Shortcake

by Lucy Watson

If you ever happen to see a vertically-challenged brunette wandering aimlessly in a mall parking lot while yelling at herself, don’t call the cops. It’s just me trying to find my car.

Oh it’s me. Except I’m blonde

Jamie’s character in the series was a serial killer who strangled his victims while wearing lingerie, which makes the fact I still thought he was yummy sort of freak me out.

Ever feel like the universe is some greasy forty-year-old online troll living in his mother’s basement with his Cheeto-dusted fingers hovering the keyboard, just waiting for the perfect time to fuck with you? Yeah, me too.

She states her genetic knowledge with such conviction that I’m pretty sure her family reunion looks eerily similar to the banjo scene from Deliverance.

Ive never laughed so hard at a book in my life.

It sways like a pendulum with the motion of the truck. It’s hard for me to imagine Ben being sentimental about anything… it probably contains a lock of hair from his first victim or something.

look around… I mean really look. Men. Are. Everywhere. Doing and buying manly things. I suddenly love Home Depot.

It seems the top of my vagina is a comfortable place. Fucking Witching Hour.

I’m pretty sure in an alternative universe, he’s inmate number 81433 sitting on death-row for my murder.

I take in a steady breath through my nose, schooling my expression, “I’ve also had a sex dream about Sloth from The Goonies, so…”

After an 80s-movie marathon and a questionable taco salad, Sloth rocked my world in a dream that I’m sure Freud would have had a field day with. If Ben didn’t already think I

I should probably start with the fact Ben and I are fake-engaged. For a fake April wedding. Planned by a real-life Betsy.

“I take it you like to read,” I tease. She stops in front of the built-in bookshelf, balancing the pizza on her hip, and flicks a hand to the books. “Emelia, I’d like to introduce you to the reason I’m single.”

“Book boyfriends.” She sighs heavily,

Then she informs me through the door, “Sorry, girl, I didn’t know he was with someone.” “I’m not with—” “It’s okay,” I lament on the tail end of a fake sob and sniffle.

do what any reasonable person would do when faced with certain death: I reopen my book to a random page, hold it up to my face, and mumble the theme song to Ghostbusters.

I was wrong. He’s going to kill me. I flash to my funeral. It looks like a Denny’s at three am on a Tuesday. A soft taunting knock jerks me back to this Steven King’s The Shining moment that I’m apparently trapped in.

Wait. Is he freaking whistling? At that moment, I know two things for certain: (1) I’m not going to sleep a wink. (2) Benjamin Crawford is going to kill me, probably while whistling.

“Unlock the door.” I sound possessed. I did earn the nickname Exorcist Emmy in eighth grade, so...

By the way, evil people shouldn’t have sexy laughs. They should all sound like Lord Voldemort when he thought he killed Harry Potter. They should all look like him too, a gray noseless creature

“Nothing good ever came from being late either. Look at what happened to the Titanic.” I don’t like Mrs. Baker. “It hit an iceberg, Dottie,” Ada chimes in on a here-we-go exhale.

We? My eyes flash to his. I remind myself that we’re in a cozy but busy restaurant. Which means witnesses. Which means he can’t kill me.

“It was a mistake, Ben,” I rush out as I grip the edge of the sink harder. My gaze flicks around me, and I may or may not think of ways I can use an industrial-sized box of Kleenex as a weapon.

His strong fingers flex into my hip. “Open for me,” he says, before he nudges my nose with his. Then his sweet tongue runs across the crease of my lips. Fuck it. My lips part.

“I’m pissing you off? Are you serious, right now? You’re the one who’s been acting like a total dick since the Bathroom of Doom incident. Not me, buddy.”

Falling a little deeper, I build a Game of Thrones-sized wall around my heart, giving orders to the Night’s Watch, Jon Snow included, that none shall pass, especially none named Ben.

I’m about to ask him just that, when his rich voice fills the air. “Those blue eyes light up at a dress, buy it,” he orders, then directs his gaze to her team. “She asks the price, don’t tell her, or you’ll be here all day.”

Benjamin Crawford reaches his rough and manly hand up to my head and… ruffles my hair. Like he just bought me a Happy Meal. Ruffles. My. Fucking. Hair. I’m dead. Here lies Emelia Anderson. Friend to one. Mother to none. Died from an unfortunate hair ruffle. While wearing a puffer vest.

We clear the last step just as Nick and Jesse sidle up to Ben’s side. We could walk around them, but that’d be weird since our Uber isn’t here yet, so we just stand there facing each other in some kind of strange West Side Story standoff. If Jesse starts snapping, I’m outta here.

The visuals kill me off.

Note to self: look into the Amish acceptance rate.

“You slept on the couch last night.” “Sleep is a bit of a stretch,” I say with a weird snort-laugh. Jesus take the wheel.

My heart shatters when his rough fingers tighten around mine, his pained eyes still locked on Catherine as he clings to my hand like a ship’s lifeline during a storm. I’m here. I won’t let you get lost.

And that’s when I decided I’m going to live my best life in the Canadian tundra as an ice road trucker.

Last night, I fell asleep to an Ice Road Truckers marathon—getting tips on my future best life—while not waiting to hear Ben come home.

I have a better chance of surviving the Australian Outback with half a ham sandwich and a bottle of tequila than surviving this wedding.

Sometimes I think we’re all living in some kind of Matrix-like simulation game with somebody else calling the shots. I mentally flip off whoever’s playing my life. Fucking gamers.

a battering ram. I raise my sword and yell for the guards to prepare for battle. Do I do this dressed like Brienne of Tarth from Game of Thrones? I sure do.

I look to my mental fortress. All my guards shake their heads, put down their swords, and walk away. Thanks for nothing, assholes.

“Yeah? You want to know why I was going to leave, Ben?” His shoulders stiffen. “Because I’m in love with you and I want to have your broody-babies and make you pot roast. That’s why! What do you think about that?” “I love pot roast.” his voice is deeper than I’ve ever heard it. “Are you deaf?! I just said I love you and I want to have your baby-lotion, broody babies.”

“Try being in love with me?” I repeat. My heart stops. My head spins trying to make sense of his words. “When I told you I was going to miss you, you looked like I shot your dog.”

to shake away the thought. “I told myself I’d go back to Phoenix, get my head together. Deal with the shit I gotta deal with, then I’d come back.” He points toward the house, his dark eyes fixed on me. “And you’d be here, and whatever I had to do, I’d do it to be with you. And I’d be the guy you deserve. Then I found out you weren’t gonna be in this house. That you were leaving. That this was it.” His nostrils flare, his eyes flash with pain. “Then I saw you standing there in your dress… and I knew I didn’t deserve you. Not even close.” He shakes his head and swallows. “I told myself I should let you go to find someone who does, but I can’t. Not without trying to make you mine first, because you’re it for me, Shortcake.”

Applause erupts in the background, and then we’re tackled by a bawling Nick, “This is so beautiful. I love you guys. Happiest day of my life.” Mine, too, Nick. Mine too.

I need a book on Nick!

If anyone thought it was weird that Ben hauled me down the aisle over his shoulder while I yelled about pot roast, nobody said. If they thought it was strange that the tattooed highlander officiating our wedding was bawling his eyes out and blubbering incoherently while doing it, nobody said a word about that either.

Only one is a wanderer. Two together are always going somewhere. Travel well, Sweet Benny. Take good care of each other. Love always, Grammy Rose