Chapter 13
Dominic
So how should I do this hair thing? Do I just buy bleach and then mix it in with my dad’s shampoo?
Me
I’m not sure that would work like we wanted.
Let me look a few things up.
Okay, what you’ll want to do is a bleach bath.
Dominic
You must know this means nothing to me.
ME
Hair bleach powder and developer added to shampoo.
On second thought, I will take care of the actual bleach.
Dominic
I think that would be best for all parties involved.
In the days following my planning meeting with Dom, I come to two conclusions:
Daily corn dogs is too many corn dogs, and
I can no longer live with Alvina Berkeley. This town may be big enough for the two of us, but my childhood bedroom most certainly is not.
The negligees are many. The perfume is plentiful. My migraine is infinite, my sleep disturbed.
I can take no more.
It is in this spirit that I pay a visit to Rosie Harper, Dominic’s twin sister, at Once Upon an Inn—the little place she’s fixing up.
I like inns. I like Rosie. And I think Sadie Stevenson might’ve been on to something when she mentioned checking with Rosie for a place to stay. It wouldn’t hurt to ask about prices, anyway—not that my pockets are particularly deep.
The sun is freshly risen when I pull up in front of Once Upon an Inn, and a chill still hangs in the air. It is, I can admit, a bit early.
But desperation knows no time limits, and according to the website, the lobby opens at eight. I will be there at seven-fifty-nine, in case the clock is feeling magnanimous.
The steps are creaky but sturdy beneath my feet, the metal handle of the door still cold when I pull it open. I’m a few minutes early, but I go in anyway, trying not to be nervous about seeing Rosie again.
Rosie looks like Dominic in only the slightest of ways. I don’t know her well, but I do know that she smiles more than her twin, and her hair is blonde where his is darker. She doesn’t look up immediately when the bell over the door jingles, but she does greet me in a chipper voice.
“Hi!” she chirps from the reception desk, half bent over, her eyes trained on the floor. “Sorry—give me a second—” Then the unmistakable sound of something spilling behind the counter reaches my ears, and her smile turns into a frown. She stands up, a little breathless. “Shoot.”
“Everything okay?” I say as I step further inside, letting the door swing closed behind me. My heart sinks at the faint whiff of paint fumes.
“What?” Rosie says, distracted. One of her overalls straps slips off her shoulder, and she tugs it back into place before speaking again.
“Oh, yeah—I was hoping to switch up the storage system back here so that I have more room in the back for all the fall festival props, but it’s not working out.
” She sighs and finally turns her eyes to me.
“I’ll take care of it later—” But she breaks off when she sees me. “Oh, Reese! It’s you!”
“It’s me,” I say with a little wave that hopefully doesn’t look as awkward as it feels. But this is Dominic’s sister, and although I’ve always liked her, I’m not sure how much she knows about what happened, or what she thinks of me.
My body relaxes, though, when her face breaks into a wide, genuine smile, and I can’t help but smile back.
“It’s been forever!” she says, tucking some of her blonde hair behind her ear. “How are you?”
“I’m good!” I say.
I’m a liar, is what I am.
An awkward silence descends for a second, casting an uncomfortable sheen to the otherwise lovely lobby. It’s the big fat elephant in the room—two of them, actually. Twin elephants.
Dominic, and our dating parents.
But thankfully—tactfully, wonderfully—Rosie moves right along, bless her. She doesn’t bring up her brother or ask about the past. She simply gestures around the interior.
“Well, this is my baby,” she says. “What do you think?”
“It looks great,” I tell her, taking in the dark wood and the antique features. “Cozy and inviting.”
She beams at me. “Thank you! There’s still some love to be given”—she gestures at a few wooden planks and a tool box leaning against the wall—“but she’s coming along.”
“It’s looking really good.” Not a creative compliment, but for what it’s worth, I do mean it. “How have you been?”
“Oh, you know,” she says lightly. “Taking on more than I can handle, trying to get my feet under me. The usual.” She smiles, and I laugh.
“The usual,” I agree. Then, because the elephant in the room is growing, and I feel like I need to say something, I clasp my hands and go on. “Also.”
She straightens up, her brows lifting slightly as she listens.
“I know our parents are dating, and that no one is really happy about it.”
Rosie’s eyes dart away from mine, and she gives an uncomfortable laugh. “Yeah. We’re a little—” She breaks off, looking worried, but I wave that away.
