2-REAGAN
TWO YEARS LATER
“Hey. What are you doing?” My brother Miles’ voice boomed from my phone’s speaker.
I sat on my bed that needed replacing, not because it was old, but because the remnants of my failed marriage lingered with the dust bunnies underneath the frame.
Everything in our casita needed to go, including my soon-to-be ex-husband, Tate.
He was the first thing to be kicked to the curb six months ago.
“I’m just at home, filling out this competition form. ”
“Competition? That baking competition?” Miles still lived at home, and my room was still available if I wanted it. At thirty-one, I didn’t like the idea of moving back in with my mom. I visited them in my downtime anyway.
My finger hit the pad in the middle of my laptop, submitting my chance and not thinking twice. “Uh, no, the one for The Forewarning.”
“Wait? You were serious?” His sass rolled through the phone.
“Yes. I sent you videos of masked men, and you even sent one back. I thought you would approve.” The laptop quietly thudded as it clapped together, and I rolled off my bed to fill my water thermos.
“Well, I thought it was because it was during Halloween. It’s only really appealing then.”
“I like it all the time. It’s only thirty minutes north of us this year.
Don’t judge me, Miles.” The Spanish terracotta tiles cooled the soles of my feet as I made my way into the kitchen.
I stopped at the white rug under the sink and began filling my container with my reverse osmosis faucet.
The amenities of the casita were nice, and it was going to be a shame when my lease was up.
“You had a sex dream about our chiropractor. I’m going to judge you, Egg.” Oh yes, my lovely nickname Miles gave me when I was twelve, and he was ten. He couldn’t call me ‘Reag’, ‘Ray’; I’d even take ‘Ann’.
Egg.
Even though he was a raging homosexual, he was still my little brother. “Anyways, when are you coming over? Mom’s been hyperfixating on our natal charts and Mercury again. And I need her to talk to someone else about it besides me.”
I paused for a moment, letting my mind process the few orders I knew I had the next week. “I’m sure I can come by in a day or two. You know you can always escape over here.”
“Ew. No. Tate defiled that place, and I will not be exposing my Common Projects to such putridity.”
I aimlessly wandered into the living room. Not sure why, since the couch faced a blank wall, given that Tate bought the 65-inch TV and needed it to survive. If he spent as much time and detail on me as he did on his PlayStation and booze, we would have worked out. “Those shoes are old.”
“My point exactly. It’s just nicer over here, where I won’t get frosting on my Italian leather jacket.”
“Whatever, Miles. I’ll see you Friday.”
“Promise?”
“Yes.”
“K, loveyoubye!” He blurted out in one breath before the call ended.
Dropping my phone on the cushion next to me, I took a sip of water while evaluating my living room.
It didn’t take long for me to clean the dust that had collected around all the electronic devices left on the entertainment center.
He did forget one of his remotes, so I tossed it.
And when he asked about it, I acted like I had no idea what he was talking about.
Now in place sat a plant and a stack of books.
I thought getting married when my frontal lobe was developed was the easiest way to prevent divorce. I don’t think Tate’s even had the cells to form his. Six years later, eight in total, I was dumped back in the dating pool, almost, and I was not doing much swimming.
Instead, I made my bakery orders at home, then delivered them to a small pickup window in historic downtown.
Wild Flour hung on the outside of a small fifteen-by-forty storefront.
It was all I needed to have a smooth, secure, and safe pickup transaction.
Wild Flour was equipped with PIN-access entry—changed weekly—security cameras, and a few glass-front fridges.
Payments were made online, so I didn’t even need to be there.
It worked perfectly. The one thing in my life that did work out.
My cakes were artwork and just as delicious, my number one seller.
Of course, cupcakes were a mini version of it and sat at number two.
During the holidays, I offered a variety of cookies and a few candies.
I didn’t want to stray too far from baking.
Valentine’s Day was a good opportunity for chocolate-covered strawberries, and the rest of the calendar filled with weddings, birthdays, anniversaries and company orders.
Anything that was trending was a quick way to make an extra buck.
This gave me enough to pay the bills, with a little extra, without having to hire extra help or open an industrial kitchen.
