Chapter 9
Since getting drunk doesn’t seem to be an easy option, I do the next best thing: hit the gym.
I joined a local gym called Titan Fitness about six months ago.
Cooper was already a member, so we got a family discount.
I never enjoyed exercising in the past, but I’ve been pushing myself.
I’m tired of being weak and out of shape.
And I’ve become hooked on the rush of adrenaline I feel as I push my body to the limit on the treadmill.
It’s better than any antidepressant. And I should know—I’ve been on all of them at one time or another.
Before I head to the gym, I make a pit stop at the nursery where I buy supplies for my garden. I don’t need anything for my garden today, but there is a related purchase I need to make. I hope they have it.
The nursery is surprisingly busy for a Wednesday morning. I pass through the glass enclosed area containing a variety of plants into the heart of the store. I suspect what I need will be in the main store, but I’m not entirely sure since I’ve never purchased anything for pest control here before.
Fortunately, I spot Lou, an elderly man who owns the nursery with his wife, Louise (I know—how cute).
He knows just about everything when it comes to plants, and he’ll certainly be able to help me find what I need, even if I can’t find it here.
He’s stocking one of the shelves with a fresh supply of clay pots and is so focused that I have to clear my throat repeatedly to get his attention.
“Debbie!” His face creases in pleasure when he finally realizes I’m standing next to him. “How can I help you this morning, my dear?”
“I’m looking for Japanese beetle traps.”
Lou tilts his head to the side. “Japanese beetle traps? Are you growing roses?”
“No.” I hesitate, reluctant to say too much. “I’m picking them up for a friend.”
He nods thoughtfully. “Sure, we have them. Those things are a scourge, aren’t they? Probably the most common lawn pest we see around these parts.”
“So I’ve heard.”
Lou leads me down an aisle labeled “pest removal.” Between a spray bottle for mite control and one to kill gnats, there are several neon green boxes labeled “Japanese beetle traps.” Right next to them, there’s also a supply of trap refills. I reach for a handful of the refill boxes.
“Those are just refills,” Lou points out to me. “They won’t trap the beetles.”
“Yes, I know.” I smile at him. “That’s all I need for my friend.”
I wonder if three of the refills will be enough. I suppose I could always come back for more of them if I need to.
With the three packages in my arms, I head over to the checkout line, where there’s a line of five people waiting for Louise, whose two checkout speeds are slow and slower.
I check my watch and let out an exaggerated sigh that reminds me of Lexi.
My book club meeting is at twelve thirty, and it’s now eleven, which means that I’ll barely have time to work out, as long as I shower and change at the gym.
That awful Jo—this is all her fault.
The line moves forward agonizingly slowly. Louise is negotiating a customer attempting to pay with a check. She’s peering through her reading glasses at the check, holding it up to the overhead light. It might be twelve thirty before I even get to the front of this line.
Finally—finally!—I am at the front of the line with only one person ahead of me at the cashier. When I am next in line, a slim woman in her sixties who reminds me a lot of Jo Dolan elbows her way in front of me. She’s gripping a small bag of seeds, which she holds up as if in explanation.
I freeze for a moment, stunned that this woman just cut to the front of the line after I’ve been waiting for twenty minutes.
The move sets off the same buzzing sensation in the back of my head that I had when I was talking to Jo Dolan.
I stare at the back of the woman’s head for a few seconds, then clear my throat.
“Excuse me,” I say.
The woman ignores me.
“Excuse me,” I say again, “but the line is back there, behind me.”
The woman gives a half turn this time. She sees me standing there and seems astonished that I said anything. “Yes, but I was here earlier,” the woman says as if this is a completely reasonable explanation. “And all I’ve got is just this one thing. I’ll only be a minute.”
The buzzing in my head gets louder. What is that? Am I dying?
I shake my head. “It doesn’t matter how many items you have. You can’t cut the line. We’ve all been waiting.”
The woman blinks at me as if personally offended that I am questioning the fact that she cut ahead of, like, five people to the front of the line.
“I’m not cutting,” she insists. “I was here earlier.”
Is she kidding me? I don’t understand how some people believe they can do anything they want. Like they are completely above all the rules.
“I don’t care if you’ve been here all week,” I retort. “The back of the line is behind me. Now are you going to go there on your own, or do I have to make you?”
The woman looks like she’s going to protest, but then our eyes meet, and she changes her mind. She takes a step back, a flicker of fear in her eyes as she hugs the bag of seeds to her chest.
“Psychopath,” she mutters under her breath.
Nobody else hears her though, and there’s actually a smattering of applause as she trudges to the back of the line. And that’s when I notice that the buzzing has completely vanished.