Honey Pie (Cupcake Club) - By Donna Kauffman Page 0,62
It’s not linear. Images flash, then shift, then other information comes in. It can be a swirl. Sometimes it’s clear and easy to understand; other times it’s like operating in a jumbled up fog. It doesn’t always make sense to me, but if I tell whoever I’m seeing, it almost always makes sense to them.”
“Sounds frustrating and exhausting.”
“You have no idea.”
He idled the truck at the stop sign at the end of the ramp leading onto the island. “You said you see bad things more than good things. Is it because the more dramatic stuff sends out stronger signals? Have you ever wondered if maybe it’s because you attract it?”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
He grinned. “Now, don’t go getting all offended, sugar. I just meant that maybe you’re more emotional yourself, more worried about folks, about things, so you, I don’t know, draw that stuff to you. Bea was less . . . deep than you are, and I don’t mean that unkindly. Maybe she only got the more superficial stuff. Or maybe you just get what you can handle.”
“I couldn’t handle any of it.” She snorted. “That’s how I ended up living in the barn.”
He made the turn toward the town square, but didn’t comment, leaving her to her thoughts.
No one had ever just come out and asked about her second sight so directly and matter-of-factly. Her parents had known how uncomfortable it made her, how stigmatized she felt by it, so they went out of their way to pretend it was no big deal and dealt with it only if she brought it up—usually because something bad had happened at school and she was being picked on. Her mother would focus on the bullying itself to help Honey find ways to deal with it, but largely left alone the reasons behind it, not wanting to make her daughter feel more like the freak she was.
Of course, her parents were hardly mainstream themselves, so they were used to being a bit ostracized or looked at a little funny. They’d laugh about it, try to get her to see it from their perspective—that being just like everyone else wasn’t the be all and end all. But then, they’d never dealt with the things she had.
Bea had talked to her about it, of course. But the real irony was that because they both had the ability, they didn’t have to talk about it. It freed Honey up to talk about any- and everything else like a normal person, without feeling self-conscious, worrying about being ridiculed, or, later, when she was away at school, that her secret would get out. She’d hoped she’d grow out of it, that if she ignored it and didn’t engage with it, her powers would diminish like muscles not being used.
Her time at college had proven that assumption very wrong. So she’d pretty much shut everything else down when she’d left school and gone back home.
Her father, bless his heart, had gotten a few local shops to sell her work, saying it was his, so they wouldn’t think the freak girl was putting her weird magic into the pieces. It had been enough to give her something of an income, which had been her father’s hope, and a direction to follow. Honey had been so blown away by the idea that folks liked and wanted her work, she’d begun looking for other outlets to sell it, where she could build something in her own name. The internet seemed the obvious direction, and once she’d really started selling her pieces, the business more or less grew itself from there. Since then, with her folks both gone, other than Bea . . . there hadn’t been anyone to ask simple questions, nor anyone who was curious about her.
She wasn’t sure how it made her feel, that Dylan was asking questions and was curious. She did know . . . she was more intrigued by it than nervous. After all, her secret was out already with him. And he was still asking questions—sincerely, it seemed—and wanting to know more.
“I can almost hear the wheels grindin’, darlin’. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“You didn’t.” She looked over at him again and smiled. “That’s why the wheels are grinding. I can’t remember the last time anyone just came out and asked me about . . . those things. Made it seem almost . . . normal. Or at least, not like the freak show folks used to treat it as.”