Come What May - L.K. Farlow Page 0,2
single word as my sadness lodges in my throat.
“Anyway, I was calling to tell you, if you need to take some time off, we understand.”
“No!” I spit the word out in a panic. The thought of sitting here, staring at our home without him in it, is too much to bear. “I’ll be there Tuesday when we open.”
“Are you sure?”
I chug back the rest of the can and open another. “Mmhmm,” I mumble around a mouthful of the hoppy liquid.
“Okay. Well, I’ll see you Tuesday then.” She sounds unsure, but luckily, she doesn’t call me on it. Probably because, like me, she was raised by a single parent, too. In her case, it was her grandmother after her mama abandoned her. Either way, I’m thankful she doesn’t question me.
“Yup, see you then.”
The rest of my day is spent on the couch, drinking Dad’s beer, watching mindless television until I fall into a restless sleep.
Monday was spent in much the same way—drinking, crying, napping, and all-around avoiding doing anything important. Like dealing with Dad’s shop or figuring out the bills or his life insurance—though, I’m sure with him taking his own life, that’s a moot point.
At one point, someone knocked on the door, but I didn’t bother checking to see who. The one person I want to see is no longer here.
Now, it’s Tuesday, and that storm I wanted a few days ago is here.
Rain falls from the sky in sheets as lightning flashes wickedly through the dark clouds. It’s perfect, really, because the storm can totally explain not only why I’m an hour late, but also why I look like crap.
It’s a win-win, really. Mostly. Though these wet shoes can go right to hell, along with my headache.
I push open the door to Southern Roots—the salon I’m apprenticing at—and promptly slip, landing hard on my bottom. “Shit!” I moan, making no move to pull myself back up.
“Seraphine!” Myla Rose rushes over to me, her mom-mode activated. “Are you okay?”
“Peachy,” I mumble as she helps me back to my feet.
“Have you been sleeping?” Azalea, Myla Rose’s business partner, asks from the stool behind the desk. Jesus, I didn’t even notice her.
A shoulder shrug is my only reply.
“Are you sure you’re up for working right now?” Myla asks. “You were over an hour late, and if you need some time—”
“It’s the rain. Cats and dogs. It made me late.”
“Forget about sleeping,” Azalea says, rounding the desk. “Have you been drinking?”
“No!”
“Liar!” Azalea leans in and sniffs me. “You reek of alcohol. Are you freaking drunk?”
“Fine, yes.”
Myla Rose takes my hand in hers and squeezes gently. Something about her soft touch has me tearing up and before I know it, I’m a snotty, sniffling mess, blubbering like a madwoman in front of the entire salon.
“What’s going on?” Magnolia asks from somewhere deeper in the salon. “Oh, Seraphine.” She comes to my other side and pulls me into her arms.
Azalea watches us for a moment before speaking up. “I don’t mean to sound like an insensitive bitch, but, S, maybe you should take some time off.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to refuse, to demand she allow me to stay and work, but I don’t. I know she’s right. I’m a mess right now—and a poor representation of the salon she and Myla Rose have worked so hard to build. I won’t let their hard work be consumed by the black hole that is my grief.
“Yeah, okay.”
The three women—my only real friends, even if they are older and my co-workers-slash-employers—fall into conversation, talking about me as though I’m not here. Making plans and such. It’s a blur really, until Myla Rose addresses me directly.
“Cash is on his way here. I’m gonna drive you home, and he’s gonna follow in your car. You’re in no state to drive. We will figure out your apprenticeship hours later, and I’ll handle moving any appointments you may have had, and the three of us will split your other duties. We love you and want the best for you, you know that, right?”
I nod.
“Do you really though?” she asks, her hands on her hips as she glares at me with what can only be described as mom-eyes.
This time, I shrug.
“Seraphine. We. Love. You.” She guides me over to one of the waiting room chairs, away from the prying eyes of the nosy ladies of town, who are no doubt watching my train wreck with rapt interest.
“You’re hurting, I get it. When Grams died, it felt like someone cleaved out