then, I was taking care of them. Even then, I felt responsible.
“But it’s not an insult, is what I’m saying,” Eloise says. “You look hot. Who knew you had that hot body under those frumpy black blazers?” She shudders.
Catching her eye in the rearview mirror, she makes a face at me to let me know she’s kidding.
I smile and shake my head slightly. She’s maddening—the chaos to my order—but I couldn’t love her more.
A half an hour and alotof Eloise chatter later, I’m parking in a garage down the street from the location Poppy punched into my phone.
“Whose apartment is this again?” Eloise asks.
“One of the players—they call him Brookie—has a Halloween party every year,” Poppy says.
“His name is Brookie?” Hockey players are ridiculous.
