I pop that dream bubble and move on.
Later that night, after Charlie and I are back in our own little corner of the world, we spend our time curled up on my tiny loveseat, watching Friends reruns while I eat sherbet ice cream out of a mug. I think Charlie has a crush on Rachel, because any time she comes on the screen, his ears perk up. Your ears never perk up for me like that anymore, buddy.
And then I realize that I’m jealous of the attention my dog is paying a fictional TV character, and I decide I really need to get a life. As if my mama could somehow sense that I am at an all-time low and could possibly be swayed into becoming her mini-me like she’s always dreamed, my phone pings.
MOM: Tyler told your daddy that he asked you out again for this weekend and you turned him down. When are you going to start taking your life seriously and claim the future you’re destined for?
EVIE: What a little tattletale.
Remember the name of my daddy’s law firm: Jones and Murray Law? Well, Tyler owns the Murray part of that title. He is two years older than me and the son of my daddy’s best friend (who used to own the company before he had a heart attack two months ago and handed the company down to Tyler.) The law firm has been in the hands of our families for the past three generations. This match between Tyler and me has been in the making since our great-grandfathers shook hands on opening day of the firm.
Only families as delusional as Tyler’s and mine would expect their children to marry in order to ensure that a business and all of its money stays in the proper hands. I think the plan is for me and Tyler to marry and for me to immediately birth a son who they will both leave the entirety of the company to since my daddy was never given a son. Because let’s face it, folks, this is the wealthy South, where a woman’s only job is to look pretty, birth babies to take over her husband’s empire, and help him close business deals by fluttering her lashes and making the best old-fashioned for his colleagues.
The sad part is, I almost agreed to this life that I never fit in, because I felt like I didn’t have any other options. I was scared to live alone with epilepsy, and since I didn’t have any men busting down my door to marry me, my only option was to powder my nose, hike up my pantyhose, and agree to my parents’ plan for my future.
That is, until I met Joanna and she gave me Charlie. Suddenly, a bright new future rolled out in front of me. One all sparkly and new, where I could live independently and work for my own living doing something I actually enjoyed. And most importantly, one where I didn’t have to marry Tyler Murray and his lying playboy butt that shouldn’t be trusted farther than you could throw it.
I left home three years ago and moved into my Thumbelina apartment because it was all I could afford. My parents immediately cut me off, in hopes that I’d starve and come running back to them wearing the patent-leather heels Mama has been polishing for me since I was in her womb.
I would rather eat dirt.
To make sure I didn’t have to do either of those things, I took odd jobs babysitting at night; and during the day, I worked side by side with Jo, molding adorable little puppies into dogs that save lives. It felt monumental the day she told me I could move from volunteer into a paid employee position in the company.
MAMA: Evelyn Grace, why do you insist on acting so childish? You are twenty-five years old. It’s time you started acting your age and thinking about your future.
I’m twenty-six, but whatever.
EVIE: I happen to like Froot Loops far better than the high-fiber cereals, so I think I’ll just keep on the way I’m going. Thanks, though. Say hi to Tattletale Tyler for me.
I know she won’t like that. Mama hates when I make jokes, especially during a conversation that she thinks should be life-changing for me.
Several minutes go by, and I turn off the TV and brush my teeth before climbing into my full-sized bed. My phone pings again. I groan and roll over to grab it off of my bedside table, pulling Charlie in a little closer to give me the moral support I need before reading whatever biting thing my mama has texted me.
But when I unlock the screen, I’m confused to see a number I don’t recognize.
Unknown Number: Hi, Miss Jones. This is Jacob Broaden. I have no doubt that I am the last person in the world you want to be hearing from right now, but I was hoping we could talk.
I squeal and drop my phone like it’s suddenly morphed into a hot coal. Jacob Broaden is texting me?? Do I want him to be texting me?
Yes. No. Yes. No.
See…I told you I’d been teetering all night. What could he possibly want to talk about? After our encounter this morning, I doubt he’s wanting to shoot the breeze.
EVIE: Why? Are you in the market for a used car?
UNKNOWN NUMBER: I see what you did there. I deserve it. That’s actually why I was hoping to talk. What do you say? Will you meet me at Hudson Roasters tomorrow at 9AM and help me pull my head out of my butt?
UNKNOWN NUMBER: Was that gross?
EVIE: Very.
UNKNOWN NUMBER: I regretted it instantly. Will you meet me?
I’m biting my lip and smiling down at my phone like a fool. Charlie looks at me and rolls his eyes at me again.
One minute ago, I hated Jacob Broaden and was contemplating adding a pin to a very special spot on his voodoo doll. Now, I’m daydreaming of that corner in the coffee shop. Which is exactly why I should decline his offer and suggest he meet with Joanna instead of me if he is considering going with our company for a service dog.
It makes sense. I mean, my body is breaking out in a flush just thinking of his steely blue eyes. But then again, I have first-hand experience with the same disability as his daughter. Who better to advise him than little ol’ me?
For no reason other than that I’m a saint and only have the child’s heart in mind, I pick up my phone and text him back.
EVIE: Fine. Try not to bite my head off this time, all right?
UNKNOWN NUMBER: Where would the fun be in promising that?
Chapter Five
JAKE
Walking into Hudson Roasters, I have a distinct feeling that I’m walking right to my death. I don’t know exactly why I feel this way. It’s not rational. It’s not as if I suspect that Miss Jones is going to pull out a knife and stab me. But it’s more that I’ve been putting up walls around myself since the day Natalie left—big, ugly forcefields of solitude that keep beautiful women far away—and I’m a little afraid that the woman I spent most of the night dreaming about might have a really tall ladder.
I woke up in a cold sweat the moment her pink lips collided with mine. It was ridiculous, and I blame it on my late-night texting with her. I didn’t mean to flirt. I had only intended to apologize and request a very professional meeting between the two of us to discuss the potential of purchasing one of her company’s dogs. All business. Very buttoned up.
But the moment I pictured her green woodland eyes, the flirtatious replies rolled off my fingers like it was a newfound superpower. I wanted to make her laugh. Why?
Because I’m stupid, that’s why.
But not today. Today, I plan on being the epitome of professional. I am a neurosurgeon walking into the operating room. I’ve scrubbed up, gloves are on, scalpel is in hand, and I’m ready to extract only the information I need.