No Bones About It

Chapter 1

Chapter

One

Ihit refresh on the screen like my grandma used to hit spin on the penny machines in Atlantic City. Every heartbeat pounds in my ears in time with the frantic clicks of my mouse. I have wanted this twelve-foot skeleton for years. Longed for him. Thought about him every Fall like clockwork.

And now that I’m single, what better way to celebrate my divorce than finally buying the one thing I’d always been denied?

On my thirty-third click, not that I’ve been counting, the out of stock banner changes to read “one available.”

One.

My soul practically leaves my body as my fingers fly across the keyboard. I add it to my cart like my life depends on it and hit check out before the universe can change its mind.

Finally, he’s mine.

My cheeks ache from the smile splitting my face while the screen blurs with tears of joy. I open my email and stare at the order confirmation like it may vanish into nothing but a mirage of hopes and dreams, dissipating into the ether like a ghost in the night.

I open my email on my phone, needing an obsessive amount of reassurance that I really do have the dream of a lifetime waiting for me. Although the same confirmation message stares back at me from the smaller glowing screen, I won’t be at ease until I have the package safely home.

The second hand on the clock ticks loudly in the background, marking time in the slowest possible way. Six hours until the store opens.

Six hours too long.

I briefly debate a little breaking and entering but realize that may be just a little too over the top. And more importantly, how would I enjoy a twelve-foot skeleton from prison?

My hands vibrate on the steering wheel as I pull into the parking lot, too much pumpkin spice coffee sweetened with hopes and dreams buzzing through my veins.

The familiar home improvement store comes into view, and I take the corner like I’m driving a sports car instead of my old faithful pickup. The tires squeal in excitement right along with me.

It’s barely morning, the lot mostly empty, which works perfectly for me.

I park as close to the entrance as possible.

I am not wasting a single second of today.

I have plans for this skeleton. Big plans.

And today is already the first of October.

The official countdown to Halloween has already begun.

I know Lois is going to be a problem, but I don’t care. She can stick all the pink homeowners’ association notices she wants on my door. I will not turn back from this path that fate has clearly assigned me.

With one last deep breath, I hop out of the vehicle, and pat the side of the truck as I walk by.

“Oh, Big Bertha, just wait!” I squeal, sharing my excitement with my oldest and most faithful friend. “We’re about to make some very questionable decisions.”

The store looms large in front of me, the morning light shining down upon it as if the heavens themselves have blessed this moment. If I listen close enough, I can almost hear the angels singing as if this were a religious experience.

Honestly, it might be. I am kinda building a shrine to the patron saint of Halloween lovers everywhere. Everyone knows only the most faithful have a twelve-foot skeleton. And now I will be counted amongst their ranks—Archbishop Tori Graves of Our Lady of Spooky Decor.

I square my shoulders as I pass through the automatic doors, proudly walking directly up to the customer service desk with a jaunty spring in my step.

A middle-aged man with a receding hairline and a mustache that could go either ironic or unfortunate is pecking away at his keyboard.

I wait. I try to be patient for all of three seconds, and then I fail, clearing my throat as I bounce on my toes.

Flat brown eyes flick up to mine and he says, “Can I help you?”

“Yes, yes you can. I’m Tori Graves, and I am here to pick up my order.” Does my voice sound a little theatrical? Like I’m announcing a major award I just won?

Maybe. But maybe I deserve it. A consolation prize for a failed marriage.

I give myself a little shake. That’s my parents talking. No, this isn’t a consolation prize. This is a reward. A twelve-foot high trophy for rescuing myself from a loveless marriage with a man I never should have settled for in the first place.

The clerk slow-blinks at me as I finish my internal monologue, and my smile falls. He turns his gaze back to his computer and pecks my name in, one painstakingly slow letter at a time.

Without lifting his eyes again, he says, “I don’t see an order.”

Now it’s my turn to slow-blink.

No, sir. This is not happening today. I whip out my phone, shoving the proof in his face, unwilling to accept defeat. Voice tight, I say, “I have the confirmation email right here.”

He studies the screen, then screws up his forehead and says, “Oh, I misspelled your name. Let me try again.”

