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1
DAPHNE
Seven seconds was allit had taken to confirm that glitter, not pumpkin spice lattes, was the soul-destroying tool of Satan.
I stared down at the barn floor, now covered in sparkly confetti thanks to a tumble I’d taken from tripping over my own feet.
“It looks like a unicorn threw up,” I mumbled beneath my breath. At the mere mention of throwing up, my stomach rolled with nausea.
When my aunt woke me fifteen minutes ago at the butt crack of dawn, after a thirty-minute catnap, by shoving a homemade pumpkin spice latte in my face and ordering me to, “Drink up Buttercup!” I’d thought the seasonal libation some described as a warm hug for the soul, but I’d always regarded as a fatty, pungent, disgusting saccharine brown liquid that was equal parts dairy and diabetes was going to be my nemesis for the day. I was wrong. It turned out glitter, not a pumpkin spice latte, was destined to be my adversarial foe.
My limbs were heavy with exhaustion, and my sight was bleary as I stared down at the sparkling dirt. I should have gotten plenty of sleep last night, but due to a delayed flight andlost luggage, I arrived at my aunt’s house after 4 a.m. and my wakeup call had come at 4:30 a.m.
Forget PSLs or glitter; this ungodly hour was truly the soul-destroying tool of Satan.
After closing my eyes and taking a few deep breaths, I managed to calm the roiling seas of sickness in my belly. I’d had a couple…well, a few… okay, fine,six; I’d had six drinks on the flight last night from California to Georgia, and I was paying for my overindulgence.
See, the thing is, planes and I are not friends, which was inconvenient as a segment producer forPulse, an entertainment news program. Travel was abigpart of my job.
Over years of forced work-related flights, I’d developed a system. I’d perfected my calming cocktail down to the minute. Fifteen minutes before we boarded, I popped a couple of Xanax. Five minutes before boarding, I slipped a few melatonin tablets beneath my tongue to dissolve. Once I was on the plane, I ordered a whiskey straight up, and within ten minutes of being airborne, it was nighty-night time.
The problem with last night’s flight was, thanks to a dinner party I’d thrown the week before where a guest apparently found it appropriate to steal prescriptions from medicine cabinets, I had no Xanax left in my prescription bottle. A fact I discovered while I was seated at the gate waiting for my flight to board. What ensued was panic. Terror. Fear.
What does a girl do when she’s faced with sheer horror? Go straight to the first-class bar and order a vodka soda. It didn’t solve the problem, but it helped take the edge off until I heard the announcement that my flight was delayed—so I ordered another one. When the announcement came that it was boarding, I got one for the road, number three from the first-class bar.
As I’d headed to my gate, I came very close to canceling my trip. But since my late grandmother was being honored posthumously for the years of service she’d given her hometown, I pulled up my big girl panties, boarded the plane, and attempted to drown my anxiety in alcohol. I’d had six more drinks on the flight.
So, now doing the math, I realize, in total, I’d hadninevodka sodas, and I’m pretty sure at least a few of those were doubles. As the daughter of a ‘functioning’ alcoholic, I should have known better. But, in fairness to me, my dad’s drinking never affected him in the form of hangovers or even his motor skills. It showed up in other ways, namely his temper, which was always on a short fuse, but a few drinks in and it was hair-trigger.
Trying to drown my anxiety with vodka wasn’t the brightest move on my part. Although, in fairness, my alcohol excess was not totally to blame for this morning’s suffering. If I’d been able to come straight to my aunt’s house and sleep it off, I’m sure I would be in much better shape. But, instead of that happening, once we landed, I had to wait at the airport for five hours while the airline attempted and failed to find my luggage. Then, my Uber driver got a flat tire and had to call for roadside assistance, which caused another delay. When I finally arrived at the farm, I’d barely closed my eyes when I was woken and recruited to help my aunt finish up her last-minute rush orders for masquerade masks. The Annual Firefly Island Masquerade Ball was in twelve hours, and Aunt Rhonda still had a dozen orders to finish, all of which required glitter, which I’d just dumped in the dirt.
Feeling slightly less barfy, I started to bend down to pick up the tiny shimmering rainbow specks when I got a whiff of the sickening saccharine sweet fall beverage I’d yet to choke down. The wafting scent had my mouth watering—and not in a good way. The flash flood of saliva was a blinking red caution lightto my senses. I straightened back up and placed a hand on my stomach. Then, to avoid spewing, I took in deep cleansing breaths I’d learned in yoga.
I was still attempting to namaste away my nausea when Aunt Rhonda descended from the loft above. I opened my eyes to find my aunt smiling from ear to ear as she hauled down another box from the elevated storage. When she saw the spill, she chuckled. “Looks like you haven’t grown out of the clumsy gene.”
My aunt and Grammy Moore had always teased me about my propensity to drop things, trip, fall, and my general lack of any grace or balance. They called it my “clumsy gene.” I was twenty-five years old before I realized that it was not actually a genetic predisposition.
I exhaled slowly as I once again bent down to clean up my mess.
“Oh, don’t worry, Buttercup, I’ve got plenty more where that came from. After thirty years of teaching kindergarten, I have enough glitter to last a lifetime.”
I should’ve been overjoyed that the next ten minutes of my life wouldn’t be spent on my hands and knees trying to pick up minuscule flecks of shiny confetti off a dirt floor, but all I could muster was a mild sense of relief.
The second I straightened, another box was shoved in my arms.
“But be careful with this one,” Aunt Rhonda instructed. “This is the last box of jewels I have.”
I nodded and carefully carried it out of the barn and set it down with the others in the screened-in back porch where my aunt had set up her crafting workshop.
When I headed back outside to the barn, I was struck by the beauty of the landscape before me. The sky was an inky shade of purple with a sliver of orange at the horizon.
I’d visited Firefly Island a few summers as a kid but hadn’t been back since I was ten, nearly twenty years ago. I don’t think I ever truly appreciated the breathtaking vistas in my youth. I’d lived in LA for the past seven years, and while, granted, there were stunning sunrises and sunsets there, it was mainly due to pollution.
“That’s all of it,” Aunt Rhonda announced as she closed the door to the barn, and we both headed into the sunroom.
After receiving a quick tutorial of what my responsibilities would entail, which included jewels and a hot glue gun, we sat down and got to work.
I’d never been a huge fan of arts and crafts, but I had to admit there was something satisfying about shooting the glue into a spot and putting a shiny round fake jewel in place. I looked up and noticed that my aunt had dark circles under her eyes. I wasn’t sure if it was because of the unearthly hour or if she was just rundown.