It was cakes and Pilates. Without having to clean up after a grown human being who was capable of cleaning up himself, I had time to exercise and drop thirty pounds. I looked better than I did on the day of my wedding. A new version of me that Tate never deserved.
I thought about getting back into reading. He never had anything nice to say about what I read. Dragons. Mafia. Historical romance. Anything to escape.
Not like it was any different than his video games, which, in fact, were the same thing. All video games are just simulators. Basketball. Knights. Street drag racers. Everything he couldn’t be, and I’m sure he would say the same about me.
Thoughts like these made me realize how true it was when people said: “At least you didn’t have kids with him.” I was desperate to start a family with him. I was ready. I still am, but no longer desire it with him.
Once again, that would have to be put on hold until I found someone who didn’t drink every weekend like a twenty-one-year-old blue-collar man who just got his first paycheck. And someone who could set the fucking controller down long enough to have an emotionally intelligent conversation.
I’d be happy to never hear the start-up chime of a gaming console ever again.
My phone buzzed. An icon for a direct message from Miles flashed at the top.
I pulled up the social media app and opened my inbox.
Miles had rifled through The Forewarnings page and sent me videos of masked men he approved of.
Under the string of videos he wrote. “You better choose one of these if you win.”
I shot a quick response. “Maybe, it might be weird being with someone my brother would lust after.”
My thumb flicked back to the top video, and I watched them again, with more thought this time. What if I did win? Who would I choose? Who would I end up with? Was I ready?
Yes.
I needed to do something different and fun for myself. Tate would lose his mind if he knew I even signed up.
I asked him to choke me one time, and he lost interest in sex for the rest of the night. I had to tell him it was something I read and wanted to try. In reality, I had done it with other men before him. It came down to the fact that Tate wasn’t even vanilla; he was frozen two percent milk.
He was also lazy in the bedroom. More than not, I had to be on top. I mean, it was good overall. But it should have been better.
‘Same penis forever’ was scripted across my bachelorette cake. The irony. And although the paperwork was submitted, Tate was frequently texting me about hooking up. I didn’t give him the satisfaction of tasting my improved body.
He had his chance, and it was over.
Six Weeks Later
I could hear my phone buzz on the counter. Certainly, it was Tate for the fourth time today. I ignored it. Sitting across from my brother at the dining table, I knew he would give me shit for running to my phone after I spilled who had been blowing it up.
We sat in the quiet moment finishing our chicken, so dry, the wine wasn’t helping. Mom tried. I did not get my kitchen skills from her.
She patted her lip with her napkin and cleansed her mouth with the rest of her glass. “Do you two know what you’re going to be for Halloween?” My mother's glassy eyes shifted between Miles and me.
It was September sixth, but this was the first subject she brought up after endlessly talking about how she spent the last full moon topless, with her ‘new friends’ that she refuses to call a coven. Our town is too conservative for that kind of behavior.
I followed her lead and tossed back the rest of my glass as well.
“I don’t know, Egg, is that going to interfere with your masked serial killer event?”
My mother’s eyes lit up. “What event?” She was drunk.
My napkin dropped over my plate, hiding the last few bites of meat. “No, I haven’t heard anything. I probably didn’t win.”
“Win?” She glanced my way after looking at Miles.
“She wants to be chased by a serial killer.” Miles stared at my mother, looking for a reaction while fishing a thread of meat out of his teeth with his tongue.
“No. It’s nothing like that. It’s a trend going around where masked men chase you through the woods. Just something to fulfill a fantasy.”
“That’s it? I have a few friends who would do that for free.”
I let out a deep breath. “They say the men chase you, carry you to your cabin, there’s therapy involved. I’m not entirely sure.” I had an idea that there was more to it than that, I wasn’t going to plant that seed in her mind.
“That sounds like so much fun!” Mom stood, her cup in one hand and plate in the other. “Is there an age limit?”
I trailed behind her to the kitchen, “I—”
She turned to me, setting her dishes into the dishwasher without a care to even give them a rinse.
“I’m joking, Reagan. If I were thirty years younger, then I would enter too.
Sounds like a blast though!” Her outstretched hands collected my dishes as I approached her.
“I wish Miles would do something like that, he’s always just—around. ”
“Uh-huh.” He stood, almost racing toward us. “But you like me here.”
“Of course I do.”