with a fabulous sense of style.
The something from the woods was mostly furry, probably seven feet tall, and grinning at me. Bigfoot? Wendigo? Wolf Man? I bent to the side, eyes still on the creature, and felt around for my purse.
Because that’s how badass chicks take out big hairy monsters. They wallop them with their purses.
The thing took another step forward, still smiling, gave me a big, furry thumbs-up, and disappeared into the trees.
I groaned and buried my face in my hands. I was going to have to kill Maurice, plain and simple. Apparently, he thought I needed a bodyguard in addition to Fairyland home security and voodoo car fresheners.
I slumped on my rock, lost in images of fairy flyswatters and closet-monster strangulation. I picked up a pebble and hurled it at the water, watching in frustration as it fell three feet short of the water and clunked in the sand. What the hell was wrong with me? I wasn’t a violent person. I couldn’t even throw a rock without it looking like a lame, half-hearted toss.
I’d been taking care of myself (and everybody else who came along) for most of my life. After my mom disappeared, Dad had been useless. I’d been eight, but filled the gap as well as I could. My dad wilted after that. I kept him fed and going to work. He loved me, I knew that. But he wasn’t equipped to take care of himself, let alone a motherless daughter. It wasn’t easy on me either, but I was more adaptable.
And now I had a better understanding of why. I’d taken my dad’s grief and loneliness into myself. I understood it better than he did, and I tried to pour love into him. Over the years he became stronger, and the light in his eyes returned for short bursts, but the loss was a permanent scar. His death when I was nineteen had been hard, but I would never forget the relief on his face when he finally stopped fighting and let go.
Without my father to care for anymore, I attracted an army of needy boyfriends. They marched in and out of my life while I nursed them, helped them pass their college courses, counseled them on family problems. My wallet was emptied both willingly and behind my back when I was in the shower. I fed the ones who were hungry and helped others detox.
And I’d still had time to stay up all night with crying girlfriends with broken hearts.
The exception had been Sara. She never asked for anything, really, except for my friendship. She was easy to be around, made no emotional demands, and I never felt exhausted or drained from her company. Now that I understood what being an empath meant, it gave me insight into our friendship. Sara kept her emotions in check the same way she controlled her appearance. She had all her hair appointments strategically booked six months in advance, and if she needed to cry, she’d schedule a half hour in the afternoon, preferably coinciding with her lunch break. She was an ideal best friend for an uncontrolled empath.
She’d tried to save me from myself on a number of occasions. If she judged an all-night crying jag from one of the girls in our dorm had gone on long enough, Sara would come to collect me and drag me back to our room. If I had a bad breakup—and let’s face it, nearly all of them were bad—she’d stop me from drowning myself in cheap beer and frat boys. A lot of my college experience was highlighted by Sara running interference between me and my own self-destruction.
I snorted and let fly another wobbly rock. It all made so much sense now. This empath thing had been running my life for as far back as I could remember. Hindsight is a worthless bitch.
I thought about the phone conversation with Brad and my heart sank. I’d never been so mean before. Sure, he irritated the hell out of me, but I’d been horrible to him.
I took a breath and held it, then let it out slowly the way Andrew had taught me. Something wasn’t right. I probed the walls of my make-believe barrier to check for cracks. It seemed fine. I took several
The something from the woods was mostly furry, probably seven feet tall, and grinning at me. Bigfoot? Wendigo? Wolf Man? I bent to the side, eyes still on the creature, and felt around for my purse.
Because that’s how badass chicks take out big hairy monsters. They wallop them with their purses.
The thing took another step forward, still smiling, gave me a big, furry thumbs-up, and disappeared into the trees.
I groaned and buried my face in my hands. I was going to have to kill Maurice, plain and simple. Apparently, he thought I needed a bodyguard in addition to Fairyland home security and voodoo car fresheners.
I slumped on my rock, lost in images of fairy flyswatters and closet-monster strangulation. I picked up a pebble and hurled it at the water, watching in frustration as it fell three feet short of the water and clunked in the sand. What the hell was wrong with me? I wasn’t a violent person. I couldn’t even throw a rock without it looking like a lame, half-hearted toss.
I’d been taking care of myself (and everybody else who came along) for most of my life. After my mom disappeared, Dad had been useless. I’d been eight, but filled the gap as well as I could. My dad wilted after that. I kept him fed and going to work. He loved me, I knew that. But he wasn’t equipped to take care of himself, let alone a motherless daughter. It wasn’t easy on me either, but I was more adaptable.
And now I had a better understanding of why. I’d taken my dad’s grief and loneliness into myself. I understood it better than he did, and I tried to pour love into him. Over the years he became stronger, and the light in his eyes returned for short bursts, but the loss was a permanent scar. His death when I was nineteen had been hard, but I would never forget the relief on his face when he finally stopped fighting and let go.
Without my father to care for anymore, I attracted an army of needy boyfriends. They marched in and out of my life while I nursed them, helped them pass their college courses, counseled them on family problems. My wallet was emptied both willingly and behind my back when I was in the shower. I fed the ones who were hungry and helped others detox.
And I’d still had time to stay up all night with crying girlfriends with broken hearts.
The exception had been Sara. She never asked for anything, really, except for my friendship. She was easy to be around, made no emotional demands, and I never felt exhausted or drained from her company. Now that I understood what being an empath meant, it gave me insight into our friendship. Sara kept her emotions in check the same way she controlled her appearance. She had all her hair appointments strategically booked six months in advance, and if she needed to cry, she’d schedule a half hour in the afternoon, preferably coinciding with her lunch break. She was an ideal best friend for an uncontrolled empath.
She’d tried to save me from myself on a number of occasions. If she judged an all-night crying jag from one of the girls in our dorm had gone on long enough, Sara would come to collect me and drag me back to our room. If I had a bad breakup—and let’s face it, nearly all of them were bad—she’d stop me from drowning myself in cheap beer and frat boys. A lot of my college experience was highlighted by Sara running interference between me and my own self-destruction.
I snorted and let fly another wobbly rock. It all made so much sense now. This empath thing had been running my life for as far back as I could remember. Hindsight is a worthless bitch.
I thought about the phone conversation with Brad and my heart sank. I’d never been so mean before. Sure, he irritated the hell out of me, but I’d been horrible to him.
I took a breath and held it, then let it out slowly the way Andrew had taught me. Something wasn’t right. I probed the walls of my make-believe barrier to check for cracks. It seemed fine. I took several
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