Sweet Forty-Two(38)

An avid equestrian and a lover of nature, Rae spent her last day doing what she loved, riding through the trails of Southern New Hampshire with her boyfriend, Regan Kane.

She is survived by her older brother, Bo Cavanaugh.

In lieu of flowers, the family asks that donations be made to DROP in Rae’s name.

I was speechless. I had no one to talk to at that moment, anyway, but my mouth hung open.

“Everyone’s got an R-rated version of their pain, Georgia.”

If that obituary was the preview, my guess was whatever was inside that envelope was the main attraction.





Regan

Blueberries...

What?

I peeled my eyes open, disoriented by my surroundings, and the smell. I checked my phone, noting it couldn’t have been very late, given it looked like sunrise outside. And, I was right. It was seven in the morning, and I was in Georgia’s apartment.

That’s all the information I had. There wasn’t even a sliver of memory in my head as to what I’d done, or drank, last night in order to end up in this position. Shoes off, clothes on, and in Georgia’s apartment.

With a killer headache.

I groaned as I sat up, the back of my neck meeting the base of my skull with a sledgehammer. I still smelled blueberries, though, and Georgia’s kitchen was empty. It made my stomach growl.

I stood even slower than I’d sat up, and shuffled over to Georgia’s bedroom door. Knocking once, the door swung open slightly, but no noise came from the other side.

“Georgia?” My voice sounded like sandpaper felt. Hell, it felt like sandpaper felt.

I peered through the crack and found her bed made and empty. Feeling for my keys, I panicked at their absence from my pockets. I’d assumed when I woke up that I hadn’t driven home, but I wasn’t looking forward to a key search either.

Walking back to the couch, I noticed the smell of blueberries got stronger as I got closer to the door. I opened the apartment door and was swaddled with the smell of brown sugar, vanilla and the suspect blueberries. I pressed my nose forward like a bloodhound and followed the trail of baked comfort down the stairs. Though I hadn’t walked those stairs in all the time I’d lived there, they seemed familiar.

Flashes of last night came through in fuzzy form. Leaning against the railing. Knocking on the door. When I reached the bottom of the stairs I looked right, to the door I seemed to remember knocking on. I whipped around, but the pounding in my head reminded me to take things slowly.

There was another door, one I was certain I’d never been through, and the smell was coming from behind it. I slowly turned the knob, half-surprised to find it open. Georgia had told me that she only operated the bakery for special orders. Given it was Sunday morning, I figured maybe she had some brunch order someone was picking up, though she hasn’t had anything else to my knowledge in the two weeks I’d lived here.

The door opened into a perfectly polished stainless steel kitchen, which, in turn, was largely open to a seating area that had all kinds of crazy colors and designs. I couldn’t focus on any of them though, because through the large picture window at the front of the store, I saw Georgia.

She was standing on the rock wall across the street that was the only thing separating our apartment building from the ocean. Her face was tilted up, and her hands were down by her side with her palms facing forward, fingers spread out purposefully. I watched her shoulders rise and fall underneath a deep breath.

And then, she jumped.

“Shit!” Any thoughts of mulling around in my hangover were trashed as I pushed through the swinging door into the cafe and pulled the door leading outside so hard I thought I dislocated my elbow.

“Georgia!”

Without looking for cars, I took two strides to cross the street and gripped the edge of the wall, leaning forward, looking down, not considering what awful thing I might find.

It was a playground.

A f*cking playground.

Over the wall, there was a four or five foot drop, then a sloping sand and grass hill that led to a small play structure in the sand right on the edge of where high tide comes in.

Having apparently heard me scream her name, Georgia stood a few feet from the swing set, looking up at me, shielding the sun from her eyes. I hung my head, trying to catch my breath and not throw up.

“Good morning, whiskey. Awfully early for you, isn’t it?” She shouted over the wind and waves, and I hopped the wall and walked down to meet her.

“I smelled the muffins, or coffee cake, or whatever you’re making in that bakery you say you never use.”

She smiled, walking over to the swing. “Muffins. And I told you—I work for large orders and stuff.”

“Do you have a large order today?”

“Yeah,” she chuckled, “your hangover.”

Georgia gripped the chains of the swing, walked it forward, pressing the seat against her belly, stuck her arms out, and let go of her arms and legs at the same time. I watched her for a few seconds, swinging on her belly, eyes closed.

“W ... what are you doing?”

She opened her eyes, but kept looking toward the water. “See, when I was in elementary school, I heard all my friends giggling about how they were flying when they were swinging. I’d been afraid to use the swings before that. But flying sounded fun. So, I sat on the swing and was ... underwhelmed. No animal on Earth flies in a seated position. So, I started going like this. This ... this is flying.”