Drop Dead Gorgeous

“And now Blake,” I groan. “What am I going to do?”

This is the part where she reminds me of my history—of everyone I’ve lost, of my bad luck, all the stupid accidents and improbable happenstances in the lives of the people I care about. This is when she reminds me of my fate, my destiny to be alone for everyone else’s good, and tells me that it’s selfish to risk someone’s life because I’m lonely and Blake makes me wish for things I can’t have, even telling me that he doesn’t believe in luck and is willing to risk it . . . risk me. I need her to remind me because I’m forgetting. Not the losses, of course, but the sharpness of the pain. With it being so long ago, softened by time, it’s starting to seem worth the gamble.

Blake seems worth it.

“What makes this guy different?” Holly asks carefully.

That’s not what I expected her to say at all. My head falls back, and I stare at the fluorescent light overhead. “Everything? He quotes me statistics and silly trivia. He’s so damn smart, and that’s sexy as fuck. But at the same time, he’s got this sweet, romantic, believes-in-happily-ever-afters heart. I don’t know what to do with that!” I spin the stool around, already feeling dizzy at my whiplash thoughts, and then stop facing Holly. “He makes me want to believe too,” I confess shamefully, “but we both know how dangerous that is.”

“Is it?” Holly challenges me with a fierce look.

“Ugh. Holly, you know everything that’s happened. I told you when I tried to shoo you off.”

“Exactly. And I didn’t let it scare me away, so maybe this Blake Hale guy has some big brass balls that clang like mine do” —she hits her thighs over the apron, framing her nonexistent testicles— “and isn’t scared off by some tragic backstory you’ve created as a way to protect your fragile, wittle, hurt heart.” Holly pats her heart and pouts with puppy dog eyes.

“Ouch,” I deadpan, but that does really sting.

“Zoey,” Holly continues, giving me ‘the look’, “buckle up, babe. Sister Holly is about to lay some truth on you, and you ain’t gonna like it one bit, but you need to hear me loud and clear. You ready?”

“Honestly, no.”

Holly nods once, firmly. “Don’t matter, because here it comes. Back to the beginning . . . that Michael kid, the peanut butter allergy one? He should’ve known to ask about exposures, been his own advocate or something. Or the parents should’ve known better than to send their hyper-allergic ass of a kid off to sleepaway camp. Yes, it was a bad smooch. All people’s first kisses suck even if they don’t want to admit it, and yours was admittedly the worst of the worst. But that wasn’t your fault because you were a kid playing a game, not asking for full disclosure and STD tests before smooching.” She pauses and holds up a finger, her tone going from smackdown to educational. “FYI, you need to do that these days. Get him tested. If Blake acts put off by it, or God help him, refuses to wear a condom, you get yourself right up and see yourself out the door. If he can’t have an adult conversation about bodily functions, run. He’ll be a selfish lover, guaranteed.”

I blink, still overwhelmed by the change in direction of this conversation. “Uhm . . .”

Holly switches back into all-business, burning my bridges down like a townsperson with a torch. “And Jordan? Babe, that guy was a lazy asshole who didn’t check his own ass for cleanliness, much less his chute for functionality. I’m just glad you didn’t jump that day too, because who knows if he checked your chute. You could’ve plunged to your death because he was too busy playing video games to perform actual life-saving procedures.”

My jaw drops open at the awful things she’s saying about Jordan. “He could’ve died, Hols.”

“But did he die?” she repeats. “No.” Gentler, she continues, “Losing your parents was awful, honey. I know that, and there ain’t no blunting it. But it wasn’t your fault. Your grandparents, either.” She lets that sink in for a painfully long moment and then puts the exclamation point on the end of her argument. “You know what people have in common? Every single person on the planet? They die.”

She gestures to Mrs. Cochran, who agrees with her.

She’s right, dear. I wasn’t a saint, but the one thing I did right in my whole life was love my Walter. I’m glad that whatever days we had together, we made the most of them.

To Holly, I lift one brow and deadpan, “So touching, very sensitive.”

“Shut up, you know what I mean. Just . . . go out with him, see what happens, get your wet ass pussy licked.”