The Do-Over(10)

As I blindly stared at the view above the clouds, I became distraught at the realization that I would never know what Wes’ lips tasted like, and the infinite sadness I felt because of that, overwhelmed me.

Wes Bergman would always be my big What If.

And I wanted a do-over.





Still Can Claim 30’s…


(and I’m sticking to it)





Chapter 4


“How the hell can one person accumulate so much stuff? You really should consider facing the fact that you might be a hoarder and get some help for this.” After pulling out a third salad shooter from my kitchen cabinets, Laynie Campbell’s expression was somewhere between amused and a little scared.

“Well, it wasn’t just one person. It was three of us. And we had more than a slight QVC addiction.” I attempted to explain, but just hearing myself verbalize that, sounded really weird, even to me.

She just shook her head. “Traveling light makes for a faster getaway. It would do you good to remember that, my friend. Do you need this shit?” She pulled out an unopened box containing a vacuum plastic bag sealer.

“No, put that in with the garage sale stuff. The kitchen in the condo has half the cabinet space I have here.” I looked around my spacious gourmet kitchen with the long granite countertops, custom cabinets and walk-in pantry and wondered how I was going to fit all my pots and pans into my new, beautiful, but somewhat abbreviated, condominium space.

“What do they say, the three events that can drive people to a nervous breakdown are moving, getting a divorce and changing jobs? And look at you, T, you’ve got one under your belt and another one in the works. Feeling crazed yet?”

Laughing, “I promise not to do the third. No changing jobs here. I love my job. I swear I would have gone insane without it this past year. And without you,” I added. Pulling more late night television purchases from the cabinets, I shook my head. “Moving is seriously harder than divorce. Someday, you are going to have to drag me out of that condo kicking and screaming because I swear I’m not going to do this again. At least not until Scarlett moves me into an old age home.”

“That child is going to need to take care of the two of us.” ‘Aunt’ Laynie was like a second, and much cooler, mother to my fourteen-year-old daughter. With her long, unnaturally red hair and slightly perverse tattoos, I’d heard from my daughter on more than one occasion, “Ugh, Mom. Why can’t you be more like Aunt Laynie.” That was generally followed by the perfected teen mannerisms of eye roll and hair fling.

Making her way across the kitchen to the built-in desk, she asked, “Do you need these drawers packed up, too.”

“Yup. All files go into that box in the corner.” I pointed at a carton.

“You are definitely a hoarder,” Laynie was shaking her head as she made her way through the desk’s center drawer. “Or you have some weird keychain fetish.”

Laughing, “Don’t throw them away. Scarlett collects keychains on all our trips.” And we had traveled a lot.

“Oh great, you’re turning her into a Hoarder-in-Training,” she muttered, begrudgingly loading the keychains into a small box, before beginning on one of the desk’s side drawers. “What the f*ck are these, Tara?”

Looking up to see what she was talking about, I was surprised to see the horrified look on Laynie’s pretty face. With wide eyes and a look of confusion pressing her brows into near straight lines, she repeated the question, “What the f*ck are these, Tara?”

“They’re poppets.”

“Poppets? What the heck are poppets?” She dropped them on the desk as if they were scorching her fingers.

I laughed at her reaction.

“Please don’t tell me when I go back into that drawer that I’m going to find a box of pins.”

Without looking up from the cabinet I was clearing, “Then you probably don’t want to go back in there.”

“You’re just screwing with me.” Laynie went back into the drawer. “Son of a bitch. Tara, what the hell are you doing, you sicko?”

“Ooooo oooo,” I began to make spooky sounds.

“Where did you get those things?” As usual, Laynie wasn’t going to let it go.

“I got them years and years ago when I was in the Caribbean. Remember when I did that windjammer vacation?”

“Wow. Why did you get them and do you use them?”

Closing the cabinet, I walked over to the desk and looked down at the colorful dolls. Dominica. I had gotten them on Dominica. I remembered the old, toothless woman insisting I take them.

“No, I don’t use them. But I could.” I smiled. “This one could be Frank.” I picked up the male doll. It did kind of resemble the ex, with its light brown hair. “And this,” I picked up the baby poppet, “this could be CB.”

We both laughed. CB was the nickname I’d given to the ex’s new wife, Crystal. It stood for Child Bride, as she had recently turned twenty-five, nineteen years younger than the ex and less than eleven years older than our daughter, Scarlett.

Laynie picked up the doll, “CB, I like it.” She opened the plastic container with the pins.

“Oh no, what are you going to do?” The hair on the back of my neck stood up.