There was a ninety-nine point nine percent chance I was going to kill someone in this diner this sunny, unassuming afternoon.
The teenager with the yellow Drew hoodie, colorful braces, and stoned expression deliberately dropped his fork under the table of the red vinyl booth he occupied.
“Oops,” he drawled wryly. “Clumsy me. Are you gonna pick that up, or what?”
He flashed me a grin full of metal and waffle chunks. His three friends cackled in the background, elbowing each other with meaningful winks.
I stared at him blankly, wondering if I wanted to poison or strangle him. Poison, I decided, was better. Might be a coward’s way to kill, but at least I wouldn’t have to risk a broken nail.
My gelled, pointy, Cardi-B-style nail art was precious to me.
His neck, decidedly, was not.
“Don’t you have hands?” I popped my pink gum in his face, batting my fake eyelashes, playing the part this town gave me, of the airheaded bimbo with the big blonde hair who was barely literate and destined to serve them burgers for eternity.
“I do, and I’d love to show you what they’re capable of.”
His friends howled, some of them rolling into a coughing fit, clapping and enjoying the show. I felt Jerry, my boss, glaring at me from across the counter while wiping it furiously with a dishcloth approximately the same age as me.
His gaze told me not to “accidentally” spit my gum into their fountain soda (Tim Trapp had it coming. He’d insinuated I should become a hooker to put my son through college). Apparently, we couldn’t afford the legal fee nor the problematic reputation.
Jerry was the owner of Jerry & Sons. The only problem with this wonderful name was that there were no sons.
I mean, there were.
They were alive and everything. They were just lazy and burned their unearned paychecks on women, gambling, alcohol, and pyramid schemes. Exactly in that order.
I knew, because they were supposed to work shifts here, and yet, most of the time, it was just me.
“Gotta problem, Turner?” Jerry chewed on tobacco. The leaves gave his teeth a strange hue of urine-yellow. He eyed me meaningfully from across the counter.
Dang it.
I needed to bite the bullet and just do it.
But I hated horny teenagers who only came in to check what was under my dress.
Jerry’s waitresses (or: me. I was the only waitress here) wore pretty skimpy dresses because he said it got them (again: me) better tips. It did not. Needless to say, wearing the uniform was a must. White and pink striped, and shorter than a bull’s fuse.
Since I was pretty tall for a woman, half my butt was on full display whenever I bent down in this outfit. I could always squat, but then I ran the risk of showing something even more demure than my tuchus.
“Well?” Yellow-hoodied boy slammed his fist against the table, making utensils clatter and plates full of hot, fluffy waffles fly an inch in the air. “Am I going to have to repeat myself? We all know why you’re wearing that dress, and it ain’t because you like the breeze.”
Jerry & Sons was the kind of small-town diner you saw in the movies and thought to yourself, there’s no way a crap-hole like this truly exists.
Checkered black-and-white linoleum flooring that had seen better days—probably in the eighteenth century. Tattered red vinyl booths. A jukebox that randomly coughed up “All Summer Long” by Kid Rock entirely unprovoked.
And Jerry’s claim to fame—a wall laden with pictures of him hugging celebrities who’d made a pit stop in our town (namely, two professional baseball players who got lost driving into Winston-Salem and a backup dancer for Madonna who did come here intentionally, but only to say goodbye to her dying grandmother, and looked every inch of a woman who had just said goodbye to a loved one).
The food was questionable at best and dangerous at worst, depending on whether our cook, Coulter, was in the mood to wash the veggies and poultry (together) before preparing them. He was truly a great guy, but I’d rather eat crushed glass than anything his hands touched.
Still, the place was full to the brim with teens sucking on milkshakes, ladies enjoying their refreshments after a shopping spree on Main Street, and families grabbing an early dinner.
What Jerry & Sons lacked in style and taste, it made up for by simply existing: it was one of the very few eateries around.
Fairhope was a town so small you could only find it with a microscope, a map, and a lot of effort. Your-worst-ex’s-dick small. And a real time capsule, too.
It had one K-8 school, one supermarket, one gas station, and one church. Everyone knew everyone. No secret was safe from the gossip gang of elderly women who played bridge every day, led by Mrs. Underwood.
And everybody knew I was the screw-up.
The town’s black sheep.
The harlot, the reckless woman, the jezebel.
That was the main irony about Fairhope, I supposed—it was not fair and offered no hope.
