Hitched(35)

“No, you’re not,” I promise, panting from the running and the adrenaline and the worry. “I’ll tell them it’s my fault.”

“But it wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. It was just what the universe had planned for this morning. Raccoon chaos and a goat chase.” She shrugs. “This is why we practice staying in the moment. So we’re ready for whatever comes next.”

“You sound like Olivia,” I say, nibbling on my lip as my mind races in frantic circles, proving I need more yoga in my life.

Or a shot of whiskey.

Or a Valium.

Or all three.

I would say a long run, but I had to give up training for a marathon last year when it made my energy field so strong that I shorted out the cash register at the grocery store.

Do not get between tired Southern mamas and Publix fried chicken on a Friday night. They will run over your feet with their cart and not even bother to bless your heart after.

Star beams. “Thank you! I adore Olivia. She and Clover come to my mommy and me class. They have the best energy. Like starlight and honeysuckle blossoms, you know?”

“I do.” I eyeball her arms and decide she’s got the biceps to handle two babies. “Here, take this little buddy too, and drop both of them off in the trailer behind my truck. I’ll head the ticket off at the pass and hopefully grab another baby or two while I’m at it.”

“Will do, good luck.” Star flinches as I pass Biscuit into her arms, where he and Mickey greet each other with reassuring licks to each other’s faces.

“You okay? Are they too heavy?”

“No, it’s fine, I just got a little shock in my back pocket. I guess my phone is short-circuiting or something.”

I wince. “Send me the bill for the new phone.”

“But it’s not your—”

“Trust me, it is my fault.”

I jog away with a wave, heading for the deputy. He’s a youngish guy I don’t recognize at first glance, but he’s got a no-nonsense gleam in his eye. I have to get to him before he reaches Star, and I need to take the heat. She barely makes enough teaching yoga to pay for her basic necessities. A ticket could mean the difference between grocery money and surviving on ramen for a month.

I wave a hand above my head, forcing a smile and willing my energy to simmer down. Instead, an electric feeling shoots up my arm and a moment later the streetlight above me shatters.

I squeal in surprise, covering my head with my hands as the glass rains down around me, fighting tears as a few shards break the skin at the back of my neck.

But it isn’t the sting of the slivers digging in that makes me want to cry—it really doesn’t hurt that badly—it’s the certainty that my entire life is on the verge of spinning out of control, and that it will always be this way.

I will always be one electrical surge away from making something or someone explode. I will always be scrambling to fix the things I’ve broken and make it through another day without causing more damage than I can fix in the time allotted to me on this spinning orb. I will always be tired and stressed because being this weird thing that I am is exhausting.

Until Olivia gave my issue with electronics a name last year, and assured me it was totally normal, I assumed it was something I was doing wrong. But even knowing there are other people like me doesn’t make it all better. I still have to deal with the crazy, and probably always will.

Sex would help calm your energy, Olivia’s told me more than once.

Gently, of course, as only Olivia can.

But I’m not getting sex—I’m chasing goats and making lights explode in public.

I don’t have any energy left to stop the tears filling my eyes from falling. I lift my head, sending them spilling over the edge of my lids to trace hot trails down my cheeks, and reach a tentative hand back around to pull the glass from my skin.

I’m still sliding slivers free, crying, waiting for the officer to reach me, while considering digging a hole in the sandbox and hiding there until my entire life goes away, when a familiar truck pulls around the corner from the fire station.

It’s Blake’s truck.

Pulling my bigger trailer.

And from the looks of it, there’s someone sweet, fluffy, and very good with baby goats inside.

A sob of relief wrenches from my chest. I swipe my tears away and take a deep breath.

It’s going to be okay. It’s all going to be okay.

The officer stops beside me, casting a worried look at my blood-speckled hands as he asks, “You okay, miss?”

Blake already has Chewpaca on a lead, trotting down the trailer ramp, and the relief flooding me is so overwhelming, I feel more like dew-kissed spring grass stretching to wave good morning to the sun than a walking electrical disaster who never learned how to do love right.

“Yes, I’m fine, just a few scratches.” I take a deep breath and brush away the tears. “And we’re going to get the goats all gathered up, I promise.” I motion toward Blake, who’s leading Chewy down the sidewalk by the donut shop, where he instantly attracts Dorito, a tiny ginger goat who’s often too bold for her own good. She emerges from the alley between the donut shop and the mortuary trotting after her surrogate alpaca father, wagging her little tail. “My husband brought reinforcements.”

My husband.