“Right now, I don’t really feel like eating.”
“I do.” I wiggle my eyebrows.
Sami reaches over and pushes my arm.
“Ow.” I fake pain. “Maybe I should ask Jack if you were violent to him.” As soon as his name escapes my lips, I know I made a mistake. It’s as if I’d hit a switch and Sami’s smile is gone.
She sighs. “He wasn’t my forever. If he was that special someone, he wouldn't have tried to make me into someone different, and he sure as hell wouldn’t have cheated on me. I didn't see what was right before me. I missed the signs...just to be married. I'm as guilty as he is. And now my parents have to pay the price."
"Sami, I'll do whatever you want. Although, for the record, protecting that asshole isn't high on my list." I squeeze her knee. "Protecting you—I'll do that."
And then we turn the corner and see it.
"Shit," Sami mumbles.
She's right.
Shit.
Fuck.
What the fuck?
In her parents’ driveway is a small black BMW. It sticks out like a sore thumb in this neighborhood, and there's no doubt to whom it belongs.
I pull along the side of the street and lean over the gearshift. "Sami, go with it. You want this to be you, to be your decision, then we'll make it about you. That asshole won't know what hit him."
She nods, but her eyes are wide open.
Doubt, uncertainty...they’re all staring back at me in a kaleidoscope of greens.
Those aren't the emotions I want to see.
I want passion and laughter.
I want confidence and attitude.
I want to take Jackson Carmichael down, and Lord help us, it's going to happen in her parents' living room.
"Are you with me?" I ask.
"Yes."
I barely hear her.
"Louder."
"What?"
We’re still in my car, and I raise my voice. "Say it louder. Say it like you mean it."
Her lips twitch. It's something we used to say when we were young. "I'm with you."
"One more time."
"I'm with you!"
"Damn straight."
I walk around the car, but my Sami already has the door open. I reach for her hand. "Come on, honey." I lean closer. "I'm going to call you that because your pussy tastes like honey."
Sami's eyes blink closed for a little too long. "Marsh..."
I wink. "Come on, honey. Let's get this done. I have a craving for honey for dessert.”
She shakes her head as we start walking toward her parents' house. But as she does, her lips are turned upward in a grin. It's not just her mouth but her eyes too.
Perfect.
My Sami isn't the broken ex-fiancée walking into this gathering.
However, the asshole inside will be broken when he walks out.
Sami
As soon as we step inside my parents’ house, I look expectantly past the living room through the archway to the kitchen—to where I know my mom will be. I find her, but she's not alone. Jack is with her. They both turn toward the sound of the closing door. Jack’s gaze immediately moves from my face to where Marshal is holding my hand. By his surprised and shocked expression, he hasn’t come clean with my parents. At the same time, my mom looks up from the computer desk screen and smiles. Her smile dims as she too sees our hands.
My dad’s right in front of us in the living room. However, his focus is on the television. He barely notices as Marshal and I walk through. If we hadn’t walked in front of the screen, he might not have seen us.
“Hi, Dad,” I say after bending down and giving him a kiss on the head.
“Sami.” His eyes leave the television long enough to notice Marshal. Either he doesn’t notice our intertwined hands or he doesn’t care. “Marshal, how are you? How’re your folks? It’s been too long since we’ve seen George and Monica.”
“They’re good. I’ll tell them you said hi.”
Dad nods and points to the television. “Can you believe this? They’re going to vote her off the island. I just know it. One challenge and they’re throwing her out. I think Ralph, the guy with the bandana” —he points to the large screen— “should go. He’s a conniving bastard.” Before we can reply, Dad pounds the arm of his chair. “No! No! Don’t do it.”
I pull Marshal’s hand, tugging him toward the kitchen and saving him from my dad’s tirade.
“Samantha. Oh, Marshal,” my mom says, “what a surprise to see you.”
“Yes, what a surprise,” Jack says in a deadpan tone, his gaze flicking back and forth to our still-connected hands.
Taking a breath, I let go of Marshal’s hand and begin speaking, “Mom, Jack, we need to talk about the wedding.”
“We are,” Jack says.
“Look at this,” Mom says, pointing at the screen. “The RSVPs are starting to come in.” She looks down at the notebook in front of her where she’s written all the names.
“Mom, you know that you can print that list from the program.”
“Oh, this is easier. Here just look,” she says, handing me the notebook.
Writing each name isn’t easier, but now isn’t the time to try to convince her of that.
“No. It wasn’t her fault. It was that asshole Ralph.”
We all turn toward the living room at my dad’s outburst.
“Mom, about the wedding…” I try again.
“Samantha, let’s go out back and talk,” Jack suggests.
“No,” I answer curtly.
“Samantha Ann” —my mom narrows her eyes at me as she stands— “what's going on?”
I put down the notebook without reading the names and steel my shoulders. “Like I said, we need to talk.” I turn back to Jack. “You shouldn’t have come here.”
“Samantha, I love you. I’ll be anywhere you are.”
Marshal, who’d been leaning against the wall, steps forward. “In the future that may be a little awkward.”
Jack snaps his head toward Marshal. “Again, Michaels, none of your business. Tell us why you’re here?”
“Damn it! They did it.” Dad rushes into the kitchen and reaches for the refrigerator handle. “Now I don’t know who’ll be next.”
“Paul,” Mom says, grabbing his arm and stopping his progress. “Stay in here. Sami has something we need to talk about.”
“No, she doesn’t,” Jack says.
Marshal takes another step toward me and puts his arm around my waist. “Yes, she does. Or I will.”
Mom takes a step back and covers her lips with her hand. “W-what is happening?”
“The wedding is off,” I say.
“No, Samantha, don’t do this.” Jack's tone is as pathetic as his flowers.
I narrow my gaze at Jack.
He speaks over the television coming from the other room. “I was keeping it a secret, but our honeymoon...a villa in the South of France is—”
“Jack,” I interrupt. “I don’t need a villa or France. I don’t need fancy restaurants and a big house in the suburbs in the right neighborhood with the right median income.”