The Break-Up Psychic (23 page)

Hart, looking considerably more sober, shakes his head at me. “That’s not a lesson you should have to learn.”

“No?” I ask, looking at his sad eyes. “I would think you of all people would’ve learned by now that love is just a fairytale. There’re no happily ever
afters
. Not for you and not for me.”

I move past Hart, fighting the urge to run for the door, trying desperately to swallow the cry that’s building in my throat. When I get to the door I stop, placing my palm flat against its splintered surface. I turn my head and cast a final glance over my shoulder. One more look. One more second to savor what could’ve been. Roxy moves away from Sam, a pool cue in her hand, and I have my first unobstructed view of him. He looks like he’s battling something buried deep inside. I move to turn away from him at the same moment he raises his eyes and looks right at me. I watch as realization dawns on his face and his mouth drops open in surprise. When he makes a move to stand, I turn and flee the packed bar, running through the parking lot to my car.

I throw myself inside, slamming the door shut and jamming my key into the ignition. I pull the car forward and to the left. My foot is heavy on the gas pedal and it makes the gravel beneath the tires spit up and bounce off the fiberglass. As I pull onto the road I wipe the tears off my face with the back of my hand. I was foolish, believing I could trust him, and I should never have relied on those stupid alarm bells to protect me. Hart said there’re no lessons when it comes to love, but he’s wrong. I’ve learned my lesson. Happily ever after is nothing but a dream.

I pull at the white cotton, trying to stretch the fabric down a few inches so less of my pale belly is exposed, but it’s no use. I turn, assessing the damage in the full-length mirror that’s hanging on Luanne’s closet door. The Corn Festival uniform Brook has chosen falls under the category of cruel and unusual punishment. I crane my neck around, trying to see how high the shorts ride up in the back. The shimmery hot pink fabric clings snugly to the curve of my butt. I really need to cut back on the Ding-Dongs.

Luanne emerges from the kitchen, a cup of steaming coffee in her hands and a wide, unforgiving smile stretched across her face. “Well, what have we got here? Are you auditioning for a role in
Boogie Nights
or an internship at Bazookas Strip Club?”

I turn away from the mirror in defeat, tears threatening the layer of mascara I applied not ten minutes ago. “Don’t, okay? I’m already horrified I’ve got to hustle body glitter to all of Harlow County in this get-up. I can’t deal with the jokes this morning.”

“Alright,” Luanne says, her free hand held up in surrender. “No more jokes, I promise. Now, what’re you planning to do with that mop of hair?”

I shove my fingers into my thick, black hair and release an exasperated sigh. “I guess I’ll throw it into a ponytail or something.”

Luanne
tuts
her disapproval at me, shaking her head. “Listen, Ellie. I know you feel like shit. You went and gave that big heart of yours away again, even though I warned you not to, and now you’re settling into your role as St. Ellie the Martyr, but that doesn’t mean your hair has to suffer.” Luanne abandons her coffee mug amidst the mess of jewelry, framed photos, and dried flowers which litter her dresser. “Come here,” she orders.

I walk sullenly to her and drop into the arm chair which previously held the contents of my old closet, the one I had shared with Tim. Two nights ago Luanne declared her room a natural disaster and we painstakingly hung, folded, and stored every piece of clothing I owned throughout Luanne’s cramped apartment. I caught a whiff of Tim’s cologne on a blue pashmina scarf at the bottom of the pile and, I’m ashamed to admit, proceeded to hold the silken fabric to my face, deeply inhaling the subtly-sweet scent I used to crave so much. A pang of longing ripped through me at the smell, but not necessarily for Tim. It was more of a longing for something I’m starting to think I’ll never find—true love.

Luanne yanks, twists, and fastens my long wavy hair into place, allowing me my moment of self-righteous silence. “There,” she says, squeezing my shoulders before moving away and reclaiming her coffee mug. “Just because you feel like shit doesn’t mean you have to look like it.”

