At twenty-four years old, Rosibell had already learned one of life’s most important lessons:
Never wear your favorite steampunk boots into a cow pasture.
She had learned this the hard way.
Rosibell worked at a local farm milking cows, which sounded peaceful until you actually met the cows. They had personalities. Strong personalities.
There was Buttercup, who kicked the milking bucket whenever she felt she wasn’t receiving enough attention. Daisy liked to lick Rosibell’s sleeve. And then there was Beatrice, a large brown cow who stared at everyone as though she knew their secrets.
“Good morning, ladies,” Rosibell would say every morning.
Moooo.
“Yes, yes. I know. Management is terrible.”
MOOOO.
“Take it up with HR.”
Unfortunately, the farm did not have an HR department.
It barely had Wi-Fi.
Rosibell wasn’t exactly what people pictured when they heard the words farm girl. She loved steampunk fashion—dark blue dresses, brass gears, goggles, old-fashioned corset designs, mechanical-looking accessories, and anything that made her look as though she might step aboard an airship at any moment.
Her father once looked at one of her outfits and asked, “Why do you have gears on your dress?”
Rosibell shrugged.
“Because regular buttons don’t look like they could power a submarine.”
Her mother nodded thoughtfully.
“That actually makes sense.”
It absolutely did not.
But that was Rosibell.
Rosibell still lived with her parents.
Technically, she told everyone she was “strategically delaying independent residential deployment.”
Pete called it “living at home.”
Pete had known Rosibell since high school and had absolutely no respect for sophisticated terminology.
Rosibell was saving money because she dreamed of opening her own business someday. She hadn’t completely settled on the idea yet, although lately she had imagined something involving drinks, pastries, and steampunk décor.
Cindy suggested calling it Steam & Cream.
Pete immediately said, “That sounds questionable.”
Cindy adjusted her glasses.
“How?”
Nobody answered.
Dayane laughed so loudly she nearly fell off the couch.
Rosibell’s parents actually liked having her around. She was their only child, and Rosibell knew the house would become painfully quiet after she moved away.
Her father pretended otherwise.
“You should move out whenever you’re ready,” he told her.
Then he added, “But preferably not until I'm eighty-seven.”
Her mother was even less subtle.
“You could always open your business in the garage.”
“Mom.”
“We could put a little apartment upstairs.”
“Mom.”
“And knock a doorway through the kitchen.”
“Mother.”
“I’m only brainstorming.”
Rosibell knew they would miss her.
And truthfully?
She would miss them too.
Behind the house grew perhaps the most productive lemon tree in California.
Nobody understood why.
That tree produced lemons as though it were trying to corner the citrus market.
Rosibell picked bags of them every week.
She made lemonade.
Lemon cake.
Lemon cookies.
Lemon chicken.
Lemon tea.
At one point her father opened the refrigerator and stared inside.
“Is there anything in this house that doesn't contain lemon?”
Rosibell thought about it.
“The milk.”
“Thank God.”
“Although I was thinking about—”
“No.”
Eventually there were more lemons than the family could possibly use, so Rosibell started giving them away.
Friends got lemons.
Neighbors got lemons.
The mailman got lemons.
People walking their dogs got lemons.
One afternoon, a confused delivery driver arrived with a package and left holding six lemons.
He climbed back into his truck wondering what exactly had happened.
Rosibell considered it community service.
“When life gives you lemons,” she liked to say, “give half of them to somebody else before they take over your kitchen.”
Her closest friends were still the same people she had known since high school.
Pete was the practical one.
Cindy was the nerdy one with glasses who could turn almost any conversation into a scientific explanation.
And Dayane knew everything happening within approximately a fifteen-mile radius.
Nobody knew how.
Dayane didn't gossip.
She conducted unauthorized community journalism.
One Saturday afternoon, the four of them sat beneath the lemon tree drinking lemonade.
Dayane leaned forward.
“So.”
Rosibell immediately became suspicious.
Whenever Dayane started a sentence with “So,” somebody’s private life was about to become public information.
“I heard Carlos at the hardware store is single.”
Pete groaned.
“Here we go.”
Rosibell raised an eyebrow.
“Carlos?”
“Hispanic. Thirty. Nice smile.”
Cindy pushed up her glasses.
“Do you maintain a spreadsheet?”
Dayane looked offended.
“Of course not.”
There was a pause.
“It's a Notes file.”
Pete nearly spit out his lemonade.
Rosibell laughed.
Her friends knew she had a weakness for Hispanic men.
Rosibell had occasionally wondered whether Hector had something to do with that.
Hector.
Now that had been a love story.
Rosibell had been absolutely, ridiculously, completely in love with him.
The kind of love where somebody texts good morning and suddenly you think birds are singing louder.
Hector was Hispanic, funny, affectionate, and capable of making Rosibell laugh even when she was angry.
He also had a foot fetish.
Rosibell discovered this fairly early in their relationship.
She had once kicked off her sandals while watching a movie.
Hector stared.
Rosibell looked at him.
“Hector.”
“Yes?”
“My eyes are up here.”
“I know.”
