Fallout Read Online Free PDF

with enthusiasm.
… flowers for the altar.
… flowers for bouquets.
… flowers for centerpieces.
    Grandfather discussing flowers?
    Surreal! They don’t even call my name,
    sure of the fact I’m here somewhere.
… reception location.
… reception music.
… reception food.
    I don’t want to think about any
    of it. I only want to think about
    Bryce. Making love. And babies.

I GO TO JOIN THEM ANYWAY
    Mostly because they’ll probably
    come looking sooner or later.
    Just as I reach the kitchen,
    I hear a cork pop. Loudly.
Aunt Cora screeches. Ah!
Where’s my glass? She turns,
smiling, as I come into the room.
Guess what? We found a church.
    I point to the champagne
    bottle, foaming merrily down
    its neck into a bubbly puddle
    on the counter. “I figured.”
Want some? She glances quickly
at Grandfather, who is scribbling
notes at the table. He shrugs,
so she pours three glasses,
    before I even say, “Guess so.”
    I’ve had champagne a couple
    of times. Always very small glasses.
    I’ve never, in fact, gotten drunk.
Glasses raised all around,
Grandfather offers the toast.
To Cora and Liam, and to two
lives together as one.
    Who knew he was a poet?
    As we clink-and-drink, I offer
    my own silent toast to Bryce,
    me, and new directions.
    The champagne goes down
    like a froth of hope. Aunt Cora
    refills our glasses, but I’m already
    feeling a bit on the “sparkly” side.
    My brain fuzzes with thoughts
    of the afternoon, and when I catch
    Grandfather talking about the relative
    merits of orchids versus roses,
I laugh. Inappropriately. Aunt
Cora looks at me. Really looks
at me, head cocked like a pup
at a whistle. Come here a minute.

SHE PULLS ME INTO THE HALL
    Thinks a second, then yanks me
    all the way into her bedroom.
Okay, give. What’s up with you?
    My throat goes thick and my fingers
    numb. “What do you mean?”
Your aura. It’s like … ruby.
    Oh my God. Freaking gypsy aunt.
    “Um …” Can’t confess. “I, uh …”
You’re in love. Who is he?
    She’s like a little kid at a pony ride.
    Me too, on champagne. “B-Bryce.”
And why haven’t you mentioned him?
    Now my brain buzzes anger. “You … uh …”
    Go ahead, say it. “You’re never here.”

SHE DOESN’T DENY
She deflates. Like someone stuck
her with a pin and the champagne
bubbles escaped. You’re right. I’m sorry.
    “It’s okay. I mean, you’re getting
    married. It’s not like you should
    be thinking about me, anyway.”
Her heads starts to shake. Getting
married doesn’t mean you’re not
important too. Tell me about Bryce.
    We sit on her bed and I recite
    the basic information, omitting
    everything about today. And babies.
He s-sounds great , she sputters,
champagne kicking in. Do you
want to invite him to the wedding?
    A member of the family already?
    “Th-thanks. I’ll think about it.”
    Sputtering a little myself, the first
    time I’ve ever had alcohol go to
    my head. Makes me laugh. Makes
    me brave. Think I kind of like it.

Summer
STRADDLING A THIN WIRE
    Three hundred feet in the air.
    That’s how I feel.
    Safe for the moment.
    But not very.
    December gray shrouds
    the valley.
    Nothing new. Except
    colder than normal.
    I was almost looking forward
    to Christmas this year.
    Thought maybe
    it might be special.
    Despite Dad and Kortni.
    Because of Kyle.
    But now I’m not even sure
    where I’ll be.
    The wire sways in the wind.
    Half of me wants
    to hold on for dear life.
    Half wants to jump.

IT’S BEEN THIS WAY
    Since Thanksgiving. The night
    Dad got pulled over, less than
    half a mile from Carrows.
    When the red and blue carousel
    started spinning behind us, we
    all knew things didn’t look good.
Still, a guy has to give it his best
try. Dad rolled down the window.
Wussup, S … Off … cer?
The cop leaned to look in the car,
backed up at the smell. License
and registration. As if they were all
    he was after. Flashlight illuminating
    every move, Dad reached for
    the glove box. Instinctively,
the cop’s hand