“You won’t offend me,” I say. “You really won’t. My mom is in no place to be in a relationship with anyone. You guys must be pretty concerned.”
This is all Rosie needs to relax. “We’re just not sure what’s going on,” she says, her voice dropping as though Alvina is hiding around the corner. “Like if our dad is going through some sort of midlife crisis, why not buy a sports car?”
I nod and sigh. “I wondered the same thing,” I say frankly. “It doesn’t make much sense.”
She nods vigorously. Then, after a beat of silence, she says, “It must be weird for you and Dom, too.”
My laugh is hollow. “You could say that.”
“At least you’ve been broken up for years, right?” she says in a would-be optimistic voice. “If our parents somehow end up together”—she shudders—“you’ve at least had time to move on.”
It suddenly occurs to me that while Rosie is lovely, she needs to shut her mouth.
“Be nice,” I snap at myself as the thought flits through my mind.
“What?”
“Nothing,” I say quickly. “Sorry. Talking to myself.”
She hums, and quiet settles between us again, broken only by the sound of a car passing outside.
Then she stands up straighter. “Well, are you here to book a room? I do have to warn you”—she leans forward again, placing her elbows on the reception desk—“we’re sort of in renovation mode right now.
So your options are pretty limited.” She brightens.
“I can check out what we’ve got, though!
I could probably make up a room for you for a couple nights before the festival starts. ”
I take a deep breath to evaluate the paint scent again, and the tattered remains of my hope finally fly away in the wind. The smell is strong, and from upstairs, I hear the sound of a drill. Trying to stay here will just produce more scent-induced migraines and noise-induced poor sleep.
It wouldn’t have been a permanent solution anyway, but it does hurt a bit to see Plan A die such a swift death.
“It’s okay,” I say, waving one hand and coming to a stop. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Sorry,” Rosie says, scrunching up her nose. Then she tilts her head. “Do you not have anywhere to live? I thought you were staying with—” But she breaks off suddenly, her eyes widening as she bites her lip. Then, with a sigh, she says, “Sorry. I might have asked Dominic about you.”
My answering laugh is uncomfortable. “I figured,” I say. “It’s not a secret that I’m back or living in my brother’s house, anyway. You’re all good.” I do not let myself ask her what else Dom said, because I (just barely) have my dignity.
“Are you sure?” she says, looking worried now. “You’re not homeless or anything?”
“Definitely not.” I begin my slow shuffle toward the door. “And I have some options, too. There’s some space in the back of my dad’s shop, or even other rooms in the house. I’m not worried.” I force a warm smile to my face. “I’ve got to head out, but it was good to see you, Rosie.”
This, at least, is true.
“It was good to see you too,” Rosie says, beaming at me. “Stop by any time!”
“I will,” I promise, and with one last wave, I head back the way I came.
My footsteps feel heavier on the way out than they did on the way in, and the morning air feels chillier, too.
You’ve at least had time to move on.
Rosie’s not wrong. She’s completely right, in fact. That was a very reasonable and logical thing for her to say. It’s been six years.
Do you know how many things can happen in six years?
World War I was four years, according to a few moments of internet searching. So was the US Civil War. I’m sure other, less violent events could also be mentioned.
If entire countries can fight entire wars in fewer than six years, I can definitely get over my ex. No question about it.
I head straight from Once Upon an Inn to Bugelbach’s, where I find Joe presiding over a patch of pumpkins and two glassy-eyed, captive-looking part-timers.
Almost nobody is here—such is the fate of a pumpkin patch on a school day—but Joe is knee deep in the infamous tale of how Bugelbach’s came to be.
It’s a long story, made longer by the side tangents that wind and curl like the pumpkin vines still lining the fields, and when I tap the shoulders of our employees to let them know they can go occupy themselves elsewhere, they hop off their hay bales with impressive speed.
I take one of their spots and nod my greeting to Farmer Joe.
“I was telling them about Mackerel,” Joe says with a heavy voice, tilting the brim of his straw hat up to see me better. “Have I told you about him?”
Indeed he has. Mackerel was Joe’s dog, an old Spaniel that met its demise by eating an entire scented candle.
“Just a bit,” I say, settling in. The cut of the wind is softening now that the sun is up, muddling the air into something more comfortable.