Weirdos with Gratitude Journals: Baked and Beautifully Broken, #2

By Rylee Shelton

When Qi, Classical musician and university student from China, and her boyfriend, Larry, find a middle-aged woman in the street, desperate for water and shelter, they do what most nice humans will naturally do: they help. But who is this woman, Devon, and why is she convinced that a large and dangerous organization is out to get her? Whoever she is, she's about to turn Qi's and Larry's world upside down.

Qi's and Larry's relationship is on thin ice as it is. He's ready to take her hand in marriage and become a pastor. The only problem? Qi has a strong distaste for religion, and even more so the idea of marriage. What she would rather do is ditch her entire lifestyle, join a thrash-metal band, and rock out! She allows all of her responsibilities to fly out the window as her personality transitions into something that Larry hardly recognizes.

But what happens when it begins to appear as if a dangerous organization really is out to get this middle-aged woman they rescued? And even worse, what will Qi do when it appears that people are out to get her, as well? 

In this screwball comedy that follows No Dice, get to know this twisted and upside world even more with a whole new set of characters, plus familiar ones as well. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rylee Shelton
• Release date: Jan 26, 2024
• ISBN: 9798223329466

Rylee Shelton

Rylee Shelton lives out his days in Oklahoma - the heart of the nation - sipping water and thinking about burritos a lot. He loves to make up humans and have them do things in order to make real humans feel things.  He lives with his son. They have two dogs: one sweet and big, with a brain the size of a peanut, and the other tiny and scruffy who thinks he's everyone's boss. Rylee Shelton likes to relax with his son and talk about how terrible algebra classes are.

Book preview

Weirdos with Gratitude Journals

Copyright © 2024 by Rylee Shelton

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, and events are from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, or events, is coincidental.

First Edition: January, 2024

To every ESL student I ever had. You all taught me way more than I ever taught you.

Contents

A Quick Heads Up

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The Cliffhanger Buster!

On with the Show!

About the Author

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W hy are you staring at your students' papers like that?

This is the third question my boyfriend asks me as he sits on the opposite side of my desk. He's always filled with such mundane questions.

When I glance at him, I see he's amused. But I am not.

Because my students are stupid, I tell him.

I watch him cross one stupid leg over the other and push his stupid glasses up the bridge of his stupid nose.

Everything is stupid.

China, where I come from, is stupid. So is the United States. And stupidest of all is this Edmond, Oklahoma. The people here can be as sugary and sweet as pie, but they think this is some amazing place. What a dumb attitude to have.

Also, the fact that my boyfriend prefers to go by his American name instead of his Chinese name is stupid.

Larry smiles at me. I bought you a gratitude journal.

He reaches into his gray canvas backpack and pulls out a small red book, about twelve and a half by twenty centimeters. He hands it to me with an annoying twitch in his smile.

Thanks, I tell him.

We speak to each other in English, by the way. It’s necessary practice. We’ve developed this system: English when on campus, even if it’s only us speaking together. When we're off campus is when we use our first language.

He nods with satisfaction as I glance over the journal. His smile deepens. He can read my annoyance, but I can also read the moral authority in his eyes. He thinks this is what I need.

I thought you could practice writing each day about what you are grateful for again. You used to do it all the time.

I fire back in my ever-calm voice, Don't you have a final paper to work on? Larry is getting his Masters in Religious Studies and Divinity.

He fires back, Doesn't your constant pessimism need adjusted a tad?

Oh, how dare he. How… what do the Americans say?

How fricking dare you? I retort.

His face sinks. So unnecessary, Qi.

I don't like to curse. Neither in Chinese nor English. Sometimes I wish I could curse like the Americans, though. They do it so well. Sometimes I'm envious of how sharp they sound when they say the actual F word, making it rain with grit, finality, and unrelenting pizazz.

However, it's not who I am, so I don't blame Larry for his shock.

Sorry, I tell him, but you know I am right. You need to work on your priorities while I work on mine.

Your priorities are your music students. You still have some time before you earn your Ph.D from Oklahoma University.

Not long. I'm on my final stretch and my thesis is a mess. Dr. Tanner and Dr. McRandal found errors in every other sentence.

He offers a knowing smile. I hate when he does that. Grammar and spelling, or logic and pacing?

I try not to fume as I say, All of the above.

He shrugs. Hey, at least you can argue.

