Follow Your Bliss (Dream House Girls #1)
1. The Time Capsule
Chapter 1
The Time Capsule
R ose
Few things pissed me off as much as running out of water-soluble embroidery stabilizer while sewing a fuckton of tulle after midnight. And on a borrowed sewing machine, no less.
I lifted my foot off the pedal and stared with bleary eyes at where the stabilizer ended, mocking me. This last completed seam would’ve earned me the right to go to bed, according to the taskmaster in my brain who desperately worried I wouldn’t finish Becca’s wedding and bridesmaid gowns by next month. But no, as with all things since I’d moved home three days ago, the stabilizer was against me, too.
To hell with it. I was an expert. Even on Mom’s sewing machine, surely I could finish without the seam slipping out of the tulle. I gently pressed the pedal and went six inches before the seam pulled out all the way back to the stabilizer.
“Motherf—”
The “Sisters” song from White Christmas emanating from my phone drowned out my cursing. At least my sister’s shitty timing kept me from rage-ripping $200 worth of silk tulle I couldn’t afford to replace.
I took a deep breath. “Hey Lily, did you get home yet?”
“Rose! Thank God.”
So much drama in three syllables. I huffed a laugh. “Are you having a real crisis, or a Lily crisis?”
“A real crisis! Do you remember the time capsule we buried at St. Dorothy’s summer camp?”
“Girl, that’s so random…” While my brain searched back fifteen years, I pushed my chair back three inches until it hit the side of my childhood bed. I bit back a choice fuck . I had to find my own place before I lost my mind. “I’ve traumatically blocked most of middle school, but yeah, I remember it. Why?”
“I need you to go dig it up.”
“Lily… what? ”
“I need you to dig it up.”
I laughed. “No, you want me to trespass on Archdiocesan property and vandalize it. Not happening.”
“The church was deconsecrated, and it’s for sale, so no one will even notice. Becca called earlier, insisting I wear my half of the ‘best friends forever’ necklace she gave me to all her events and the wedding, but it’s in the time capsule, and I need it for the couple’s shower tomorrow night.”
I scoffed and picked my work back up. “Lily, that’s a ridiculous ask. No way.”
“Please, Rose, I need it for tomorrow night. And I’m stuck in Portland till tomorrow. My flight got canceled, and they can’t get me on another one till morning.”
This was definitely a Lily need, not a normal one. “Just…tell Becca the truth.”
“No, no, no,” she said forcefully. “She loses her shit if every wedding-related thing doesn’t go exactly the way she envisions it.”
“I get it. I’ve dealt with more bridezillas than I want to remember, but she’ll have to hold onto her shit like a grown-up. Or do it when you get back. You have to call 811 before you dig. What if I hit a water main or something?” Why was I thinking through the logistics?
“Please, Rose? Can’t you go do this one small thing for me? It’s in the middle of the garden at the foot of the St. Dorothy statue. They wouldn’t have buried it near pipes or wires, and it’s already nighttime there, right? Nobody’ll even see you. I promise I’ll pay you back big time. I said I’d help you find an apartment, right?”
“Lily, no. I have enough problems without being slapped in handcuffs or with a million-dollar fine.”
“Oh, I know,” she went on, completely ignoring me. “I can talk to my friend who works at Chateaux Marseilles. Maybe she can—”
“That new luxury apartment building on Metairie Road? Honey, you know I left New York City because I’m broke, right? And besides, you already promised to help me find the termite-infested shack in my price range. No takesy-backsies.”
“We’ll find you something that’s not termite-infested,” she huffed. “I’ll find some options for you next Friday.”
“That’s a whole week away. I need to escape the daily Mom-and-Steve show before I swear off sex forever.” I reached for my purse on the other side of the wardrobe moving box stuffed with dress designs. “And my old room is too tiny to make Becca’s bridal gown, eight bridesmaid dresses, and one flower girl’s dress. Fuck me, it’s so many.” I wanted to cry every time I remembered.
