“This is not done.” She wiggled her finger in my face.
“Shakin’ in my boots here, Holland.”
She slammed the door behind her.
I collapsed against the wall, letting out a ragged breath.
Note to self: get boots whenever I can afford a pair. Because the shaking part? That was real.
Two days later, I walked into my parents’ house to drop off the handmade straw baskets I’d made for Trinity’s flower girls.
Technically, Gabriella was supposed to get them from a boutique out of town. But, also technically, Gabriella was a beach of massive proportions and cited headaches which had prevented her from making the trip.
I was wearing one of my Cruz dresses (that’s how I called them in my mind, which had made me imagine him inside said dresses, which was equally hilarious and sexy). I’d also let my hair down, both literally and figuratively, and it now fell gently on my shoulders.
The appeal of looking like the designated washed-out diner waitress who needed a shower and a clue had dissipated ever since I realized I could cut thirty minutes of preparation each morning only to make myself look less attractive than I was.
Donna Turner, my mother, my childhood idol, and the woman who had compassion for anyone and everything, fruit flies included, flung the door open and smacked a wet kiss on my cheek.
“Hullo, Nessy. Come in. I’m making an afternoon snack.”
I stalked inside, a little stung she didn’t say anything about my attire.
The other day, when Gabriella showed up at Cruz’s house acting like a woman ready to boil a bunny (if you don’t get the reference—congratulations, you’re young), I’d decided it was time to stop giving this town a reason to hate me and packed all of the clothes he’d bought for me, vowing to wear them exclusively.
Later that evening, I’d stuffed all of my hooker clothes into black trash bags and re-donated them. I couldn’t run the risk of having them around. I didn’t want to revert back to looking like what this town wanted me to look like.
“Where’s Care Bear?” Mom floated into the kitchen and returned to the assortment she’d made on the counter, of baby carrots, celery, and raw broccoli with low-fat ranch dressing at the center.
The official Turner pre-wedding breakfast, lunch, and dinner, I’d been told.
The answer to her question was that Bear was playing video games with Cruz at his place. Since no self-respecting single mother let a treat go without a provision, there was a stipulation attached to the monumental event.
Rob had been getting on my last nerve, calling almost every day, begging to see Bear and me. Dropping off groceries, checks, presents, and, I suspected—if I didn’t acknowledge him soon, human sacrifices.
I’d basically told Bear he could hang out with his new adult friend Cruz if he agreed to meet his dad, even if just for an hour, in the safety of our bungalow, with me serving as buffer.
Was it the most ethical thing to do? No.
Was I using it as a teachable moment? Also no.
Was I feeling bad about any of it? Not even a little.
Bear had grown up fatherless, under financial and cultural strain, what with him being my son, and his forgiveness muscle was nonexistent. I knew that he needed to flex it a little to make it work.
And no matter how much I disliked Rob—and I truly, sincerely loathed him from the bottom of my black, cold heart—there was no denying he was honestly trying to make it up to Bear.
Rob left presents for Bear on the front porch. All the time. Presents Bear totally ignored as he went about his day. The kid was colder than the Costco produce section.
I didn’t know if I should be impressed or concerned.
“Bear’s with a friend.” I propped my hip against a kitchen cabinet, popping a baby carrot into my mouth.
“How is he getting on with Rob?”
My mother opened the fridge, pulling out fresh strawberries for dessert. I found it ironic that the Turners had officially adopted a hamster’s diet, seeing as they were as good at eating their young.
“He’s not getting on with Rob just yet, but we’re talking about Bear meeting him for dinner in the near future.”
“You ought to give the man a chance.” Mom shut the fridge with her foot, rinsing the strawberries in water and salt in the sink to wash out all the dirt. “Did I tell you he helped your father with a flat tire the other day?”
“Only about seventeen times.”
“And he dropped by last week with some fresh flowers for me, asking how we’d feel if he asked you out.”
I let out a low whistle. “And they say chivalry is dead.”
“Come on, Nessy, let’s get real here. You can’t really do much better than him. He’s got a steady job, he is still handsome, and he’s your son’s father. Why are you being so obstinate? You made your point. He’s been waiting around for you for weeks now. He’s been in the dog house long enough.”
“I’m not interested in him.”
“He seems to be ready for a commitment, though.”
“He’s twice divorced, Mom.”
“Third time’s the charm.”
I shouldn’t have been offended, considering all the other things Mom had said about me over the years, but I was. The complete confidence with which she said I could never do better than Rob hit me straight in the feels.
But not enough to tell her I was dating Fairhope’s treasured upstanding citizen.
“I’d rather die alone than get back together with Rob.”
“Well, that’s just fine.” She used her hip to slam a kitchen cabinet shut. “Because apparently, you’re headed for that exact fate.”
Our conversation was interrupted by a storm in the form of my baby sister, who threw the front door open with enough force to disconnect it from its hinges, rolling up looking like every person in town had kicked her puppy.
She was red, sweaty, and buzzing. Her dress was half torn in what seemed to be a hasty escape, and her braid had come undone. I’d never seen my sister looking less than the wholesome church girl that she was, so naturally, it gave me pause.
“Where is she?” my sister bellowed, kicking away a box full of wedding goodie bags which was standing in her way (my doing, naturally).
She looked left and right, searching for her object of fury. She zeroed in on me, baring her teeth like a rabid animal.
She stomped her way into the kitchen, not bothering to answer my mother’s cry as she flung herself between us, trying to hug Trinity or maybe just prevent her from tearing every hair from my head.
“There she is. Tennessee Turner. The object of every man’s desire.”
That seemed like an unlikely way to start a conversation with someone you wanted to thank for all of their hard work on your wedding, but I still kept an open mind.
You never knew when someone might get struck by the realization that you would give up the world for them.
Refusing to look flustered, I turned around and filled my glass with tap water. I reminded myself that I hadn’t done anything wrong (other than Cruz). That whatever it was, it was a simple misunderstanding (other than Cruz), and that I had nothing to hide (also, other than Cruz).
After taking a few quick breaths, I turned back around to face her.
“Hello to you, too, little sis. Want to see the straw baskets I made for the flower girls? I laced some flowers in them.” I thought it was a nice touch.