The Spinster & the Sock

1. Hell & High Water

Hell either way, I am spinning and twisting like I might get paid for it.

For the life of me, I can’t even begin to guess which way is up.

By some stroke of dumb luck, the relentless spin cycle I’m enduring detangles the netting that, quite literally, got me into this mess in the first place. My lungs ache and my eyes burn in the salty water while I desperately search for the surface.

I finally find a light. It has to be the ship’s spotlight—surely—so, with a prayer to whoever will listen that I don’t swim right into the propeller blades, I start kicking.

You’ve had the unfortunate experience of peeling off wet jeans before, right? I would put that on the same list of shitty things I never want to do again—right below swimming with waterlogged boots.

These fucking things are heavy enough as is; add a few pounds of numbing liquid to the mix and you may as well have tied my feet to a cinder block.

Naturally, I don’t have any aspirations of sleeping with the fishes, so I let my impulses win and aggressively toe my poor, expensive boots—and consequently, a single sock—off, then resume my fight with Poseidon.

Darkness is creeping in my periphery, and I swear my lungs have actually started screaming. I can hear the high-frequency squeal of every last oxygen molecule leaving my body. The light is right there and all I have to do is reach out and touch it…

Air. Sweet, blessed air hits my face, triggering the most dramatic and obnoxious, greedy gulps for oxygen to ever have been gulped in the history of gulped air.

I’m not sure how long passes with me there, treading water and gasping like SpongeBob sitting inside Sandy’s dome before that little voice in the back of my head pipes up, alerting me to how unusually still the water is.

I blink.

I blink again.

And again. And again, again, again.

Then I stop treading water, because apparently confusion turns off my survival instincts, and promptly sink below the surface again. This time when I flounder back up, I don’t hesitate before heading to the shore.

Yes, the shore. I am just as confused, don’t worry.

I don’t think I hit my head when I went overboard, but the present circumstances argue otherwise.

It doesn’t take long. I was at best only fifteen yards from the bank of what I now presume to be a small lake?

A large pond? Right in the middle of a park teeming with people walking along a cobblestone path.

If the jarring difference between the Bering Sea and the park I’m now in isn’t enough, every single person passing me is decked out in old ass clothes—and I don’t mean old as in worn and dirty, no, I mean vintage.

Like…petticoats and overcoats, breeches and suit jackets.

That’s how I know I’m either unconscious or dead, and somehow on the set of the next season of Bridgerton—not that I’ve watched all three previous seasons multiple times or anything.

Standing still, wet as a dog, in the mud surrounded by geese isn’t doing me any good, so I pick a direction (opposite that of the public path) and start walking.

“God, I hope this is just some coma dream, ‘cause if I’m dead and miss Mom’s lasagna…

” I gripe with a shudder. To be honest, though, I’m the one who would be the most upset about missing Mrs. Hollows’ famous lasagna dinner.

It’s my favorite thing my mom makes, and she knows it—there’s always a double batch waiting for me at the end of the season.

I try not to think about what Dad said to me before I got on the plane for Washington: “You’re dancing with fire out there, son. One of these days you’ll get on that boat and never come back. I wish you would stay home and help with the corn.”

Part of me has always kept going just to prove him wrong.

Joke’s on me, I guess.

Somewhere off to my left, a horse whinnies, stealing my attention. Surely if this is a dream, I couldn’t possibly get in trouble for, say, acquiring said horse? Aggressive arts and crafts, plus my impromptu swim, really has me worn the fuck out.

I’m still internally debating the legalities of my soon-to-be transportation upgrade when I’m quite literally hit by ye olde time version of an delivery person.

An apt description, if the half-dozen parcels are anything to judge from—all now air born as we crash backwards.

Here I am, left on my ass, surrounded by large boxes, draped in one surprisingly heavy, piglet-pink gown and staring across the carnage at a pair of beautifully perplexed, sea-blue eyes.