“Just get me the necklace from the time capsule, and I’ll pay you back. I gotta go. My Lyft’s here. I’ll see you tomorrow night at the shower, okay? Bye!”
“Wait—” The line went dead. “Annnd, she’s gone.” I started digging in my purse for my lip balm, cackling to myself about how she thought I was actually going to dig up a time capsule on someone else’s property.
Spool of thread, spool of thread…matchbox from Punk Decay, the dive bar where Isaac, the guy I was seeing, played back in June— ouch! I sucked on my finger. Found that pin cushion I’d lost earlier. Ooh—travel-size Febreze. I sprayed a couple of spritzes into the air and twisted my body through it. Almost as good as a shower.
Lip balm applied, I went through my dress to-do list to see if there was anything I could get done until I got more stabilizer in the morning and final measurements at the couple’s shower at night. I read the same sentence twice before admitting defeat.
The front door to the house opened, and Mom and Steve’s gentle laughter filtered down the hall and through my closed door. I smiled, stretched my back, and snipped the excess threads from the petticoat. This house needed thicker walls, but they were so stinkin’ cute together. So happy. It made me miss Isaac.
Well, I missed the idea of him more than the man himself. I hadn’t had a serious relationship in nearly ten years. Not since—well, it was too damn late at night to think too hard about Michael the Asshole. He hardened my heart for the perilous world of dating at the tender age of nineteen, proving what Mom taught us from the day we were born: don’t get attached because men don’t stay.
Michael had been a Level Three relationship: the nope-not-ever-again-with-anyone place where the L word lived. Since him, I’d only had Level Two relationships or below. Level Twos—friends who fuck—were harder to come by and a lot more fun, but messier to end. Level Ones like Isaac were only about sex. And when they ended, there were no hard feelings.
I rolled my eyes toward an inevitable breakup with Isaac who was skittish about long-distance plans and had barely texted since he’d been on tour the past two months. Seeing someone or not, I was somehow always alone.
Rose Guidry, Proprietor and Designer of Sweet Roses Bridal: her love life will never interfere with your wedding day, guaranteed.
Mom’s bedroom door opened, and within moments, loud moaning reverberated through the wall.
I chucked my scissors onto the sewing desk in a huff. Jesus, not again.
Ohhh, Dahlia.
For fuck’s sake.
Steve, I need you to fuck me, Mom begged. His answering, guttural moan made me dry heave.
“Oh hell no,” I muttered. I threw down the petticoat and grabbed my purse, but since there was no fucking room to move, my foot twisted in my Hello Kitty comforter. I faceplanted onto the plush mauve carpet, banging my elbow on Mom’s antique dresser. The rhythmic squeaking of their bed made me a frantic squirrel, and I jumped to my feet like a prize fighter. Heart racing, I burst out of my room with my purse and phone in hand and ran to the kitchen, grabbing keys from the hook. I was out of my childhood home in under three minutes and standing beside Mom’s Camry.
They weren’t used to having anyone in the house, but that didn’t make it okay. I’d have to unpack this bullshit with my therapist when I found a new one.
The streetlight in front of the house buzzed against the backdrop of crickets chirping. Literally every house on my street was dark. I was stuck for another hour, at least, and I wasn’t even wearing a bra.
Now what? Even this late, the humid, relentless, August heat was sending rivulets of sweat down my back. One of the things I hadn’t missed about New Orleans. A car whooshed down Power Blvd., the cross street at the end of the block. Somewhere, an owl whoo whoo’ed .
“Guess I’m digging up a time capsule,” I said to no one.
I snuck into my own backyard like a thief, took the pointiest shovel from the shed, and set out for St. Dorothy’s. As soon as the AC blasted the sweat from my face, I peered into the rearview mirror. Confirmed: I was a trash gremlin. When was the last time I washed my hair? My knees manned the steering wheel down the residential street while I pulled out my bun to finger brush some order into my mass of curls and corralled them back on top of my head.
