Dating Dr. Dreamy - Lili Valente Page 0,63
real deodorant,” I continue, letting Aria into the passenger’s side of the van and climbing in after. “He wears that hippy rock crystal stuff from the health food store. I think you two should give him an intervention.”
“I wouldn’t mind intervening in Mitch’s affairs,” Melody says, backing the van out of our space. “He’s kind of cute, don’t you think?”
“Gross, no.” Aria makes a gagging sound. “He’s about as big around as my right thigh.”
“So?” Melody asks. “You’re skinny, and we still like you.”
“Most of the time,” I add, earning a laugh from Melody and an elbow in the ribs from Aria.
I smile. It feels good to goof off with my sisters, to laugh on the way home as we talk about stupid stuff like Mitch’s armpits, the bleeding deer head cake our dad wants to celebrate the start of deer season this fall, and the garden war our nana is in with her neighbor to see who can grow the biggest watermelon before the fair later this summer.
I haven’t felt this angst-free in months. I’m not sure if the feeling is going to last, but I’m grateful for the reprieve from the misery that’s been my constant companion.
So grateful, that, for the first time in weeks, I make it through my shower and the rest of my pre-bedtime regimen without getting the slightest bit teary and fall asleep without a single Mason-flavored thought passing through my head.
And then I begin to dream, a bizarre barrage of anxiety dreams that put my usual stress-induced nightmares to shame.
Flying over an ocean of grape Jell-O in a glider made of tissue paper when it starts to rain Earl Grey tea that scalds me as I fall into the gelatinous ocean and drown?
Check.
Running through a field of flowers with tiny zombie faces and being bitten on my ankle right as I make it to the watermelon stage where Nana is dancing the jitterbug with a human-sized cockroach?
Check.
Shuffling down the street years and years from now, when I’m even older than Nana, and running into the old man Mason has become only for him to clutch his chest and fall to the ground, dying of a heart attack before I can tell him how much I still love him, or how sorry I am for wasting the lifetime we should have had together?
Check and check and…check.
I dream different versions of that same terrible dream at least three times. In every one, we lose our chance at love, and I live to regret it more than I’ve ever regretted anything.
When I finally wake up the next morning, I’m truly shaken.
It doesn’t take a consult with a professional dream analyst to know what my subconscious is trying to tell me. I may not know the symbolic significance of Jell-O oceans or Nana dancing with a cockroach, but I know I don’t want my last dream to become a reality.
In that moment—still lying in bed, tangled in the covers I’ve twisted into knots during my troubled sleep—I make a decision. I’m not going to ask Mom for the name of the counselor she talked to after Pop-pop died. Not yet.
First, I’m going to Atlanta.
Filled with sudden, urgent purpose, I lunge for the phone by my bed and jab in Melody’s number.
My sister answers after the third ring with a sleepy-sounding, “Hello?”
“Melody, it’s me. I have an important question for you.”
“Lark? Is everything okay?”
“I was just wondering if you and Aria can handle the bridal shower this afternoon alone?”
Melody yawns. “Um…yeah. I think so. The cake and cookies are done and most of the apps prepped, right?”
“Right.” I swing my feet off the side of the bed and pad across the room to my closet. “And Aria is on serving dish duty. The only thing you’ll have to do is grill the bacon-wrapped duck bites about ten minutes after the guests start to arrive.”
“I can handle that,” Melody says. “So what’s up? Did you catch Natalie’s cold?”
“Um…sort of.” I grab my sleeveless white sundress from its hanger. “I’m definitely going to see a doctor.”
“You should,” Melody says. “Natalie called last night, said she felt awful until she took time to rest up. This isn’t something you want to mess around with.”
“I agree, I’m heading to the doctor now,” I say, though I doubt Mason has office hours on Sundays. I’ll just have to show up at his new place for a house call. Thanks to his letters, I have the address.
“Okay. Good.” Melody yawns again. “You want me