Twice Shy, Sarah Hogle [100 books to read in a lifetime .txt] 📗

feel terrible. I’m the worst person ever. Can you forgive me? I’m sorry I did it, but in a way it wasn’t all that bad because you were happy, weren’t you? You’ve been so happy these past few months! If you think about it, I gave you a gift.

She begged me not to tell her dad, but another housekeeper overheard the whole confession and told a pool attendant, who told everyone, and before I knew it I was shaking Paul’s hand and accepting a promotion. It was coded into Paul’s upbeat congratulations that the promotion hinged on my not making any waves. I’d keep to myself, and be sad in private, and it meant no more scrubbing wine stains out of carpets. Which was fine. Maybell Parrish doesn’t make waves. She doesn’t even make ripples.

As I wipe down the ice machine, I listen to the distant chime of a door opening up in the clouds. What’s your daily special? a patron asks. Mentally, I follow the sound.

A different Maybell smiles back at her customer from behind a glass case of pastries on display. Like me, she has round glasses with rose-gold frames and honey-brown hair growing out in a Rumours-era Stevie Nicks shag. She sports the same constellation of freckles on her upper arm that I do, and we both wear a dainty heart-shaped ring on our right index finger that our mother got us for our sixteenth birthday.

But this Maybell is smooth and confident. She has a devoted boyfriend, Jack, and an honest, authentic best friend called Gemma. No indentations on her lower lip from nervous nibbling; her fingernails are manicured, not the kind you’d hide in your pockets. Her fresh-from-the-oven donuts are famous in five counties. This Maybell Parrish knows how to stand up for herself and gets what she wants on the first try, her little corner of the universe protected by magic. She controls the weather, the conversation, the emotional mood, who stays in the café and who goes. Here, she is somebody.

Slipping away into the dream version of my life is sometimes a conscious decision. But frequently, I don’t realize I’ve been daydreaming until a loud noise jars me, and when I check the clock, I’ll find I’ve lost an hour. A whole hour, just gone. The more anxious or stressed or lonely I am in reality, the less time I’m inclined to spend in it.

It requires effort to resist spiriting away to my coffee shop. I choose to focus on a topic that will keep me grounded: Gemma. Enough time has passed that she isn’t embarrassed about the catfishing anymore. Now she thinks it makes for a good anecdote, spreading it around, adding embellishments as she goes. I’ve heard her tell Javier that Jack and I had even gotten engaged, which isn’t true.

I blink and center myself, ice machine drifting back into focus. I’ve moved past it and now I’m smearing Clorox circles onto the soda machine. The paper towel in my hand is soggy shreds.

“Excuse me?”

I turn wearily, knowing in my gut that I’m seconds away from being asked to fish a wedding ring out of a bathroom drain. It happens once a month.

It’s a woman in a pink tweed coat. She eyes my name tag and her face lights up. “Well, hello there!”

I offer her the most customer service-y smile I can muster. Please, please don’t tell me someone’s done something unspeakable in the elevator again. The restroom is right there across from it, for crying out loud. I’ll quit. I’ll legitimately quit, right now. “Hi. Can I get you anything?”

“Actually, I’m here to give you something,” she replies, stepping forward. A thick folder is tucked under her arm. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but your great-aunt Violet is dead.”

Chapter 2

CONTACTING VIOLET’S RELATIVES HASN’T been easy. So many of you aren’t on speaking terms with each other!” The woman chuckles uncomfortably. “I tried a number listed as Julie Parrish’s, but it’s out of service.”

“Yeah, she has a new . . .” My throat is suddenly dry. I don’t know why I feel like I might break down—I haven’t seen my great-aunt Violet since I was ten. I swallow. “A new number. I’ll pass the news along.”

Not that Mom will care that Violet’s dead. She was mad at Violet while she was alive, and she’ll stay mad at her now that she’s dead.

“Maybe we should sit down,” she suggests.

I lead the way to a table situated outside a Tim Hortons on the first floor. The seats are riddled with puddles of pool water. No one ever pays attention to the sign on the water park’s exit to towel off before leaving.

The woman is probably in her late fifties, Afro-Latina, with silver threads in her curly black hair, which is pulled tight into a bun. “My name’s Ruth Campos. I was your aunt’s home health aide for four years, and she gave me power of attorney ten months ago. Right now I’m here as the executor of her estate.”

Ruth Campos. I’ve heard that name before. I’m pretty sure she got into it with my mother over the phone one time, not too long ago, when Mom tried to pass herself off as the person who had Violet’s power of attorney in hopes of getting a little bit of money. It didn’t go so well.

Ruth lays out the details both kindly and matter-of-factly: Violet passed away in her sleep on Sunday morning. She was ninety years old. She remained sharp as a tack until the very end, and while her mobility had declined, she’d gotten highly invested in local outreach concerning the preservation of forests. Per her wishes, there was no service, no public fuss. Her cremated remains have been scattered all over her land, to be with her husband Victor’s ashes. He died right after I turned eleven. I heard about it but wasn’t allowed to attend the funeral.

The whites of her