Don't Know What To Do With Myself

Chapter 1

"Delilah, get your fingers out of your cooch and help me with this heavy ass taxidermy!", my dad yelled for me to come help him with the newest shipment of animals. I rolled my eyes, he's so annoying. Not abusive. Not neglectful. Just annoying.

I don't have a sob story, just a boring life. I'm 19 going 20 this summer. No real job; I ring up antiques, take classes at community college, drive a faded red hoopty, read cheesy romance novels behind the cash register. Glamorous right?

Taxidermy is a hot commodity in our area. The biodiversity in our rural town meant a parade of stuffed animals coming through our door every week. Squirrels, foxes, raccoons, deer...squirrels in hats, foxes having tea, racoons knitting. All the tacky kitsch an eccentric could ask for. I can't knock it cause it puts food on the table every night and some of it was quite charming. 

Dad was rambling on about some rich guy coming into look at our collection of taxidermy, bones, and trophies.

"...And I said to that big shot music producer, 'Sir, you're in luck cuz we got the  Noah's Ark of Taxidermy!'", my dad bellowed with laughter as we sat the palette of animals down on the front lawn. 

I laughed despite not really listening up until that point. Dad has been using that tagline for the store for years. On business cards, at floor shows, when he introduced himself. He even named the antique shop itself Noah's Ark. My mom rolls her eyes whenever he says it, but it worked somehow, because we do in fact have the most clout in our local taxidermy market. First shop called when some rich guy has an exotic animal from hunting to sell, first shop called when someone wants a deer trophy for Father's Day, you get the picture.

After lining up the new animals on the lawn with the rest of the collection I sat behind the cash register, reading a Harlequin romance. 

"Throw that ole bullshit away.", my mom said floating past me, clad in one of her bohemian dresses, her Shea Butter hair products perfuming the air. 

I couldn't help but laugh, they were her novels originally, she knew the garbage I was filling my head with. Despite her protests she couldn't deny she had spent many days in her own youth, devouring the same paperbacks, sipping sweet tea, the Tennessee sun on her brown skin...only to marry my father, who was one of the most unromantic men in town.

"But it's getting to the good part," I said "I know it's bullshit but it's cute bullshit".

"Whatever," my mom gestured toward the door with her coffee cup. "Come on, spy on this weirdo with me."

"The customer?" I asked when I heard a voice respond to my dad.

"No, your father", mom replied with a smirk. 

Her and I burst out laughing as we went to the door to watch dad work his magic. I stood behind my mom in the doorway, my eyes focusing on the customer talking to me dad. He stood towering next to my father, legs for miles. And despite his broad shoulders and sturdy build, he had a delicately handsome face and pale skin. I was immediately intrigued with this particular customer. I wondered what big time country stars he'd produced for.

Most buyer's were boring, vacation sunburnt businessmen who fancied themselves to be cowboys, despite never wrangling cattle in their life. Blah blah blah, hard work, blah blah bootstrap theory...they buy a bear and bull horns and go back to their world of golf and country clubs. On other occasions we got country music stars, folk singers, spaghetti western actors...but even they usually sent their own personal shoppers.

Maybe it was just the way his backwash jeans hugged him in all the right spots, or the way his leather jacket hung on his frame. Either way, I was interested.