I scrub my face with my hands and let out a groan. Be grateful, Ginnie. Things are finally starting to turn around.
I slide on my fuzzy yellow slippers and find my way to the coffee maker in my kitchen, which is a work in progress. The counters are made of white antique glass tiles. The cupboards are white, too, but I’ve been slowly working on new doors with multiple cutouts to display different glass mosaic scenes: a meadow of lush green grass, bright red flowers, a picnic basket, and other fun images of things I love. There’s something cathartic about adding personal touches to one’s own space.
“Come on. Hurry up,” I grumble at my burping and rumbling coffee maker.
Ding-dong!
My head swivels in the direction of the front door. I’m not expecting anyone. Maybe it’s Vi’s brother, Moose? He stops by unannounced from time to time if he’s doing construction work in the area.
Wait. No. Vi told me Moose is in Colorado, helping their mom with something.
I go to the front door, thinking it’s either some porch-spammer—aka door-to-door salesperson—or one of my neighbors coming to invite me to yet another potluck when what they really want is to introduce me to a friend or brother who’s single.
No thanks. I’ll start dating again when pigs fly or get apposable thumbs so they can start helping me out in the workshop.
I jerk open the door and squint. The low-lying morning sun bursts around the silhouette of a tall, very masculine shape.
“Why haven’t you wished yet?” says a deep voice.
I step back and hold up my hand to block out some of the light for a better look. Jesus. It’s the guy from the market. Blue, blue eyes, hard and cold. Dark-red hair with streaks of strawberry blond, gold, and auburn. Right over his shoulder, I spot a sleek black Mercedes idling curbside. Wait. Black Mercedes. Red hair.
Hole.
Lee.
Fuck.
“It’s you.” I point my finger toward his face. “You’re the suit-hole.”
His blue eyes flicker with irritation. “Just answer the damned question. Why haven’t you wished?”
My pulse starts beating like a loud drum in my ears. What the hell is going on? Whatever it is, warning flares are going off by the dozens…
A) How does he know where I live and work?
B) How does he know I have that bottle?
C) How the fuck does he know I have the bottle?
My eyes glance nervously at the set of keys in my handblown glass bowl sitting on the table beside the door. I have a tiny can of pepper spray on my key chain. If I move fast, I can grab it and spray the bastard because, as is, he’s standing one inch from the doorjamb and there’s no way I can close it without him blocking me.
I’m about to go for the key chain when he abruptly turns and starts walking away. “I’ll give you three more days. Then you forfeit your wish.”
With shaky knees, I watch him, his tailored black suit, and those broad shoulders disappear in his fancy car. Like before, I can’t look away. More importantly, I don’t want to. There’s something about him that’s…that’s…I really don’t know. It’s like my brain’s all frozen up. He reminds me of a snake charmer, which, I guess, makes me the snake?
Stop it. You’re being weird. Because when a strange man shows up at your work and then your home, making bizarre demands, the proper response is to take down the license plate and call the police.
So why is that the last thing I want to do? I’m not some stupid heroine in a slasher flick. I happen to like living, thank you very much. Won’t catch me going into any basements to just “check out the noise.”
My heart racing, I shut my front door, lock it, and press my back to the damned thing. Whatever this is, whatever’s going on, I can’t handle it. My sanity, my energy, and my will to muscle through the worst chapter of my life are hanging by a thread.
I need to get rid of that bottle. It’s connected to him somehow, and he needs to go. I wish I’d never found the thing.
“Here. Take it. I don’t want it.” With two shaking hands, I shove the bumpy colorful bottle toward the cashier at the thrift store where I found it.
“Do you have your receipt?” asks the guy with blond hair, who looks like he’s a college student.
“No, I don’t have the receipt, but the sticker’s still on the bottom.” I point, but don’t touch.
“Sorry, I need a receipt.”
I wonder if he’s being difficult because I look like a crazy person. I was in a rush to leave my house, so I quickly knotted my messy hair on top of my head, threw on some mismatched old sweats (the stained ones I use when I’m painting), and my neon pink tennis shoes. What can I say? I’m an artist. Most of the time, I’m too busy to care about what I wear. Comfort is everything.