A painful mash-up of past memories and future wishes race through my foggy mind, out of control, swirling like angry white-water rapids.
I sink farther into the couch as wave after wave of should-haves crash over me. My dad should have lived long enough to see me married. He should have had a whole gaggle of grandbabies to call him Papa. He should have just… been here—too bad all of these should-haves were stolen from me with a mouthful of pills.
My eyelids droop as I give up fighting the current of my thoughts. I’m nearly down for the night when my phone starts vibrating in my back pocket with a notification. I’m half tempted to ignore it—but I don’t.
Lord knows, if it’s one of the girls from the salon, and I ignore them, they’ll call in the calvary to deal with me. I’ve done my best to avoid the concerned trio—evading them with texts full of emojis that hopefully mask the self-destructive path I’m on.
Truly, I’m a mess. A sad, sloppy, angry mess.
Lucky for me, it’s no one. Just a calendar notification. I move to swipe it away, but draw up short at the words on the screen.
No… surely not. I squint and move my phone closer to make sure I’m reading it right.
“Fuck, how could I…” I mumble to myself as I try to sit upright. Clumsily, I double-check the date. But my phone is right. The fair starts tonight, and for the past eighteen years, Dad and I have gone to the opening night.
It’s our little tradition. We’d walk the block to the fairground, kick off the night with a corn dog, ride all of the rides, and end it with cotton candy.
Before I can think better of it, I’m up from the couch, shoving my feet into the first shoes I see, and stumbling out the door.
Looks like tonight, I’ll be carrying out our tradition on my own.* * *The lights and sounds of the fair wrap around me, the familiarity a much-needed comfort. Even the smells—fried food, cow manure, and bad decisions—put me a little more at ease.
I wander around, taking it all in before finding the courage to kick off the first of what will surely be my new normal—aloneness.
On unsteady feet, with my newly acquired foot-long corn dog in hand, I make my way over to the small food tent. I claim a rickety plastic table and dig in, ready to make the best of things, except the golden-fried goodness tastes like ash in my mouth without Dad here to enjoy it with me.
Instead of arguing over which condiment is supreme, I’m eating in silence, wondering how in the hell it’s possible for the world to keep spinning without Dad here.
My whole life, he’s been this larger-than-life persona. That he’s no longer here is unfathomable. The fact that he left of his own volition—it’s nearly debilitating.
I’m dragging my corn dog through my ketchup and mustard mixture when a shadow falls over my table. “What’s a pretty girl like you doing all alone?”
I glance up to find not one but two guys standing over my table. They’re nearly interchangeable in looks—tall, fit, fishing shorts, button-downs, and university-affiliated ball caps. The only discernable difference is their hair color—one blond and one brunette.
“Eating?” My reply comes out as a question.
“Mind if me and my buddy here join you? All of the other tables are full.”
A quick look around confirms the dark-haired man’s statement. “Sure.”
The two men sandwich me in. “Thanks. We got one more joining us.”
“Okay,” I say. In truth, I feel a little on edge with them here, but at the same time, it’s so nice to be around people—people who don’t know about the death of my dad. People who won’t look at me with pity.
“A lady of few words, huh?” the blond asks.
I shrug.
“I’m Jason,” the first man says.
“And I’m Allen.”
“Seraphine,” I say, my lips tipping up in a small grin.
“It’s very nice to meet you,” Jason says right as another man joins us. He’s another carbon copy of his friends, except he’s rocking a five-o’clock shadow and has his hat turned around backward.
“I brought beer!” the newcomer hollers before claiming the chair across from me.
“Manners,” Allen chides, reaching for one of the plastic cups in the middle of the table.
“Well, hello there,” he says in a voice that can only be described as a purr. “I’m lucky.”
“That’s your name?”
“No, Cliff’s the name; I’m lucky because I get to spend my night with a beautiful woman such as yourself.”
Despite the fall chill in the air, warmth blossoms across my cheeks.
“You want a drink?” Jason asks.
Warning bells—albeit very distant ones—sound, telling me not to take the drink. And yet, I find myself nodding and bringing the cup to my lips. My face screws up at the first sip, making them all laugh. There’s nothing worse than cheap beer, and after seven days of drinking Dad’s alcohol, the difference in quality has never been more apparent.