Page 11 of Your Every Wish

“How are you doing, dear? You look like you can’t catch your breath.”

That’s because it’s been five years since I was stupid enough to believe running is actually good for you , I want to scream. Instead, I bend over, hang onto my knees, and try not to vomit on Misty’s shiny white Keds tennis shoes.

“I ran that trail that follows the creek,” I manage to say. “It almost killed me.”

“I hope you remembered to bring bear spray.”

I glance up to see if she’s joking.

“I’m serious as a heart attack,” she says without any prompt from me. You’d think she was a mind reader. “They like our trash. Best to bring repellent next time. Or wear bells on your shoes, something to let them know you’re coming.”

There won’t be a next time, but I nod in acknowledgment anyway. The only thing that possessed me to go running in the first place was sheer boredom.

“Did Liam do a nice job on your window?”

So that’s his name. I straighten and press my palm into the small of my back. “He did. It was very kind of him.”

“He’s a kind young man. Single, too.”

“I’m seeing someone,” I lie.

“No, you’re not. But I was thinking of your sister.”

“She has a boyfriend.”

“If you can even call him that,” she says.

I wonder if Emma has mentioned the illustrious Dex to Misty. Or if she met him when he dropped Emma off here in the middle of nowhere and left her stranded in a broken-down trailer without a car or groceries. A real peach of a guy.

“Well, I better get going. I’m meeting some of the ladies at the clubhouse for coffee.”

“Have a nice time,” I say and limp away.

“Before you go, how’s that problem at home?”

“What problem at home?”

“The one in Vegas.” She waves her hand in the air. “Oh, never mind.”

Before I can press her, she’s gone. Poof. Like a puff of smoke. She’s a kooky one, that Misty.

When I get back to the trailer, the funky smell that seems to permeate the walls has been replaced by fresh-brewed coffee.

Emma is sitting at the little kitchen table in her PJs, sipping away.

I help myself to a cup, find the half-and-half in the refrigerator, and join her, deciding that a shower can wait for caffeine.

“Get a little morning exercise?” She takes in my running clothes over the rim of her mug.

“There’s nothing else to do around here. Hey, did you tell Misty about your boyfriend?”

“Dex? No. Why?”

“I don’t know. She said something that indicated that she knew something about him. Like she knew something about the two of you.”

“What did she say?”

“She mentioned that the guy who fixed our window . . . his name is Liam, by the way . . . is single and that she thought he’d be good for you. I told her you already had a boyfriend. She said, ‘If you can even call him that.’ It was weird.”

“And snide.” Emma laughs.

“Did she see him when he drove you here?”

“Maybe. I wasn’t paying attention.”

I start to tell her about Misty’s Las Vegas comment but stop, realizing that it’ll take more of an explanation than I want to give. “Don’t worry about it. I probably misunderstood her. But she’s a little off, right?”

“No. She seems pretty normal to me. Clearly everyone here likes her. I get the impression she’s sort of the unofficial mayor of Cedar Pines.”

“That’s not saying a whole lot. The place is filled with nutter-butters.”

“Eccentric, perhaps. But not nuts. Besides, eccentric is good. It’s interesting.”

“Whatever. I’ve got to shower.” I kill the last of my coffee, pour myself another cup, and take it with me to my bedroom.

My phone is vibrating on the nightstand, and I deliberate on whether to answer it or even look to see who’s calling, ultimately deciding to let it go to voicemail. Why take a chance? It’s probably just Madge anyway. I’d rather not spend the morning screaming at her.

The water pressure sucks, so I don’t linger in the shower like I usually do. By the time I dress and blow out my hair, I’m craving more than coffee. Good thing for Pop-Tarts, the breakfast of champions. I wonder if this dump even has a toaster.

Sure enough, there’s one on the kitchen counter. It’s circa 1972 but it’ll do. Emma has spread out on the table with her laptop and notebooks, so I eat at one of the folding tray tables in front of the TV. Kelly Clarkson has lost a shit ton of weight.

“You mind? I’m trying to write,” Emma says.

I can see the moment when she feels bad about asking me to turn off the television because she turns red, then quickly adds, “You know what? Don’t worry about it. I can move outside.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” I flip off the TV.

“Really? You’re sure? I’m sorry.”

“What are you apologizing for? It’s your job, for God’s sake. You’re entitled to quiet.”

“Thanks for being understanding.”