Less than ten minutes later, I parked on Mimosa Street under a sprawling magnolia tree. My headlights swiped past the for sale sign posted in the churchyard, a red “sold” sign stuck diagonally across its top right corner. Lights from inside the church filtered through the stained-glass windows onto pallets of construction materials covered with tarps.
Shit. Maybe I shouldn’t do this.
But…still no movement by the church or the rectory, so bad decisions were a go. Lily would owe me the biggest fucking favor I could think of. It might even be bail. No. If she has to bail me out, that still won’t be the big favor.
I slipped out of the car, stashing Mom’s keys in my shorts pocket as I quietly shut the door. I crept to the trunk where I’d stashed the shovel, and with the tool of my impending crime in hand, I stole through the bushes like a lunatic toward the statue of St. Dorothy that was, thank God, still marking the spot.
It was as hot as the hell I was going to for digging up someone else’s holy property. Not like the bridal fashion world would miss me, as many rejections as my designs had gotten from my dream firms. Termites swarmed around the streetlights, and I slapped away eight mosquitos before I made it to the statue. I pulled down on the legs of my short shorts. They barely fit me anymore, but most of my other clothes were still on a moving truck somewhere between New York and New Orleans, not due for another two days.
Sweat dripping down my back, I estimated three feet out from the statue where the time capsule was buried—one foot each, Father Dorio had said, for the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Crazy, the things that stuck in your mind.
X marked the spot mercifully between two scraggly azaleas. At least I wouldn’t have to dig up any plants. With any luck, no one would notice the area had been dug at all. Light from a decorative post lamp in the church yard vaguely lit the area without putting a spotlight on me, which was helpful since the only light I had was my phone.
Thrusting the edge against the weedy garden, I stepped on the shovel’s shoulder to drive it in. Why did Lily drop the necklace into the time capsule in the first place, and what cosmic bullshit made it my problem?
Five shovels in, I was making woefully little progress, and my un-bra’ed boobs were a menace. I paused, peeking at the church through the trees. All still quiet on the lot, and no one had passed in the street the whole time I’d been here. Like Mom always said, the only people out at this time of night were drunks and skunks. Stone cold sober, I knew which I was.
About a foot in and two feet wide, I leaned against St. Dorothy cursing my recent lack of exercise and how easily I gave in to my sister’s demands. Maybe I should’ve just told Becca about the necklace. Maybe she would’ve had a good laugh over it.
Maybe not. The deranged look in Becca’s eyes when I suggested she might want a lace wedding dress—when clearly, she was a bride who needed silk chiffon—still haunted me.
“Fergalicious” blared from my phone in my back pocket. I dropped the shovel and fumbled my phone out, dropping it into the mud. Ripping off one of my gloves, I shut off the sound. My heart pounded so fast and hard I could barely read the preview. It was Heather, texting me again to try and get me to move back in with her and our friend Abby. I put a muddy hand to my chest.
My fellow Dream House Girls, so-called for the wreck of a rental we shared in college, were the sweetest friends a woman could ask for. But I couldn’t accept more of their help. They sent me off in style when I left to “make it big” in New York. How could I go back admitting such defeat, especially when I’d been shit about keeping in touch?
I wiped the sweat from my face with the inside edge of my tank top and shoved my phone back in my pocket. My racing heart felt like an anxiety attack, and I didn’t need another one of those right now. I deepened my breathing and started a mental list. First, the capsule, then the necklace, then shove it all back down in the ground. Find a cheap apartment; finish Becca’s dresses; keep trying to get hired by an established brand, while launching a whole dress business with no idea where to start; then pay bills.
Damnit. Listing out my mess was not helping my anxiety.
Jason
Big Dick Tools.
I reread the email to be sure I wasn’t dreaming. Big Dick Tools wanted to meet with me at their Florida headquarters to talk about a sponsorship. I laughed out loud alone to myself, hefting a full laundry basket on my hip.
