unedited chunk (preview) of the next LRPD

You stare at the fancy lotion for too long.

Before, you would have chucked it in your cart no problem. Twice even, one for home and one for your work locker.

But now, your entire existence is built around a budget that’s calculated down to the time.

And that budget really does not have wiggle room for a twenty dollar bottle of lotion.

Still-

You toss it in your cart. A mistake. An irresponsible indulgence. Something you absolutely should not purchase, but the girl buried so far beneath who she is now, the one who was once reckless and wild and free, she wants that lotion. She wants it bad.

You really, really wish you hadn’t listened to her.

“Wait… what?”

“Sorry, the tag was incorrect.” You stare at the bag of cherries unbelieving. They were the last thing on the belt, bringing your total to a whopping one hundred and forty dollars. Forty dollars over the budget that was already twenty dollars over.

“Okay.” Thank god for small miracles, there’s no one in line behind you to watch your shame unfold like a car crash in slow motion.

“Do you still want them?” You do. Riley loves them. She asked for them specifically. She eats them raw from a bowl until her fingers are stained. She feeds them to the mares even though you tell her a million times not to.

“I mean… you’re saying this bag of cherries is twenty dollars?” The clerk’s smile is sad.

“They are twenty one dollars and fourteen cents.” The lights in the grocery store suddenly seem too bright, and the noise, the beeping and the interceding and the chattering is too loud. Too much. It’s all too much. Everything. This weight will crush you. Your vision tunnels until there’s nothing else, just you and this cashier and your stupidity. “Miss? Do you still want them?”

“Yes, sorry. I want them.” She rings them up, total flashing on the reader in front of you. You sigh as you tap your card-

and then freeze when it makes that dreaded sound.

The “you’re a fucking idiot if you think you’re buying this bottle of lotion” sound. The clerk is looking at you with sympathy now. Camaraderie.

“Maybe it was a bad read. Try again?” She tries keeps her voice down, bless her, but she’s also older than dirt so it doesn’t do much. You try your card again against your better judgement. Same noise. Same sinking feeling. You must have made an error somewhere, screwed up the math.

“Do you have another card dear?” You swallow and shake your head.

“No, I don’t. I’ll… can we take the lotion off?” This is your fault. Your self indulgence, the little devil sitting on your shoulder who told you to pick that stupid bottle of lotion up and put it in your cart.

You’re not that girl anymore. You’re Riley’s, and you’re sure as shit not picking it over her cherries. Lesson learned.

“Take the lotion off?” She repeats, you’re assuming to make sure she got it right before she starts typing away, and you nod. Force a smile. It’s fake but it’s better than breaking down in the checkout line for the second time this year. “Do you want to run back and grab a cheaper one?” Insult to injury.

“No, I’m okay, thanks.” Your tunnel vision finally widens when the new total pops up, and your chest loosens with relief.

For a second.

Until you see Doctor Riley. Standing in the other line just over your cashier’s shoulder.

Staring at you.

Oh my fucking god.

You lock eyes and freeze, a deer in headlights, a woman tied to the tracks. It lasts for a second and then you look away, silently praying for a tornado to come by and rip the roof off this place, carry you off.

No such luck.

Instead, you go through the mortifying motions of loading your cart up with the bags, casually tracking him from the corner of your eye. He finishes before you, thank god, and you stall at the end of the checkout lines until he’s fully out of sight, beelining to the truck lest you get caught in some awful small talk or worse, more eye contact.

Fuck.

You could cry.

You could.

You haven’t done it so long and it would be well within your right today, though you know you won’t. Even if you wanted to, your automatic response is to hold your tears back no matter what, no matter how, and this is no different.

You spot Mabel on the hill right away. She’s the only one who strays from the pasture when the gate gets loose, always taking off towards the highest point on the property, probably so she can look down on her kingdom.

It doesn’t help that she hates Blue, your horse, and as soon as you get close, she bares her teeth. “We know, we know. You’re in charge. Come on lady.” You reach for her halter, but she side steps away from you, jerking backwards. “Mabel. Stop.” You squeeze around Blue with your thighs, urging her forward, closer, and reach again, snagging your fingers into the side of the halter. She tries to pull away again, but you hold her firm. She won’t follow Blue back because following any other horse or even human is beneath her, but if she realizes you’re not going to be giving up, she’ll high tail it back to the barn. You’ve got a good grip, now you just need to wait until she gets the picture, and while you wait, you lift your face to the pink streaked sky. “You know, it would have been a lot easier on me if you hadn’t spoiled the shit out of her.” You chastise the clouds, rolling your eyes. “She’s as bad as you were, always thinks she’s in charge. It’s like I’m still getting bullied by you through your god damn horse.” Mabel snorts, and you glare at her. “Don’t start with me. You’re worth tens of thousands of dollars. I could have sold you.” It’s an empty threat. You’d rather lay down and be trampled.

She decides she’s had enough and pulls ahead, intention clear, and you release her, watch her trot off towards the barn.

For a minute, a brief, hazy minute, she’s not alone.

Your sister is there, turned around in the saddle, laughing and telling you to hurry up. The sunset is painting her in a rainbow of pink and coral and orange, glowing on her face, saddle squeaking under her pregnant belly. Mabel’s gait is smooth, smoother than it’s ever been, like it has been for months, since she started to show. You’re convinced she knows, instinctively. Mother to mother.

“Come on crazy Daisy.” She moves Mabel into a canter, and you grit your teeth.

“Tess,” you’re about to tell her for the seventeenth time that she’s not supposed to be going faster than a trot, but cuts you off.

“I’m fine. Hurry up. I’m hungry and Liam is making chicken wings.” She looks over her shoulder one last time, smile bright, so bright it could blind you, a nearly perfect mirror of your own, and you roll your eyes.

“You’re the worst.” She laughs.

“But you love me.”

The minute passes. It slips through your fingers and you swallow, once, twice, three times.

You could cry.

You could.

But you can’t. You have a little girl back at the house who doesn’t need her aunt fucking crying every time shit gets hard or sad or both. You have a responsibility, and that responsibility depends on you to be strong.

So you are.