Wrong Place, Right Time - Elle Casey Page 0,26

chance to live like I’m single again. Like I have no responsibilities and calories don’t matter. I can’t believe I almost blew it by working on my day off. Ha! What nuttery is this? I can go home right now and pretend that I’m fresh out of college again and I have the entire world as my oyster in front of me, and that there’s a man out there who’s both a great husband and a great father just waiting to sweep me off my feet, look me in the eyes, and say: “Jenny, do you know how amazing you are? You’re funny, you’re intelligent, you’re adventurous . . .”

Shit. It’s Dev’s voice that I hear echoing in my head, and I almost start crying when I realize that it’s not me who’s being described; it’s my sister. Some girls have all the luck.

I use my key fob to open my car door and get inside. My car starts up immediately, and the climate control blasts me in the face, hot humid air that makes my future warm bath start to feel like a really bad idea. Sweating in the bathtub suuuucks. The bath is now officially out, which makes me want to punch something. What more could possibly go wrong today?

I drive away, refusing to look in my rearview at the warehouse—the evil place that stole my sister and my bath away from me. The more I think about those people in there and what they do, and what my sister is wrapped up in, the sadder I get. Two miles away from the port, I burst into tears.

I cry almost all the way home, and I don’t even know what the damn tears are for. Are they for May? Are they for me? Are they for my past mistakes, or the future I’ll never have? Maybe they’re for all of the above. I obviously need to get my head examined, because shit is seriously messed up in there. There’s not enough ice cream in all of New Orleans to fix this.

I’m not sure how I got home. My brain took over and put the driver-me on autopilot. I remember leaving the warehouse and then pulling into my neighborhood. I hope I didn’t run anyone over in my daze.

After parking my car in the driveway, I walk into my house. I’m so exhausted, I go straight upstairs to my room and flop down onto my stomach on my bed. Not a single thought passes through my mind before I’m sound asleep.

CHAPTER EIGHT

A vague dinging sound coming from somewhere in my house penetrates the sleep-fog filling my brain. In my half-dream state, I imagine that I have something cooking in the microwave, and it’s time for me to take the food out. Another ding comes, louder this time, or so it seems. Apparently, my microwave has a mind of its own. It’s nagging me: Come get your food, woman!

As I become more fully awake, I realize it’s not my microwave talking to me; it’s my telephone. Someone is texting me. I groan, knowing who woke me up, regretting that I have the hearing of a mother with small children. My shit is bionic.

“Go away, May!”

I grab one of my pillows and push it over my face. I could happily fall back to sleep under here, except for the fact that my breath is totally rank. Damn . . . roadkill breath? How did that happen? Then I remember the jambalaya. “Ew.” I throw my pillow off the bed, telling myself I’ll wash the pillowcase later. I’m pretty sure I drooled on it with my jambalaya stink-breath. Double ew.

I’m not going to answer that text, but now I’m too wide awake to go back to sleep. I roll out of bed and shuffle into my bathroom, too exhausted mentally to actually lift my feet more than a few millimeters off the carpet. Once there, I stare into the mirror at the horror show that is my face.

My makeup has smeared from my eyes down to my jaw. I’m surprised I didn’t cause any car accidents on my way home looking like this. Anyone seeing this face would have thought I was a zombie after their brains. My hair has a big knot in the back of it, and the left side of my ’do is pressed in like it’s been glued in place.

“Beaauuuutiful. Gorgeous!” I put my hands on my cheeks and push them in, puckering the whole front of my