LITMIR.BIZ

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crap. Should I go? No. I had to get my license renewed. Today was the last day I could do it without incurring a fine. I’d picked out this wicked cute outfit, too—red-and-white printed blouse, short red skirt, big gold hoops, and my hair was perfect today, all shiny and swingy … Besides, what could I do? Sit in my car and wail? Kick a tree? Strangle a moose? I really wasn’t the type. The only idea that held any appeal was that of sitting in my rocking chair and eating cake batter.

      A dry sob raked my throat. Shit. Shit on a shingle. Shit on rye.

      “Next,” called one of the DMV drones, and we all shuffled forward six inches. The man behind me heaved an audible sigh.

      Without another thought, I fumbled in my purse for my cell phone. Where was it? Where was it, dammit? Tampon … no. Book on CD … no. Picture of Josephine and Bronte, my nieces … even their beautiful faces failed to cheer me. Where was the phone? Ah. Here. I scrolled down to Annie Doyle. Damn! I got her voice mail. Somehow, it felt like a personal insult. How could my best friend be unavailable in my time of need? Didn’t she love me anymore?

      Clearly the choo-choo was chugging faster now, so I scrolled down for backup. My mom? God, no … this would just be confirmation that the Y chromosome should be erased from humanity. My sister? Not much better. Still, it was someone. Mercifully, Hester answered, even though I knew she was at work.

      “Hester? Got a minute?”

      “Hey, birthday girl! What’s up?” My sister’s voice, always on the loud side, boomed out of my phone, and I held it away from my ear.

      “Hester,” I bleated, “he’s seeing someone! He gave me a beautiful bracelet and kissed me and then he told me he’s seeing someone! For a couple of months and it’s fairly serious, but I still love him!”

      “Jesus, lady, get a grip,” muttered the man behind me. Without thinking, I whirled around and glared. He raised a contemptuous eyebrow—jerk—but okay, yes, heads were starting to turn. Miraculously, no one I knew was here today … the DMV was in Kettering, the town next to Georgebury, so at least there was that.

      “Is this Mark we’re talking about?” Hester asked, as if I’d discussed any other man for the past year. Or two. Or four. Ah, shit!

      “Yes! Mark is dating Muriel from California! Muriel, the daughter of our biggest client! Isn’t that lovely?”

      The man behind me cleared his throat in a very phony and noticeable way.

      “Well, I always thought Mark was a smug bastard,” Hester said.

      “You’re not helping!” I bit out. Why hadn’t Annie answered her phone? She was so much better at this sort of thing. She was normal, not like Hester.

      “Well, what should I say? He’s a prince? Where are you, anyway?” Hester asked.

      “At the DMV. In Kettering.”

      “Why are you at the DMV?”

      “Because my license is about to expire! It was on my calendar—renew license. And I had to get out of there … I just didn’t know what else to do.” A sob caught in my throat. “Hester … I always thought …” I took a shuddering breath and tried to lower my voice. “He said it was just timing. He’s never been serious with anyone before. And they’ve been together for months.” The betrayal, the shock of those words made my chest actually hurt, and I pressed one hand against my swollen heart, feeling hot tears slice down my face.

      The woman in front of me turned around. She had the leathery, lined face and broad shoulders of a dairy farmer. “You a’right, theah, deah?” she asked, her Vermont accent as thick as overboiled maple syrup.

      “I’m fine,” I answered in a shaky and rather unconvincing voice, attempting a brave smile.

      “I ovahheard you, you poah thing,” she said. “Men can be such ahssholes. My husband, Nahman we’re talkin’ about, he sits down to dinnah one day and says he wants a d’vorce on account a’ he’s been banging the secretary down at the creamery. And this when we’ve been married fahty-two yeahs.”

      “Oh, my gosh, I’m so sorry,” I said, reaching out to hold her hand. She was right. Men were assholes. Mark was an asshole. I shouldn’t be heartbroken over him. Except I loved the rat bastard. Oh, blerk!

      “Hello? I’m still here, Callie,” my sister reminded me sharply. “What do you want me to say?”

      “I don’t know, Hes … What do you think I should do?” I asked.

      “Step outside?” suggested the man behind me.

      “Damned if I know, Callie,” she sighed. “The longest relationship I’ve ever had lasted thirty-six hours. Which you know,” she said, her voice turning thoughtful, “has worked really well for me.”

      “Hes,” I said wetly, “I’ll be seeing them together every day.” The notion made my heart clench.

      “That’s probably gonna suck,” my sister agreed.

      “You poah deah,” said the older woman, squeezing my hand.

      Work would never be the same. Green Mountain Media, the company that I helped build, would now be home to Muriel. Muriel. That was such a mean name! A rich girl’s name! A cold and condemning name! Not like Callie, which was so bleeping friendly and cute!

      A sob squeaked out, and Mr. Intolerant behind me grumbled. That was it. I whirled around. “Look, mister, I’m sorry if I’m bothering you, but I’m having a really shitty day, okay? Is that okay with you? My heart is breaking, okay, pal?”

      “By all means,” he said coolly. “Please continue with your emotional diarrhea.”

      Ooh. The bastard! He looked like the stick-up-the-butt type … dressed in a suit (and you know, please—this is Vermont). He had a boring military-style haircut, cold blue eyes and disdainful Slavic cheekbones. I turned back around. Clearly he didn’t understand what love felt like. Love gone bad. Love rejected. My tender and loyal heart, broken.

      That being said, maybe he had a point.

      “I’d better go,” I whispered to my sister. “I’ll call you later, Hes.”

      “Okay. Sucks that it’s your birthday today. But listen, if it’s having babies you’re worried about, don’t bother. I can get you pregnant in a New York minute. I know all the best sperm donors.”

      “I don’t want you to get me pregnant,” I blurted.

      “For God’s sake,” muttered Mr. Slavic Cheekbones. The older woman who’d been cuckolded looked questioningly at me.

      “My sister’s a fertility doctor,” I explained. I closed my phone and wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. “She’s very successful.”

      “Oh, that’s nice,” my dairy farmer friend replied. “My daughter did in vitro. She’s gawt twins now. Foah yeahs old.”

      “That’s wonderful,” I said wetly.

      “Next,” droned the robot. Shuffle shuffle shuffle. The man behind me sighed again.

      Images of Mark flooded my mind—our first kiss when I was only fourteen. Years later at work, him bending over my computer, his hand companionably on my shoulder. Getting nearly drunk on maple syrup just last week at a farm we were pitching. Our first kiss. The fateful airplane ride to Santa Fe. Did I mention our first kiss?

      Hot tears leaked out of my eyes, and I sucked in a shuddering breath.

      Suddenly, a neatly folded handkerchief appeared at the side of my head. I turned. Mr. Intolerance of the Cruel Cheekbones was offering me his handkerchief. “Here,” he said, and I took it. It was ironed. It may have been starched. Who did that anymore? I blew my nose heartily, then looked at him again.

      “Keep it,” he suggested, looking over my head.

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