“Thanks, I think.” I stand and inspect my new up-do in the mirror. Luanne’s given me a sophisticated ponytail with a little faux Mohawk in the front. The wavy hair captured by the ponytail is shiny and bouncy, thanks to a fresh smelling product she ran through the strands before brushing them. I still look like an undercover vice detective trying to bust a prostitution ring, but the new hairstyle’s given the whole look a more updated and stylish flare.

“I’ve got to admit, you give good hair.”

“I do my best. Now you’ve got to scoot or you’ll be late for your curtain call,” she says, winking devilishly at me before retreating to the living room.

I give myself a last look in the mirror, reaching up to touch the now unblemished skin of my neck, Sam’s hickey no longer visible. If it wasn’t for my tired, mistrustful eyes and the downward turn of my mouth, I wouldn’t look half bad in this getup. Of course, I’ll never admit that to Brook.

“Ellie!” Luanne calls from the other room. “Amber’s on the phone. She says if you don’t get your ass to the fair in ten minutes, she’s going to set fire to the tent!”

“Tell her I’m on my way,” I call back. Poor Amber. She’s been dreading today all week. I promised her I’d be there early and here I’ve gone and left her alone at the fair, awaiting her fate amongst chocolate-flavored body powders. I grab my purse and call a goodbye to Luanne as I head out of the apartment. I’m going to have to floor it if I want to get to the booth in time to save Brook from Amber’s wrath. When I left the shop last night, I distinctly heard Amber muttering the words “contaminated” and “alibi.” I don’t have to be psychic to know Brook is in for a world of hurt if anyone dares to try and lick Amber.

I drop into the car as my cell phone begins to buzz within the confines of my purse. I reach inside my bag and my fingers instantly fall upon the vibrating plastic. The caller I.D. confirms what my gut suspects. It’s Sam calling. It’s been three days since I caught him at the bar with Roxy. He’s left two messages asking me to call him back so he can “
explain things
.” Where’ve I heard that one before? I drop the phone onto the passenger seat, lean my head back, and close my eyes against the dull buzz of the phone, thinking back to my conversation with Luanne after I ran out of The Cavern.

Luanne got back late that night. When she saw I was waiting up for her, snuggled into the sofa, still dressed though my eye makeup was worn off from crying, she took up the seat next to me and held my hand.

“Well, what do you want to know?” she asked.

“Is he with her again?”

“I don’t know. She used to pop in and out, but I haven’t seen her in a year or more. I didn’t know she was his fiancé—ex-fiancé, anyway.”

“What’d he do after I left?”

“He ran out after you, tried to get your attention, but you were
drivin
’ like a bat outta hell. You nearly ran over Drunk Tony who was passed out on the lawn.”

“Oh, no! Is he okay?”

“He’s fine, didn’t even know what happened until he woke up with a face full of road dust. Hart bought him a shot, so it ended up being a pretty good night for him, all-in-all.”

I fidgeted with the hem of my dress, swallowing hard and willing Luanne to continue.

“Sam was in a right state. Came back into the bar and had a face-off with Hart.”

“What? Why?”

“Well, as you may’ve surmised, Hart is no stranger to nursing a broken heart.”

“Your Aunt Jo?”

Luanne nodded. “He’s been mad for her going on forty-four years now. They had a pretty heavy thing before she married Uncle Rodney. Neither one of ‘
em
has ever been able to walk away from their history together.”

“Is she still in love with him?”

“She tries to hide it, but, yeah, she’s still
holdin
’ a flame for the old biker. After you left, Hart started in on Sam pretty good. Told him he was a fool to let you slip through his fingers. Said Sam’s been making nothing but mistakes since he and Roxy split, and you’d be better off without him if that was the way he was
gonna
behave.”

“What’d Sam say?”

Luanne squeezed my hand and turned to look at me fully. “He told him to stay out of his business.”

I waited for Luanne to continue. I knew there was something else. “Just tell me.”

“He left the bar with Roxy. She seemed pretty pleased with herself, made me strongly reconsider Jo’s ‘No Baseball Bats to the Head’ rule.”

