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Once upon a time, in the hot humidity of a late Georgia summer, a queen ices her swollen lip. Or rather, a theme park employee masquerading as a queen. An employee who, currently, can’t tell if the metallic tang in her mouth is from leftover summer rainfall or blood.
I can’t speak. I’m too distracted by her soft Barbie blonde hair. Overwhelmed by how much I’ve missed her. Humbled by how unbelievably screwed I am.
Oh ho ho ho
Honey is a mystery. I once heard she owns a domesticated grizzly bear. There’s also a rumor that two out of her three ex-husbands mysteriously disappeared in the ’90s. And then there’s the popular theory strictly among Honeywood employees that she’s also a porn star. Given her name, I’d buy into that theory. But also, given that she’s seventy years old, at minimum, I desperately hope it’s just bad gossip.
Though what society doesn’t tell you in those classic stories of princesses, knights, and unicorns is that not everyone deserves that romantic, happy ending. Sometimes, you’re saddled with your father’s cynicism and your mother’s mental predispositions. Sometimes, you’re not the woman being kissed out of a deep slumber, but instead, you’re the one who succumbed to the rotten apple.
My hands steady up an old woman. Her wrinkled skin shrivels near her lips, as if she were a mother who both loves her child and is simultaneously disappointed by them.
“No one has to know you like the shorts too, Barb,” he says, the words smooth and slow in my ear. I can feel his beard tickle against me as his soft lips run along my earlobe. I swallow, inhaling sharply as he clutches my waist tighter.
SIR!!!
Me: Want to practice lines tonight instead? Quinn: So desperate for company. Me: Maybe I miss being told how horrible I am. Quinn: Don’t worry. I’ve got a backlog of insults from the past two years. Me: I bet you do. Care to share? Quinn: I don’t like making grown men cry.
He smells like vanilla and cedar with a hint of malty caramel from the beer.
Mmm
“Go,” he says. “I’m not Old Yeller.” “And I’m not shooting you.” Debatable. I’m getting shot right to the heart.
“Might be easier to forgive you if you got on your knees.” His eyebrows rise. I thought he’d laugh with me, but he doesn’t. “Quinn,” he says, his tone raspy and low, “if you want me on my knees, I can get on my knees.”
“Listen, I know y’all don’t get along. But whatever history y’all have is so old,” she says. “Like, that beef is probably old enough to drive or buy alcohol, you know?” “Maybe a learner’s permit at best.”
“You panicked?” “Yeah,” he says with a slow nod. “You make me panic. How are you surprised? I’m a mess for you.”
He whispers into my ear, strained and gritty, “I would do anything for you, if you’d let me.”
Landon is the Prince Charming I don’t need. I don’t need him dipping me so low in the show. I don’t need him smiling at me with those gorgeous dimples. And I definitely don’t need the sweep of his lips over mine, making me melt right down to the creaking stage.
I grab another blanket, creating a larger cocoon of comfort around myself. By nine o’clock that night, I’ve collected all the blankets in our house and graduated from rabid animal to glorified burrito.
What a mood
Our kisses are needy but soft. Slow but purposeful. We let the sound of the rain serenade us as we fall into each other.
“You are the best annoyance,” I say. He chuckles, low and husky and warm. “And you are my favorite misery.”
I feel for Quinn the way you feel the change in seasons. Nothing tells you it’s autumn, but suddenly, you need a sweater, you want everything pumpkin-flavored, and horror movies demand to be watched.
Quinn looks at me like she wants to punch me, only to kiss the bruise afterward.
