stayed in L.A. for a few years, trying to keep her reality TV star shining bright, but it had eventually dimmed. She followed a boy out to St. Paul. Their relationship ended after a year, but she found a job as a receptionist for a publicity and marketing firm. Then she started doing a lot of local gigs, including her biggest one as the spokesperson for a local car dealership. She’d gotten the Hummer out of the deal. She’d also done some other jobs and gotten herself jewelry, clothes, and a lifetime supply of dog food.
I had to work twice as hard at being the good daughter to make up for Lana’s “heathen” lifestyle. That was only the start of my problems, though. I’d worried about everyone else when I should have been worrying about myself.
Had Lana really thought I’d be interested in someone like Mark? Sure, he was handsome. But he was the opposite of my type.
Which was probably why she thought I should go out with him. She’d always thought I was too uptight. She was probably right.
I pushed my plate away and looked up at Candy. “Ready to go?”
“We should probably pick out your outfit for the rave tonight.”
I shook my head. “It’s not happening, Candy. I’m not going to the rave.”
“It’s gonna be fun.” Her voice sounded singsong.
Still, I shook my head. Nope, a girl needed standards.
End of argument.
~*~
Who needed standards? Maybe I should go to the rave. Look where standards had gotten me so far. Nowhere.
That’s all I could think about as I held the corner of a bed sheet up to the window frame and pressed a tack into the wall. Instant curtains, right?
What would it be like to go to a rave? I wondered as I pulled another fabric corner to the edge of the window. Why shouldn’t I? I mean, it was just like one, big party, right? And I’d already been accused of being a fuddy-dud. What would it be like to step outside of my comfort zone?
No. I could never do something like that. There was walking away from my faith, and then there was embracing a hedonistic lifestyle. I needed to waver between them and not simply embrace everything I’d ever preached against.
Maybe it was time to get out of my comfort zone, to try new things. Maybe I should hang out with Candy and Mark and go to parties and “let down my hair a little,” as Lana had said. I didn’t have to go crazy, but I could be a casual observer. A lukewarm heathen.
I reached farther, the corner above the window barely out of reach. The stool beneath me wobbled. I shifted my weight, trying to keep my balance. I wondered if ghosts could knock stools out from underneath people’s feet. They could apparently play guitars.
I shivered at the memory. Being in this house wasn’t exactly working out the way I’d envisioned, which seemed to fit in with the rest of my life. But unlike the rest of my life, this house would not defeat me. It would be the ultimate showdown, “Tara’s Last Stand” I’d call it. This would be the place where I proved I was strong.
The stool wobbled again. I’d move it closer to the window, but an overstuffed chair and iron plant stand blocked the floor. All I needed was to balance myself....
Too late. Gravity pulled me downward until I sprawled on the floor. I grabbed my arm as a burning sensation whizzed across it. When I pulled my hand back, blood stained my fingers. The plant holder. I must have scraped the edge of it on my way down.
So much for Tara’s Last Stand…
I grabbed a wad of tissues from the box on the table and pressed it against my cut. I will not freak out. I will not freak out. Blood always had that affect on me.
First-aid kit. I needed a first-aid kit.
I kept my arm raised, trying to remember something about the dangers of bleeding out, while I ran to my sister’s bathroom. I searched the cabinets, under the sink, beside the toilet. Nothing. Not even a Band-Aid. Where else would Lana keep a first-aid kit?
Arm still in the air, I searched her closet and the kitchen. Still nothing.
My wound began to ache. I sucked in a deep breath and pulled the tissues back. What I saw made my head feel light enough to float away. Blood. Lots of blood. A three-inch cut that looked deep enough that I could see things I’d never seen before.
I couldn’t let this go untreated. No, I was going to have to drive to the store and get something to clean this with.
Except I felt like I could pass out.
Think, Tara. Think. There has to be another option.
Call 9-1-1? Nah, they’d just laugh at me.
Call Candy? Did I even have her number? I didn’t think I did.
That’s when the answer smacked me in the face. Ben Cooper. He seemed like just the type to have a first-aid kit. A really good first-aid kit, at that.
I grabbed some paper towels, covered my cut again, and then exited the house to walk toward Cooper’s. My hands trembled and my knees suddenly felt weak as I pounded on his door. I thought about Jesus dying on the cross. It might seem weird, but it was my coping mechanism. Whenever I was dealt some kind of physical pain, I thought of what Jesus endured and it made me realize that things could be worse. Despite my wavering faith, thoughts of Calvary still comforted me.
A moment later, Cooper answered the door, and I forced a smile. “Do you have a first-aid kit?” I held up my arm, and my head swam when I saw blood dripping down my elbow.
He leaned in closer, moving the paper towels again and touching the skin around my scrape like he knew what he’s doing. “We need to get that cleaned up.”
“That’s what I thought, too.”
My knees suddenly felt weak. I sagged against the railing of the porch, trying to keep my balance. Pain screamed from my elbow, and wooziness circled my head.
“You okay?” Cooper cupped my other elbow as if he knew I might pass out.
I pushed myself away from the porch railing. On top of putting things in perspective with thoughts of Calvary, I also tried to avoid drama at all costs, even if it meant pretending to be okay when I wasn’t. Call it a character flaw, but having a drama queen for a sister had made me like this. “I’ll be fine.”
I followed Cooper into a neat-as-a-pin house. I could have stepped onto the pages of Better Homes and Gardens the way the place was decorated. This man definitely wasn’t a bachelor. Maroon walls, a lush animal print rug, and a sleek dark brown leather couch and loveseat were welcoming and homey. A little boy, probably four or five years old, played on the rug at the center of the room. He must be Austin.
I didn’t have time to introduce myself now, especially not since I could pass out at any minute. Cooper waited at a hallway on my right, past a walnut, mission-style table. The room smelled of citrus-tinged linen. Any minute now, I expected Mrs. Suzy Homemaker to step from the kitchen with perfectly coiffed hair and a dishtowel draped over her shoulder.
I stepped