I scanned down the email on my way to the couch. This could be the big break I’d been waiting for to finish my renovations, and they approached me . Sure, I made a point across all my social media channels to talk about how much I loved their tools, and I’d started tagging them to get their attention. But this proved that all my hard work building my goofy-ass brand had been worth it. Every splinter, every late night building bookcases or editing videos.
But my sense of accomplishment faded quickly. I had no one to tell about this. If I was still with Kasey, I’d be working that godawful bank job to support her through med school. That door was so firmly shut, it’d disappeared over the eighteen months I’d been back. I was still too chicken shit to reconnect with my friends. My siblings would tease me mercilessly, like they already did anytime my work came up. Mom already hated everything about—
Her number took over my phone’s screen. God, was she psychic?
No. No way was I willfully submitting to another one of her insomnia-fueled reviews of my life, no matter how well-intentioned. I tried to go back to the email, but I bungled the hamper and my phone, accidentally answering her call.
Shit.
“Hey Ma, can’t sleep?”
“You know me so well, Jason. How are you doing tonight, baby? I missed you at dinner.”
“Yeah, sorry I couldn’t come by. I had to baby the finish on a four-poster bed I’m building for a client. Did y’all have fun?”
“It was lovely, but I was so happy to get back home. I finally got a chance to catch up on your videos for the week.”
I set the laundry basket down and rolled my neck, knowing full well where this was going from the disappointed tone of her voice, pretty much the only tone I heard anymore. “It’s just marketing, Ma. That’s all it is.”
“But the furniture you make is beautiful enough to be the star of the show. You are beautiful enough. You don’t have to pimp yourself out with those shirtless videos.”
“Pimp myself out?” I chuckled. “How much wine did you have at dinner tonight, ma’am? I don’t think I’ve ever heard you use that word before.” Maybe my gentle teasing would bring out her more playful side.
She chuckled too, but it didn’t stop her from pushing. “You know what I mean. You’re never going to find yourself a respectable young woman if you don’t respect yourself.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “I respect myself just fine. Having my shirt off is part of the schtick of my account. My followers love it.” Fuck it all, I was going for it. “And listen to this: I just got an email from a national line of tools. They want to talk to me about a lucrative sponsorship.” I couldn’t keep the pride from my voice. “They’re talking about paying me to feature tools I already use on my accounts, maybe even star in some of their ads.”
“Wow! Really? That’s amazing!” Her impressed tone was such a relief. This was maybe the most excited she’d ever been about my social media ventures. Sure, she shared every non-shirtless post and seemed to pull people out of the woodwork to buy custom furniture from me, but she would sleep better if I had a “real job.”
“What tool company?” she asked. “Craftsman? Black & Decker?”
I cringed, all pride punctured. “Big Dick Tools,” I rushed out.
“Jason, you’re not going to work with those people, are you? If your account was more respectable, maybe you could get more respectable sponsorships. Bob Vila never had to take off his shirt.”
“Ma, I’m twenty-eight. If I want to post pictures of myself without a shirt on social media, I can do that.” I paced, wrapping the drawstring of my shorts around my fingers.
She sighed. Heavily. “Of course, you’re all grown up and don’t have to listen to anything your mama says. But most respectable people don’t get paid for making half-naked videos. When Rebecca saw your account, she said it was sinful how you were sharing your body with the world. She had to block it. She was too embarrassed to even look at it.”
“Mom, Mrs. Rebecca also says that when church music distracts you from praying, it’s the devil.”
“Okay, I admit that’s a little much. But she said it in front of her daughter. And Misty might start thinking you’re not very serious about her or the church, that you’re trying to catch a bunch of other women.”
I’d been thinking that I might be ready to date again, but it was unreal and unfair how my family equated my finally taking pride in my health and appearance again as me planning to sleep around as much as possible. The truth was that I hadn’t been with anyone since I left Kasey, and I planned to stay celibate until I found a woman I could see myself settling down with. I was even halfway through an eight-week attempt to not take matters into my own hands, thanks to a church group I got suckered into joining. Not that I’d tell my Mom that .
