my dusty closet, where Iâve hidden it behind two bridesmaidâs dresses.
What is it with Jasmine and poppies? I can already feel my lungs bunching up.
âItâs too small,â I say, trying to deflect the truth and pretty sure Iâm right.
She shakes her head. âNo, itâs a size bigger than I wear. I know it will fit you.â
Oh, thanks, sis. I force a smile. âRight. Thanks.â
âBesides, you look great in sleeveless.â
Sheâs the one who looks great. Tanned, blond hair down her back and a glow in her eyes that hasnât dimmed once since the honeymoon two weeks ago. Even when I told her that yes, I was for sure going to Des Moines. And Russia. She blinked a couple times, but the glow stayed.
I donât want to know why. Please, Iâm not even going to wonder.
Okay, yes, it bothers me more than just a little that I am the last remaining virgin over the age of eighteen in a sixty-mile radius. Not that I want the goodies without marriage, but the fact that my younger sister can sit over there and glowâwell, see, I knew I was better off not pondering all this.
I throw the dress on the bed, unsure what sisterly urge to pursue at the moment.
âHow long will you be there?â she asks as I survey my shoe selection.
âTen days.â Iâm adding in the training session because I know theyâll accept me. But ten days is my limit because, being practical as well as confident, I only asked Myrtle for time off instead of quitting altogether.
I return to my closet. I really like my black, high-heeled sandals, but Iâm not sure I can afford a pedicure before I leave and well, my toes arenât my best feature. I grab my old faithful leather closed-toe mules. (Iâm sorry, but when in doubt, go with comfort.) Which then commits me to the capris, a few cotton sweaters and tanks. And I add in the floral shell (Jas is looking, and Iâm past the petty moment) and a black shirt-waist dress that sheds a few pounds. Especially if people squint a little. You know, Iâve found that if we all just squinted more often, the world would be a much easier place to live. Blurry is nice.
Reality hurts.
Like the fact that I havenât heard from Chase since he left, not a huge issue, but still the guy has my e-mail address. And I happen to know he has a cell phone. I helped him pick it out last summer when he was home for vacation.
He hadnât mentioned Buffy then. Hmm. Not even when I drove him back down to the Twin Cities for his flight out. Nor do I remember him looking as good as he did at the wedding. I do recall, however, grimy jeans, a torn flannel shirt and a battered Twins hat.
I donât want to know who his personal groomer has been.
We listened to country musicâhis choiceâand he crooned a few songs and told me about the assignment he just finished in Tuk, Alaska. He specializes in studying people. Which seems like a pretty strange profession for a guy who couldnât figure out that half the Gull Lake senior class was in love with him. I mean, couldnât he see the girls trailing after him like groupies, hanging out at the Dairy Queen (he did look kinda cute in that paper hat) and showing up at his baseball games? I practically had to fight the crowds as I brought him his chilled bottle of Gatorade!
But now the guy contemplates humanity. He writes studies and reports on people groups, on behaviors, on marriage rituals. I wonder what kind of marriage ritual heâs preparing for him and Buffy.
Do. Not. Go. There.
I should have kissed him goodbye instead of the one-armed hug at the curb.
There are a lot of things I should have done.
âAre you flying?â Jas asks, reminding me that I have a future for which to prepare.
âNo. Itâs only seven hours. I can manage.â
âBut can your Subaru?â She laughs. Oh, hardy har har.
âIâll be fine. Lots of Diet Coke.â I close my
Learning to Kill: Stories