I roll my eyes, then go back to nibbling on my strawberry Pop-Tart. Not the most nutritious breakfast, but hey, I earned it. For lack of anything else to do, I scroll through my phone, intentionally ignoring the missed call and voicemail that’s marked on my screen. It can wait.

Out of mild curiosity, I stroll over to the kitchen table and try to catch a glimpse of what Emma’s writing over her shoulder. I’ve read “Dear Abby” a time or two and mostly disagreed with her advice.

“This woman is angry with her brother because he and his wife are divorcing after thirty years of marriage. She wants to know if she can ban him from their annual family Thanksgiving, which is at her home this year,” Emma says.

“Sure, why not? It’s her damn house.”

“What does one thing have to do with the other? It’s her brother and sister-in-law’s marriage, it’s between the two of them.

Why is she inserting herself into their decision?

More importantly, why is she angry? Her brother probably needs family more than ever, so why would she want to ruin a perfectly lovely family tradition? ”

“Maybe she thinks he’s a jackass for leaving his wife. Are there kids involved?”

“Yes. But she says in her letter that the divorce was a mutual decision, that her brother told her that neither he nor his wife has been happy for a long time. Yet, she thinks they should stay together anyway for the sake of the children. It’s not her call and it’s incredibly presumptuous of her to think it is. ”

“Are you telling her that?” I stare closer at Emma’s laptop screen.

“Yes. I’m also telling her that she needs to look deep within herself to identify why she’s having such a visceral reaction to something that doesn’t concern her.

My guess is that she’s living in her own unhappy marriage and is angry more with herself than she is with her brother for not doing anything about it. ”

“Or maybe she’s just a bitch.”

Emma laughs. “There is always that, I suppose.”

“You’re pretty good at this, aren’t you?”

“I like to think I am.”

“Do you, like, have a psychology degree?”

“Nope, I majored in English. How ’bout you?”

“I didn’t go to college.”

I’d wanted to but even junior college cost more money than Mom and I had.

And the truth was I wasn’t much of a student.

In high school I was lucky to come home with C s and B s (in math, if you can believe it).

It wasn’t that I was stupid, I simply had other things going on.

For one, taking care of Mom, who would’ve spent every cent she made on tacky clothing and manicures if it wasn’t for me managing our money.

By the time I was thirteen, I was stashing portions of her paycheck in neatly designated envelopes for rent, utilities, and food.

I cooked and cleaned and laundered Madge’s costumes, meticulously hanging them on her bedroom door, ready for her the moment she got out of bed in the afternoon.

She put in long nights, performing grueling dance steps to packed audiences, and slept most of the day.

Weekends, when Sue next door couldn’t babysit me, Mom dragged me along to sit in the dressing room for her matinee and night performances.

It was noisy and chaotic with dancers everywhere, stretching and singing and filling up every corner of the crowded space.

Needless to say, it wasn’t conducive to homework.

When I was fifteen, she let me stay home by myself.

Bad move. Because there were other latchkey kids in our complex and none of us was up to anything good.

We were like a pack of wolves, feral and sneaky, using the alleyway between our apartment building and a Popeyes fast-food franchise to smoke cigarettes and make out.

At sixteen, my money-managing skills netted us a two-bedroom subsidized apartment—a real step up from the one-bedroom walk-up next to the Popeyes—on the other side of town, which meant a new school.

And new friends. I was so busy trying to make an impression that my schoolwork took a back seat to my social life.

“College isn’t for everyone,” Emma says.

My first inclination is to shoot back Damned right, I probably make more in a week than you make in a month , but there was no condemnation or even condescension in her response. The fact is Emma is too nice for that.

Hell, she’s too nice to be related to me.

“How many of those do you do a day?” I point to her computer screen.

“One. Sometimes two, so I can save one for a sick day or vacation. It depends on how long the first one takes me. Some take longer than others.”

“How come?”

“Sometimes I have to think about the question for a while. Nothing is cut-and-dried and I don’t want to give bad advice. I want it to be thoughtful as well as helpful.”

“Hmm.” I put my plate in the ancient dishwasher and stick my head in the fridge before determining that there’s nothing else I want. “I’ll get out of your hair, let you work.”

I suppose I could head over to the clubhouse and join the ladies for their coffee klatch—if they’re still there. Ultimately, I opt to stroll around the park and do a little inventory on the assets here, such as they are.