“I don’t care what Misty thinks. We’re not dating. We’re not even friends.”
“You’re not dating yet . You have to give her more of a chance than that one time you took her to dinner. I don’t know why you never asked her back out again. She’s such a beautiful, religious girl.”
I breathed out heavily, trying to figure out how to explain this to my mother. Again. “I only took her out because you and Mrs. Rebecca were so pushy, but the date was a disaster.”
An understatement. At the end of a miserable date, Misty subjected me to twenty handsy minutes of refusing to get out of my car unless I agreed to come inside and sleep with her, even after I told her I was celibate. I finally lured her out with the lie that I’d go inside and think about it. But once her feet hit her porch, I jogged back to my car and drove away. Mom thought I was exaggerating.
“She’s not the one for me.” I wanted to add, she’s the one you want me to be with . Or she’s the love child of artificial flowers and the cardinal sin of lust . But I kept my mouth shut to make Mom happy. Because I still felt so goddamn guilty.
“You’re just not used to classy women who like to take things slowly.”
I took a deep breath, stretching my head back. My stomach churned. Discussion of my ex—my biggest mistake and reason for all my guilt—incoming.
“Please listen to your mama, for once. I told you that Kasey was bad news, and you didn’t believe me. She did such a number on you. I want you to be happy, Jason, but I’m afraid you wouldn’t know true love if it walked up and slapped you in the face.”
A laugh choked out from my throat. “God, I hope my true love wouldn’t slap me in the face. That’s abuse, Ma.”
Mom’s chuckle made me smile. I’d missed her so much while I was gone. And knowing that she loved me no matter what, and that she only wanted the best for me, made these phone calls and her overbearing nature a little easier to take.
She was right about at least one thing. Kasey tried to cure me of my spiritual side, to iron out all the beautiful, miraculous mysteries I saw in life with her science-only way of thinking. I hadn’t exactly been a good church boy when I met her, but leaving her had been like opening the door to my heart again and finding the world was bright with colors, not just black and white.
My gaze drifted up to the wood-strip cathedral ceiling of my converted-church home. Spiritually, I was a lot like it—strong foundation, good bones, but under constant renovation as I evolved. After I came to my senses and came home, there hadn’t exactly been church hymns waiting here for me. But my own personal faith was. And my family was.
Unfortunately, they all still thought I wasn’t capable of making my own decisions about work, my life, or my love life.
“I wouldn’t want anybody to slap my beautiful boy’s face. I love you, you know that, right Jason?” My mother’s fearful, heartbroken tone warbled back into these conversations, and it made my chest hurt. I’d done that to her. Broken her heart, and she’d taken me back in anyway.
“I know Mama. I love you, too.”
“I just want you to have a good woman who puts you first and lives a faithful life.”
The last thing a woman needed to do was put her partner first, but I wasn’t revisiting that old argument again. “I know you’re just looking out for me.” I stood up and stretched my back, yawning and looking out one of my few non-stained-glass windows. It was past midnight, and I was ready to go to sleep.
Something moved on the edge of my property. I looked closer.
“Alright, my sweet boy. I’m going to bed. Got to be up early to help your sister get ready for her couple’s shower. Good night, honey. I love you.”
A light switched on in front of the St. Dorothy statue and switched off immediately. But it’d been on long enough for me to catch sight of someone digging in my azaleas.
“Alright Ma. Love you too. Good night!”
I hung up and looked out the window for a minute, my phone’s keypad open in case I needed to call the cops. The person paused a minute, stuck the shovel into the ground, and pulled down long hair from a bun on their head. With the street light casting a silhouette from behind, that was definitely a very shapely woman digging something up in my garden.
Phone still in hand, I grabbed a bright flashlight and went out to investigate.