But she obstinately waited by the entrance, crossing her arms, expecting me to take the first step.
Like always.
It shouldn’t matter that it looked bad right now. She owed me the first move to show she got it.
Gabriella noticed Tennessee standing by the door. A scarlet smile bursting with venom touched her lips. She pressed her hand against my chest.
I let her.
“Trouble in paradise?”
“Nessy just needs a little courage to approach her boyfriend.” Wyatt laughed, signaling for the bartender to get us another round of drinks without asking Gabriella what she wanted.
“Maybe she doesn’t want you enough,” Gabriella murmured into my ear. “I know someone who does.”
She was all over me without really being all over me, her hands on my shoulders, arms, face.
I watched Tennessee with a lazy, whatcha-gonna-do-about-it smirk and hoped to hell she had a bit more balls than what I’d given her credit for.
Do it.
Come to me.
Tell the world that it’s not just a fling.
My eyes begged her to come closer, my entire body hot with anticipation.
She was on the verge of something. I could tell.
She took a step forward, toward me…then three steps back.
Then turned around and ran away, leaving me at the bar with Wyatt and Gabriella.
I would say I was a fucking mess, but that would be an insult to messes all over the world. I finally understood the idea behind the word ‘gutted’. I felt like a fish, my insides hooked, ripped, and thrown into a frying pan.
Great, now I was disappointed and hungry.
A minute later, I stood, letting Gabriella slide off of my knee again. She went down with a loud bang when her bony ass met the floor. I slapped a twenty onto the counter.
“I’m heading home.”
I gave my brother a fist bump.
Then proceeded to go back home and lick my Tennessee-shaped wounds.
Three days had passed since the rehearsal dinner.
I’d made sure Bear didn’t see me cry. He was already going through so many changes in his life.
Seeing Cruz with Gabriella fractured something inside me—some stupid, primal pride, borne from having none whatsoever when it came to my own family, I suspected.
I couldn’t bring myself to call him, to text him, to explain why I couldn’t simply claim him.
Because no one has ever claimed me, and the fear of rejection, no matter how unlikely, immobilizes me.
My body just wouldn’t go to him at The Drunk Clam, no matter how loudly my brain screamed at my feet to move.
Cruz, in return, had finally given up on me. It was the first time since we’d gotten back from the cruise that he hadn’t called, texted, or dropped in unannounced.
It wasn’t all bad.
Rob came over the day after the rehearsal dinner and played ball with Bear in the backyard for all of ten minutes, during which Bear fell down numerous times, split his lip, and took down part of my fence while trying to intercept, before Rob mewled, “Dang it all to hell. You sure you’re my kid? You ain’t got an athletic bone in your entire body!”
After which Bear had made Rob get on his skateboard and try to skate. Rob fell like a brick five times and was met with Bear’s slow, taunting drawl, “Darn it all to heck, you sure you’re my pops? I’ve seen better balance on a rubber ball!”
I’d begun to suspect these two weren’t going to find their footing, but then Rob took out his secret weapon: root beer and Monopoly.
The three of us enjoyed a two-hour game, complete with takeout burgers Rob had gone out to get, himself, and a chocolate chip pie from the local bakery.
Rob had been a perfect gentleman to me the entire time.
After my half-hearted rejection during the rehearsal dinner, in which I said I belonged to myself (the sentiment remained the same, but in retrospect, I should’ve made it clear I was seeing Cruz), I went on to send Rob a series of texts explaining that my loyalty, gratitude, and panties belonged to his ex-best friend, so he should stop embarrassing himself by trying.
But that was two days ago, and this was today.
And today, I had a bad feeling my wishy-washy approach to Cruz was going to bite me in the butt.
The old-school door chime above the diner’s entrance rang. In walked Mrs. Holland and her daughter Gabriella, both of them wearing matching brown polka-dotted summer dresses, straw hats, and designer purses.
In my opinion, matching parent-and-child clothes were cute only before puberty. Now, they just looked like the twins from The Shining.
“Table for two, please!”
There were few things in this world that I wanted to do less than serve Gabriella, including but not limited to drowning in a Celestine Pool, or becoming Miley Cyrus’ stylist. For that reason I hurried toward Trixie, who was flirting up a storm with Coulter.
Good for her.
Coulter may have had limited talents when it came to the kitchen, but he generally seemed like a great guy.
“Trixie, can you take table three? I’ll cover one of yours…”
Trixie glanced at Gabriella and Mrs. Holland as they settled into the vinyl booth and flagged me down furiously.
“Sure thang. They look like they tip well.”
They were almost certainly not going to leave a tip, but I didn’t want to crush her spirit. I’d gone on to serve table five their check and to wipe down table two when Trixie appeared by my side.
“Sorry, doll. They said they want you to serve them, specifically. They were pretty adamant about it.”
I bet they were.
As if Gabriella would pass up an opportunity to remind me that I was a lowly peasant and she a semi-celebrity, with hundreds of thousands of followers who fawned over every heavily photoshopped picture she posted.
I slapped a grin on my face, thanked my lucky stars I was wearing leggings under my revealing uniform, and made my way to their table, slapping two extra-sticky menus atop of it.
“Ladies. Welcome to Jerry & Sons. My name is Tennessee and I’ll be servin’ you today.”
If killing someone with kindness were a real thing, these two would be dead any minute.
Mrs. Holland stared at me with hateful eyes. Gabriella, however, played along with my affable charade.
“Oh, Nessy, good afternoon. Love your new makeover! You finally look under fifty.”
“I do?” I asked with mock surprise. “Dang, a few more layers of makeup and I would’ve been eligible for social security and the Applebee’s senior discount. How’s your headache doing?”
“Much better, thank you. I’m excited to be Trinity’s maid of honor.”
And I’m excited to leave this table and attend to my other customers.
“Great. Let me give you some time to look over our menu.”
“There’s no need.” Mrs. Holland jerked her chin up. “We know what we want.”
“We do?” Gabriella turned to her skeptically.
“We’ll have one sundae. No peanuts, please. And I do mean no peanuts. My little angel is allergic.” She squeezed Gabriella’s hand across the table. “So no traces of any peanuts, either, all right?”
“I’ll make sure to pass the message along to Coulter. Anything else?” I collected their menus back.
“Diet Coke for me,” Gabriella murmured.