“Graves?” I ask, nose wrinkled in confusion at how he could possibly misspell such an easy last name.

“No, Tara,” he replies.

Tara? Who the hell is Tara? I really want to deliver some type of pithy comeback, but I refuse to let anything ruin this for me.

A few more clicks and then he says, “You’re going to need help loading this.”

I want to be annoyed. I want to be offended at the implication that I don’t have the strength to load the massive boxes on my own simply because I’m a woman. But I want this prime piece of Halloween in the back of my pickup truck and safely at my house more than my pride.

“Yeah, I guess I will,” I reluctantly admit.

He tells me to pull the truck up, and I head out to do just that. As I wait for someone to come out, my restless fingers drum out a nervous beat on the steering wheel.

“Oh, that’s right! The playlist,” I say out loud to no one in particular.

I connect my phone to the old truck radio with a bluetooth adapter, and “Skeleton Sam” blasts out over the tinny speakers. I spent the lonely yet wonderfully peaceful nights after my divorce constructing a playlist in hopes of just this occasion.

The truck jostles as the boxes are loaded into the back by two guys. One pats the side of the truck to let me know they’re done, and I call my thanks out the window and then take off towards home.

My foot keeps wanting to smash the accelerator to the floor, but I force myself to drive normally, following the speed limit and coming to a complete stop at the lights and then the stop signs as I exchange the bustle of town for my tidy neighborhood.

The little ranch house we purchased years ago as a newly married couple comes into view, but instead of the dread I used to feel pulling up to it and my ex husband, all I feel is excitement at the thought of what my first single Halloween will be like.

It’s a blank canvas, brimming with possibility. I can decorate as much as I want, cook all the pumpkin treats, and watch nonstop horror movies. This year is going to be perfect. Especially after today.

I back into the driveway to make unloading easier, yank on the parking brake, and leap out of the vehicle. My feet barely touch the ground as I run around to the back to unload.

The boxes are heavy, but pure determination, two boards, and a little physics help me get them out and onto the ground as quickly, yet safely, as possible.

I drag them through the gate and over to the yard just behind the fence, then open each one like a kid on Christmas morning.

After the initial flurry of ripping tape and throwing packing paper is done, I carefully unload the parts and spread them out in a circle around me like some macabre science experiment.

The early morning Fall sun is the perfect temperature, casting a warm golden glow on the lawn and illuminating the bones waiting to be assembled. Wanting this to be perfect, I take the instructions inside to read over them over a cup of coffee.

“I’ll be right back,” I announce to the disarray spread across my yard, as if he can hear me. I’m not sure how I know my skeleton is a male, I just do.

While the coffee machines sputters and hisses through the pod to brew a cup, I head to the garage and gather all the tools that I’ll need. Then I sit down with my coffee and study every step like I’m preparing for surgery. Orthopedic surgery, to be exact.

Just for good measure, I pull up a few how-to videos and commit them to memory. By the time I swig down the last of my coffee, I feel like I could do this in my sleep.

I head back out to the yard with a portable speaker and put my playlist back on. First, I settle the base on the ground, then pick up each skeletal foot. I inspect each bone, marveling at the lifelike texture greeting my fingers as I lovingly trail them over each piece.

As I join each set of bones together, and the form slowly takes shape, I can’t help but start chattering, as if I’m talking to a real person.

“Wow, you’re even bigger up close. I can’t tell you how excited I am.

I’ve wanted you for years. And stupid Tony always told me no. He had every excuse in the book.”

I drop my voice, imitating a pompous man. “No, Tori, it’s too big. No, Tori, where will we store it? No, Tori, it’s too much money. And the worst one? The absolute worst? No, Tori, what will the neighbors think?”

I answer as myself, “The neighbors!”

Throwing my hand theatrically to my forehead, I dramatically act out, “Oh, Tony, you’re right. The neighbors. We must think of the neighbors.”

Then I drop my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Look, between you and me, I don’t give a shit about the neighbors. But that damn Lois, she sure gives a shit about me. Just you wait, I know she’ll have something to say about you, too.”