This is true. Larry knows I'm decent at making academic arguments. He also happens to be hyper aware he's terrible at it. I feel so bad for him sometimes. It's not so much he doesn't understand proper debate topics or research methods. His problem lies more with his inability to form a coherent argument. One time, he tried to argue a point of view from the book of Luke in the Bible, but all he did was state questions like, If there was no order of salvation history, how did Luke write it out for Theophilus? It was question after question, leaving his religious studies professors shrugging and gaping at him with that familiar expression of, 'You tell us.'

Which brings us to a point of contention in this relationship. He’s sometimes as stupid as a block of ice.

Larry picks at his nails. You don't have to put yourself through such toils to earn your doctorate in music. It isn't a requirement for your life.

That's when I set aside my students' tests and glare at him. "Larry, we are not getting married."

He holds out his hands in defense as if I'm slamming him with a sudden rejection out of nowhere. But we've talked about this.

He leans forward and looks me in the eyes. I can't accept the position on the board of the Chinese Baptist Ministry while living with my girlfriend. We have to be married.

First of all, we don't live together.

But we will if you come with me.

Which brings me to my second point—I'm not moving to Australia.

I don't know why it’s the Chinese Baptist Ministry in Australia that wants me, but it is, and it would be a wonderful place.

Larry, they have spiders there that are scarier than our ancestors' mythological demons.

I don't believe that. He brushes off my claims and leans against the back of the chair, crossing his arms in defiance.

And besides, I add, haven't we talked about the fact I don't like your religion?

His face sinks again as he rolls his eyes. His dark hair catches on his forehead as he feigns annoyance. His beige Polo shirt and vintage blazer both give off a fragrance of the best cologne I've ever come in contact with, so it's hard for me to boot him to the side. Besides, despite the fact that we don't agree on much of anything, he gets me. We stick together.

He recovers from his disappointment. You don't even consider it.

At this, I do something he's not expecting (nor me, for that matter). I smile at him. It disarms him, and the love in his eyes is radiant.

Yet, I have to be honest and blunt. That's the only way with Larry.

I'm not a Christian, and I don't want to be a wife. At all. Perhaps never.

He holds out one finger as if to argue a point. I don't want him to embarrass himself, so I rise from my seat. A chorus of static fills the fabric of my white skirt and I have to try to shake it out before I can compose myself. Doing so exposes my thighs for a flash of a second, and I catch Larry looking away, a blush creeping into his face. He's tried so, so hard not to take advantage of having a girlfriend in order to fulfill his biological drive. I don't think he can wait much longer without going crazy. I think that's why he's doubled down on the marriage talk, but I'm done with it.

Come on, I tell him. Let's walk over to the library. I'll help you research for your final paper.

The blush fades and he offers me a sweet and kind smile. It's a true reflection of who he is. He deserves so much better than me sometimes.

He helps me into my denim jacket. I'll try to forget about how everything is stupid. At least for a few hours.

The moment he turns to open my office door, though, I quietly and quickly place the new gratitude journal in my trash bin.

I take a calming breath as if nothing happened as he allows me to exit first.

When we arrive outside, the clear sky fills me with life and the surprisingly cool air lifts my mood. Oklahoma is a strange place with weather patterns that drift from one extreme to the other. So when a late summer day ends up cool like this, it feels like a gift. I relish it.

However, it's also a stupid irony because summers here are too hot and winters too cold. So the only reason I like today's breeze is because it's rare. We're all going to die of heat radiation someday soon, anyway.

You're so beautiful, Larry says to me as I stare up at the blue sky.

Without looking at him, I say, Thanks, you too.

We don't hold hands. Our culture isn't keen on public displays of affection. Yes, even hand-holding. Behind closed doors, though, is a different story. And if I had a normal boyfriend and not one who's trying to please Jesus every day, I might get lucky once in a while.

The University of Central Oklahoma has been my home away from home for a year and a half. After receiving my Masters in Music Composition and Theory, I became an adjunct professor. This is my job now while I work on my doctorate. From the music building to the library is only a two or three minute walk. I become lost in thought of all the ways I could try to help Larry become a better writer, but I'm not even sure he's a decent writer in our Pŭtōnghuà language, much less English.

We're about ten feet from the library's south entrance when something catches his eye. Before I can stop and focus on what it is that's got his attention, I hear the woman's voice.

Oh, God...

The voice sounds strained and winded.

As she approaches us, I cling to Larry. So maybe public displays of affection are out of the question, but public displays of 'protect me' aren't taboo at all, as far as I'm concerned.

The woman is middle-aged with dark hair. She wears jogging pants and a purple windbreaker. She has a face that shines with beauty, but also has a thick scar that runs from her left ear up to her eye. Her figure is stunning, but her demeanor