Luanne gathered her legs up onto the sofa and leaned into me, wrapping an arm around my neck and resting her head against my shoulder. “It’s not you. You know that, right?”

I closed my weary eyes and felt fresh tears escape to travel silently down my cheeks. “But it is me,” I said, my words thick and hoarse. “I can’t get it right. I’ve tried so hard to get it right and it always ends the same way, with me crying on your couch and my heart broke, again.”

I started crying in earnest then and Luanne held and shushed me, softly petting my hair until all my tears were spent. At about 1:00 a.m. she tucked me into her bed and told me things would look better in the morning. But I knew she was wrong. The morning would come, bright and cheerful, but I’d still be alone.

The fairgrounds are abuzz with activity. The Daughters of the American Revolution are pinning American flags to every square inch of their tent. Their worn hands and silver heads are moving quickly in patriotic fervor. Four tents down the row, the old men of the Elks Lodge have taken their seats behind a long table. Tall hats rest impressively on thinning hair as they openly observe the high school varsity cheerleaders practicing their spirit-fingers and toe-touches.

I approach the Brook’s Bath and Body Shop tent which is sandwiched between Carly’s Sweet Treats and The Canvas Corner. The latter sells canvas tote-bags screen printed with pictures of your grandchildren or favorite dog. The Bath Shop’s tent is in the center of the entire fair and a mere twenty feet from the funnel cake stand. I shudder to think of what Brook had to do to get us this prime location.

I spot Amber, wrapped in a calf-length trench coat and huddled in a back corner of the tent. Her brow is creased and she looks like a kitten that’s been thrown into a dog fight.

“Sorry I’m late,” I say, dropping my purse behind the makeshift counter.

“Whatever.” Amber hugs herself and looks away from me. She’s rocking back and forth, her nervous anxiety showing in her movements even if she won’t cop to it.

“Is Brook here yet?”

“Yeah, she just went to get another box of product from her car and asked me to start setting up for her.”

I look behind me at the empty table and then to the full cardboard boxes sitting on the ground near Amber’s feet. Despite the summer heat and the skimpy pink outfit, she’s still wearing her black combat boots.

“Amber, I know these uniforms are ridiculous, but—”

“They’re not ridiculous, they’re evil.”

“Well, then, you ought to love them.”

Amber shoots me a hateful stare and wraps her arms tighter around her chest. “Don’t try to cheer me up.”

“Oh no, I would never do that.” I turn away from Amber and remove the various creams, perfumes, and flavored body powders from the boxes then assemble the table display that Brook had me practice at the store last week.

“Ellie?” Amber asks in a small voice.

“Yeah?”

“How much flavored body powder would I need to ingest to kill myself?”

I look at Amber from over my shoulder and give her a wry grin. “More than we’ve got here.”

I feel bad for Amber. I know what it’s like to feel that you’ve been hung out to dry, even if I am slightly amused at her discomfort. I stack the flavored powders in the center of the table and look around me for the sign Brook made especially for the display. Spotting the bejeweled wooden sign, I walk around the table and outside the tent to set it in the wooden tripod stand at the tent’s entrance. The sign reads,
Come Taste Me
. I look over my shoulder to see if the Morality Police have shown up to arrest us but see someone much scarier walking my way.

Brook is bouncing down the grassy thoroughfare, her silicone breasts hardly moving beneath her tight, white t-shirt. Her arms are stretched before her as she lugs an overflowing box toward the tent.

“Hey, girl! Come and help me with this box,” she yells, her feet wobbling in neon-pink stilettos that are sinking into the soft ground.

I begin to jog toward her then stop when I pass by a couple of fair workers who’re openly ogling me in my tight shorts.

“Well, don’t you just look cute as a button?” Brook heaves the box into my arms and wipes the sweat forming on her brow. “Woo-wee, it’s
gonna
be a hot one today. Is Amber still
wearin
’ the coat?”

“Yeah, and we probably shouldn’t leave her alone for long. I have reason to believe she’s planning to poison someone today, maybe herself.”