“Hector.”
“I’m getting there.”
From that day forward, Rosibell joked that her feet had their own boyfriend.
If she bought new sandals, Hector noticed before he noticed her haircut.
“You changed something,” he would say.
“My hair?”
“No.”
“My makeup?”
“No.”
Rosibell sighed.
“The sandals?”
“YES!”
At least the man was consistent.
Rosibell eventually found the whole thing rather adorable.
Unfortunately, love sometimes runs into something stronger than romance:
Geography.
Hector moved to another country.
Neither of them had done anything wrong. There was no dramatic betrayal, no screaming argument, no one throwing a glass of lemonade against a wall.
They simply talked.
And talked.
And eventually admitted that thousands of miles could turn even a wonderful relationship into something exhausting.
So they ended things mutually.
Rosibell cried.
Hector cried.
Then Hector made her laugh one last time.
“Promise me you'll take care of those feet.”
Rosibell laughed through her tears.
“You are unbelievable.”
“I’m serious.”
“They're feet, Hector. They'll survive.”
And somehow, that made goodbye a little easier.
Months later, Rosibell was doing better.
She still thought about Hector occasionally.
Especially when she met another Hispanic man.
Cindy once asked her, “Do you think you keep dating Hispanic men because you're subconsciously trying to find Hector again?”
Rosibell stared into her lemonade.
“Possibly.”
Pete looked concerned.
“That's surprisingly deep.”
Dayane nodded.
“Give it ten seconds.”
Rosibell continued.
“Or maybe Hispanic men just look good.”
Pete sighed.
“There it is.”
Rosibell laughed.
She knew nobody would ever be exactly like Hector.
And maybe that was a good thing.
The next person she loved shouldn't be Hector 2: The Sequel.
He should be himself.
Although, she admitted privately, a charming accent wouldn't hurt.
Rosibell's other great passion was horror movies.
The scarier, the better.
Ghosts.
Zombies.
Possessed dolls.
Haunted houses.
Masked killers who apparently had unlimited cardio endurance.
Rosibell loved them all.
Every Friday, she tried to convince her friends to watch one.
Pete hated horror movies.
“I don't understand why anyone pays money to become uncomfortable.”
Dayane replied, “You dated Amanda for six months.”
“That was different.”
Cindy enjoyed horror movies mostly because she liked pointing out scientific inaccuracies.
“That corpse would not decompose that quickly.”
“CINDY,” Rosibell shouted. “THE CORPSE IS WALKING.”
“Which is also biologically unlikely.”
One evening they watched a movie about a haunted farmhouse.
Halfway through, a demon appeared behind a cow.
Rosibell immediately yelled:
“LEAVE THE COW ALONE!”
Pete stared at her.
“Three people have died.”
“Yes, but that cow has responsibilities.”
Despite all the jokes, Rosibell was quietly building toward something.
Every paycheck from the farm, she saved a little.
She kept a notebook full of ideas for her future business.
The concept slowly became clearer:
A quirky steampunk café.
Dark blue décor.
Brass gears.
Victorian lamps.
Old clocks.
Homemade desserts.
And, naturally, lemonade from her parents' ridiculously productive tree.
She even had a possible name:
Rosibell's Clockwork Lemon
Pete loved it.
Cindy had already started sketching a logo.
Dayane had already told fourteen people it was opening.
“It isn't opening yet!” Rosibell protested.
“Marketing,” Dayane replied.
“You told them we're opening next spring!”
“Motivation.”
“I don't even have a building!”
“Minor detail.”
Rosibell shook her head.
Maybe someday.
She imagined herself unlocking the door to her own little shop in a beautiful steampunk dress while some enormous brass clock ticked above the counter.
Her parents would probably visit every day.
Pete would ask for free coffee.
Cindy would redesign the menu because the font wasn't historically accurate.
And Dayane would sit at a corner table learning everybody's business.
Basically nothing would change.
Except Rosibell would finally have something that belonged entirely to her.
The following morning, she returned to the farm.
She tied back her black hair, adjusted the little pin near her bangs, and approached Beatrice.
The cow stared at her.
Rosibell stared back.
“Don't judge me. I'm building an empire.”
Moooo.
“You're right. One step at a time.”
She pulled over the milking stool.
Then she smiled.
“Besides, every successful businesswoman needs startup capital.”
She looked at the bucket.
“And apparently mine comes two percent.”
Beatrice mooed.
Rosibell laughed.
Life wasn't exactly where she imagined it would be at twenty-four.
She still lived with her parents.
She still milked cows.
She still occasionally missed Hector.
Her future café existed mostly inside a notebook.
And there were currently approximately four hundred lemons invading her backyard.
But Rosibell wasn't worried.
She had friends.
She had family.
She had dreams.
She had lemonade.
And somewhere out there, perhaps, was another handsome man waiting to meet a quirky steampunk-loving farm girl who watched horror movies, handed lemons to strangers, and came with a very specific warning:
If you compliment her shoes, you had better be prepared for the Hector story.
And if things ever turned sour?
Well...
Rosibell knew exactly what to do with lemons.
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