Prologue
Magnolia
“SUGAR. HONEY. ICE. Tea! Frigging Tinder will be the death of me!”
I was about to flip the last pancake but the buzzing of my phone startled me and made my scalding hot breakfast land on the delicate skin of my chest.
“Stop complaining and check it out,” Jen says stepping into our small kitchen and grabbing my phone before I can get to it. “You’ve got another match nearby. He looks cute!”
I groan, ignoring the phone and grabbing the still hot pancake between my fingertips and dropping it in the trash can.
The skin on my chest is red and sensitive and I know I have to cool it down to avoid blisters.
I open the kitchen tap, using my hand to put cold water to my injury and throw a side glance at my bestie who’s busy checking out the Tinder notification. “You better not be swiping right, Jen. I’m not going to another Tinder date, I’m blooming done. Don-ski.”
My best friend has a shit eating grin on her face, trying to hide the guilt that I’m sure must be consuming her. “Too late, dude. I already did. But look, this one’s definitely your type. All intellectual and even has a man bun. I bet he drinks coconut water and makes his own trail mix and—”
“Ok, shut up. You bitch,” I say struggling to contain the laughter that threatens to erupt from me. “I just thought I’d try to date the total opposite of my ex, can you really blame me?”
Jen shrugs. “Look you might need to kiss a few frogs before you find your prince, Mags. I’m just trying to help you look around the pond.”
I can’t contain an eye roll. “Look, I’ve tried everything but there seems to be only one type I really attract: the douche. I swear that every single guy out there is either crazy, a weirdo or an asshole. And my latest dates are proof of that.”
Jen giggles. “Oh come on. Jonathan wasn’t so bad.”
I shake my head. “Wasn’t he? What the heck did you put on this stupid profile you made me for Tinder to match me with a guy who poses as a rapper but he’s not? Jonathan was ridiculous, seriously. Plus trying to look like Eminem might have been cool when my mom was our age, Jen. The guy greeted me with a ‘Yo’, remember?” She remembers because she now laughs without trying to hide it or play it down.
“Ok, I’ll admit he was a little colorful.”
I sit down trying to snatch my phone back from her grasp but she moves it out of the way. “Colorful? He was wearing one of those huge gold plated knuckle rings that spanned the width of his whole hand and spelled the word ‘pussy’. And before you say that I shouldn’t judge a book from its cover, Jonathan had the worst table manners I’ve ever seen. He cost me my favorite dress.”
Jen has the decency to look guilty at the mention of my favorite dress. I met Jonathan at Bonelli’s the nicest Italian restaurant in Silver Springs and when I arrived, my date was already sitting at our table, munching on the complimentary bruschetta.
Let alone the fact that he kept talking while chewing, he was making a real mess dropping chunks of oily tomato everywhere and making loud smacking noises with his mouth at every bite.
After about ten minutes of that torture, I concluded that things between me and Jonathan were never going to work and excused myself to the bathroom with the intention of sneaking out the back door. But I hadn’t anticipated that Jonathan didn’t just have atrocious table manners, he was also a far cry from a gentleman. When I walked past him trying to leave our table, he had blurted out “Damn you’re a sexy bitch! I’m gonna nail that ass later on,” and he’d grabbed my buttocks with both his hands, leaving two perfect oily hand prints on the stretchy cotton of my favorite emerald green dress. No amount of stain treatment or dry cleaning succeeded in erasing the memory of that date.
“Ok, my bad,” Jen admits. “But Jordan is totally on you.”
I whimper at the memory of my two dates with Jordan. “Yeah maybe the intellectual type isn’t for me as much as the varsity football player isn’t my Prince Charming.” I’m obviously referring to my ex-boyfriend and high school sweetheart who couldn’t handle a long distance relationship when I moved from my home town of Marietta Georgia to Silver Springs to get my nursing degree. Tripp stayed behind and I’d gone home at every holiday for the three years I’ve been here in upstate New York. Maybe the fact that he never came to visit should have been a clue. Or maybe the fact that he would only find time for me during my visits when he wanted to have sex and then he would drag me out with his friends and barely talked to me.
Jen must have guessed where my mind went, because she hugs me and rubs my back in a soothing manner. “No, don’t even think about him. Tripp was a bastard. He didn’t deserve you, Mags. From cheating on you to being selfish in bed and never ever giving you an orgasm, I hate that motherfucker, all right? But you need to stop trying to ‘fix guys’, Mags. Jordan is proof of that.”
She’s right. I should’ve seen the train wreck potential in Jordan from a mile away. The disaster that ensued from swiping right on him is totally on me. But when I saw the match, I thought he was cute in a nerdy, Big Bang Theory kinda way. And you know, since I was trying to stay away from the athletic, douchy jocks like Tripp, I felt immediately hopeful about Jordan, so I sent him a smile emoji. He replied and we started messaging on the app but soon after, I agreed to a phone call.
“I should’ve known when he gave me a pre-date interview on the phone,” I sigh.
Jen shakes her dark head, her tone is half commiserating, and half frustrated. “Or maybe you should’ve known when the phone interview turned out to be a twenty-five question psych evaluation test to determine if you were serious relationship material?”
Touché, that should’ve made me run to the hills. “I know. I just thought it was kinda sweet that he wanted something serious.”
But red flags did start to pop in the back of my mind when he came to pick me up carrying a potted plant. It was a magnolia sapling. Jordan gave me the pot with a solemn expression – probably feeling smart because he gave me magnolias and my name is Magnolia – and then proceeded to explain how that plant was a symbol of our blossoming relationship and how I should take care of it and nurture it the same way I would him.
“Ok. You’re right, Jen. I should’ve not gone out with him when he gave me the plant.”
“A man that gives you a potted plant on your first date isn’t bound to be a good fuck,” she pontificates.
And I mean, she’s right. And truth be told, I should’ve never even gone out with him in first place. “Yeah. I can’t even choose a hookup that doesn’t end up at the police station, filing a complaint.”
Jen sighs. “You had no way to know that Jordan wouldn’t take no for an answer when you decided against a second date and would start stalking you.”
Yup. That happened. Jordan camped out by my house for two whole days and Jen had to call the cops the first time. I thought she was overreacting but understood the seriousness of the situation when he showed up at the hospital. He was sitting in the waiting room at the ER with a knife, yes I kid you not, stabbed through the palm of his left hand. His words to me were, “Magnolia, I’m bleeding for you. I stabbed myself in the hand so you’d take care of me but where you really stabbed me is in the heart. My heart is bleeding for you. If that’s not enough to show you my love, you’ll be the next one I’ll have to stab.”