“Mitch is sick and isn’t coming home for the weekend, and my mother-in-law can be a bit much.”
“Poor thing.” Annell, who barely reaches my shoulders, steps out from behind the counter and wraps me in a hug. Though she has never, to my knowledge, given birth, she is the mother I wish I’d had or been given a chance to be. “Shall I come out and explain to her just how lucky she is to have you for a daughter-in-law?”
“Tempting, but I think I’ll survive.” The sincerity of the offer and her obvious affection give me the strength to force myself back outside to the car when I’d much rather hang out here in the place I love, around people who are more like family than my husband’s mother has ever wanted to be.
At the grocery store, Dorothy once again remains in the car. I pick up staples and sandwich makings and easily assembled meals like the good “elf” that I am.
Then I go to the freezer section, where I fill the rest of the cart with teetering piles of pints and quarts and gallons of ice cream.
Four
Erin
I’ve been filling in for Louise for a week now. I really hope that her mother gets better. I do. It’s just—well, I’m kind of hoping Louise stays in Memphis long enough for me to prove myself here.
The agency will close for the holidays, and while support staff will be in the office right after New Year’s, agents like Jazmine with NFL clients will travel most of the month. January’s their “busy” season.
Josh and I are getting married on New Year’s Day. Yeah, I know. A lot of the guests will be watching bowl games on their phones and watches while I’m walking down the aisle. But we picked the date because friends and family will still be off work and school for the holidays. When we get back from our honeymoon in Turks and Caicos, I’ll finally move out of my parents’ house and into the gorgeous thirty-seventh-floor Buckhead condo Josh bought for us. We’ll have six whole weeks together before he reports to spring training in Florida.
Footsteps sound on the marble floor, and I look up to see Josh, who has a meeting with his agent. He shoots me a wink as he passes, and even after all these years I can’t quite believe he’s really mine.
I was six the first time I watched him pitch at one of my brother Tyler’s Little League baseball games. I fell in love with Josh—and how hard he could throw a baseball—at seven. When I turned eight, I decided I was going to marry him.
Laugh if you want, but I just knew. And my determination to make him love me back kept growing while I trailed behind Josh and Ty through elementary and middle school, even though I wanted to cry every time he called me “squirt” or ruffled my hair.
Other girls started developing in middle school, while I stayed short and flat. I prayed for breasts every single night, and while it wasn’t exactly a miracle on the order of the Virgin birth, my prayers were finally answered that summer before I started high school.
I think I prayed a little too hard, because they turned out a lot bigger than I was expecting.
I only have brothers, and their idea of dressing up is athletic shorts that have been worn for only two or three days, so I had to scour fashion magazines for the kinds of clothes that would emphasize my new best features without revealing too much of them. Ditto for the most flattering haircut for my too-narrow face, the right shade of blond to compensate for the dishwater shade I was born with, and makeup that made my eyes bluer and my lips poutier.
Josh had been away playing ball all summer, so when I put myself in front of him as if by accident on my first day at Walden High School, he actually stuttered in surprise. “I . . . jeez, squirt . . . is that really you?” His dark brows shot up. Confusion clouded his beautiful brown eyes.
“Of course it’s me,” I said in the matter-of-fact tone I’d been practicing. “We all have to grow up sometime.” And then, although I honestly don’t know how I pulled it off, I gave him a small, friendly smile and walked away.
After that, I went out with every guy who asked me (especially to places Josh might see me) and most especially to the high school baseball games, where I made a point of treating him like a brother. (Think comfortable old couch.)
When he finally asked me out, I made him wait for six weeks before I said yes.
From then on, we were Joshanerin. God, I loved that. And him.
A lot of high school romances end at graduation, but I tended ours. I even graduated early so that I could study sports management at UGA while he worked his way up in the pitching rotation.
“Hey.” He flashes his killer smile at me as he leaves Larry’s office and walks toward me. “Ty’s waiting downstairs. The rest of the guys are meeting us at the airport.” Josh and the guys are headed to Las Vegas for his bachelor weekend.
“Have a good time.” I look up into his eyes. “Just not too good.”
“Back atcha,” he says automatically. “Don’t forget to wave your left hand around while I’m gone so everybody knows you’re taken.”
I glance down at the two-carat emerald-cut diamond engagement ring that takes up most of my ring finger and part of my knuckle. (Women who top out at five-four don’t have long, elegant fingers.) “I don’t see how anyone could possibly miss it,” I tease, holding it up and admiring it as the overhead light sets it flashing.
I sense someone walking up behind me.
“Hi, Josh. I’m . . .” Jazmine’s voice sounds over my shoulder.
“Yes, ma’am. We met back when I first signed with Larry. I’ve been hearing great things about you lately.”
I blush, but it’s the truth. I’ve learned more in the week I’ve been working for Jazmine Miller than in college, my internship, and the last three months put together.
“That’s good to hear,” she says.
He flashes the friendly yet confident smile that first slayed me when I was six. Then he leans down to give me a quick peck goodbye.
“I’ll text you when we land.” He nods and smiles at Jazmine. His long legs eat up the distance as he moves through the office.
“There are tall women all over the world hating on you right now for unnecessarily taking a six-foot-plus male out of the dating pool.”
I shrug. I have always hated being the runt of the litter—all three of my brothers are way over six feet. I wish I was tall and lithe (I have always loved that word and wished it could be applied to me) like Jazmine. But I honestly don’t see any reason why short women should get stuck with short men, who often seem to have a chip on their small shoulders.
Josh turns and gives me one last smile before he turns the corner, and I know I’m the luckiest girl alive. Or maybe I’m just the best planner.