“For what?” I mused. “Being alive, being a doctor, or being a royal pain?”
“Saving that kid.”
“That kid pinched my butt and took a picture of my panties.”
“I didn’t know that,” he said evenly.
I believed him, but so what? My hackles were so high up, I couldn’t even see past them.
“Tip me or get gone,” I huffed.
“You want a tip?” he asked tonelessly, his dark-blue eyes narrowing on my face. “Here’s one: get some better manners. Pronto.”
“Sorry.” I pouted, making a show of examining my nails. “Fortune-cookie advice is not a currency I accept at present. Cash or Venmo work, though.”
“You don’t actually expect a tip after your argument with Gabriella, do you?” He looked a little concerned for me. Like maybe on top of being a bimbo, I also possessed the IQ of a peanut butter sandwich. Sans the jelly.
“I do, actually. She knows we don’t carry organic meat—or arugula. Why does she keep asking?”
If he was going to tell me the customer was always right, I was going to add him to my ever-growing list of people to murder. Actually, he was already in the top ten for every time he’d run into me at social gatherings and pretended I didn’t exist.
“Why don’t you give her a straight answer?” he quipped back. For a moment—for a small, teeny, tiny fraction of a moment—I could swear his good ol’ boy mask cracked a little, annoyance seeping through it.
“Why don’t you mind your own business?”
I noticed his eyes dropped to my lips when I said that.
I was aware I had enough makeup on my face to sculpt another life-size figure of myself and way too much pink lipstick for anyone’s liking. But Cruz being Cruz, he never said anything mean or demeaning about anyone. Not even me.
I could see the nostrils of his straight Roman nose flare as he drew in a calming breath and tilted his chin up.
“Very well, Tennessee.” That was the other thing. Everybody called me Messy Nessy. He was the only one to call me by my given name, and it always felt like punishment. “I’ll mind my own business. Let’s start now, shall we? Did you book our tickets for the cruise yet?”
Ah, yes.
Since my parents were paying for Trinity and Wyatt’s wedding, the Costellos—Cruz’s parents—had decided to invite both families to a pre-wedding cruise so we could all get to know each other better.
Because the Costellos were frequent cruisers, they used their loyalty points to book Trinity and Wyatt the honeymoon stateroom and two-bed staterooms for themselves and my parents.
My son Bear all but begged to room with my parents, who were going to have a private Jacuzzi and in-suite candy bar. Since it was his first ever vacation, I relented.
But that meant Cruz and I still needed to book rooms for ourselves, and since Cruz had a “real job” and I had so much free time (my mother’s words, not mine), I was tasked with finding us rooms for the cruise.
“I’m working on it.”
“I hadn’t realized it took such effort to book tickets.”
I patted my stiff, heavily-sprayed blonde mane.
“Maybe for you it’s easy. But us feather-headed people take a long time to do things. Where do I book these tickets, anyway? The internets, yes?” I cocked my head. “It’s that thing on the computer? With all the little words and kitty videos?”
His blade-sharp jaw ticked.
Just once.
But once was enough to spark unabashed joy. It was a well-known fact that nothing threw Cruz Costello off-balance.
“Book those tickets, Tennessee.”
“Yes, sir. Will you be needing the double bed or just the queen?”
“Are you asking if I’m bringing Gabriella along?”
“Or any other almost-underage woman of your choice.”
That wasn’t completely fair, or the most extreme age gap amongst the dating pool.
Gabby was Trinity’s age, twenty-five, and Trinity was marrying Wyatt, Cruz’s older brother.
Cruz dipped his hand into the front pocket of his khaki pants. He wore casual exasperatingly well.
“Try not to mess things up when you book it, will you?”
Now that made my mask of indifference slip and shatter against the floor. Being the one who always messed up in this town might be the way I’d been pigeonholed, but in my opinion, I hadn’t earned it.
“I’m perfectly capable of booking two cruise tickets.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it.”
“You know,” I mused, twirling a lock of blonde hair that spilled from my unfashionable updo, “you’re not even half as nice as people think you are.”
“Been saving all this venom ’specially for you.” He tilted his ball cap down like a cowboy. “Any parting words, Tennessee? I have a date waiting in my car.”
Right, right, right.
His shiny Audi Q8 to go with his shiny girlfriend and his shiny life.
To that question, I answered with my middle finger, taking advantage of the fact everyone around us was talking animatedly about what happened to Straw Choker to notice.
It wasn’t my most elegant answer, but it sure was the most satisfying one by a mile.
That evening, I was in danger of letting the waterworks flow.
I tried not to dwell in self-pity, but some days were just harder than others.
My son really wanted the new Assassin’s Creed game, but I couldn’t afford it. The worst part was he didn’t even ask me.
I’d had to find out through my mother, over a phone call on my way home from work while my Honda Odyssey stumbled its way up my street like a drunken sorority girl after a block party.
Apparently, Bear had offered to mow her lawn for cash to be able to purchase it.
“I would buy it for him in a heartbeat, honey, you know, but those games are mighty violent, and I’m not sure he should be playing them anyway.”
It was pointless to explain to her it was a Sisyphean battle to have Bear not play video games. That was what he and his friends did. It was the norm.
At the same time, I felt depressingly inadequate as a mother. A true failure. I couldn’t even buy my son a video game.
Maybe Gabriella was right.
Maybe I needed to shut up, tell her the burger she had was organic, and suffer the occasional abuse for a nice, fat tip.
I pushed the door open to the weathered rental bungalow. The exterior was pale blue. Bear and I had painted it ourselves to knock down some of the rent money the owner had asked for. The inside consisted of not much more than hand-me-down furniture from friends and family.
But it was ours, and we were proud of it.
I kicked my heels off at the door and dumped my jacket and purse onto the credenza, feeling bone-tired and weary.
Weary of not being able to afford the things my son wanted.
Of pimply, rude teenagers who pinched my butt at work.
Of Gabriella and her slim legs and easy, fat-contracts life.
And of Dr. Cruz Costello, who seemed hell-bent on hating me.
I really needed to get out of this town, and was going to do so as soon as Bear graduated from high school.
“Care Bear? You here?” I called out.
Pans and utensils clattered in the kitchen, growing louder as I made my way through the darkened, small living room.