From the corner of my eye, I spotted Cruz Costello occupying a booth with his girlfriend of the month, Gabriella Holland. Gabby (she hated when people called her that, which was why I did it sometimes, although only in my head) had approximately six miles of legs, each the width of a toothpick, the complexion of a newborn baby, and arguably the same intellectual abilities.
Her waist-length, shiny black hair made her look like a long-lost Kardashian (Kabriella, anyone?), and she was equally high maintenance, making outrageous changes to the dishes she ordered.
For instance, the triple-sized, Elvis-style beef burger with extra cheese fries became a free-range, reduced-fat organic veggie burger, no bun, no fries, with extra arugula leaves and no dressing.
If you ask me, no thigh gap in the world was worth eating like a hamster. But Coulter still went along with all of her demands, because she always whined if her plate had a smear of oil by the time she was done with her food.
“Just give it up, Messy Nessy. Pick up my fork and we can all move on,” the teenager hissed in the background, snapping me out of my reverie.
Heat flamed my cheeks.
While Cruz had his back to me, Gabriella was watching me intently like the rest of the diner, waiting to see how this situation was going to play out. I shot another peek at Jerry before sighing, deciding it was not worth getting fired over, and crouching down to pick up the fork from the floor.
Two things happened simultaneously.
The first thing was I felt the douchebag’s fingers pinch my butt cheek.
The second was I saw the flash of a phone camera behind me as someone took a picture.
I turned around, swatting his hand away, my eyes burning like I’d just opened them in a pool full of chlorine.
“What in the hell?” I roared.
The kid looked me straight in the eye, chewing on the straw of his milkshake with a vicious grin.
“I heard the stories about you, Messy Nessy. You like to slip under the bleachers with boys, don’t ya? I can take you back to the scene of the crime, if you feel nostalgic.”
I was about to lose my temper, job, and freedom and really kill the kid when he was saved by the (Southern) belle.
“Waitress? Yoo-hoo, can I get some help here?” Gabriella waved her arm in the air, giving her extra shiny hair a casual flip.
I pointed at that kid. “I hope you choke on your straw.”
“I hope you choke on my straw.”
“That’s probably about accurate for size, I’m guessing.”
“Turner!” Jerry barked, suddenly paying attention to this interaction.
“All right, all right,” I muttered.
My only consolation was that, with a face and pickup lines like those, Drew hoodie kid was bound to stay a virgin deep into his thirties.
Still, it sucked that I had to keep this job to be able to provide for Bear. Finding a job in Fairhope was no easy feat, especially with my reputation. Secretly, though, I’d always wanted to save up enough to study something I liked and find something else.
I stomped my way toward Gabriella and Cruz’s booth, too angry to feel the usual anxiety that accompanied dealing with the town’s golden boy.
Cruz Costello was, and always would be, Fairhope’s favorite son.
When we were in middle school, he’d written a letter to the president, so eloquent, so hopeful, so touching, that he and his family were invited to the Thanksgiving ceremony at the White House.
In high school, Cruz was the quarterback who’d led Fairhope High to the state finals—the only time the school had ever gotten that far.
He was the only Fairhope resident to ever attend an Ivy League school.
The Great Hope of Fairhope (Yup. I went there with the puns. Deal with it).
The one who helped Diana Hudgens give birth in her truck on a stormy Christmas Eve and earned a picture in the local newspaper, holding the crying baby with a smile, blood dripping along his muscular forearms.
It didn’t help that upon graduation from college, Cruz had followed in his retired father’s footsteps and become the town’s beloved family physician.
He was, for all appearances, holier than the water Jesus walked upon, more virtuous than Mother Teresa, and, perhaps most maddening of all, hotter than Ryan Gosling.
In. Drive.
Tall, lean, loose-limbed, and in possession of cheekbones that, frankly, should be outlawed.
He even had a pornstache he was unaware made him extra sexy. There wasn’t a woman within the town’s limit who didn’t want to see her juices on that ’stache.
Even his attire of a blind, senior CPA, consisting of khaki pants, pristine white socks, and polo shirts, couldn’t take away from the fact that the man was ride-able to a fault.
Luckily—and I use that term loosely because there was nothing lucky about my life—I was so appalled by Cruz’s general existence that I was pretty much immune to his allure.
I stopped at their table, leaning a hip against the worn-out booth and popping my gum extra loudly to hide the nervous hiccup from being touched by that kid. Whenever the occasional urge to speak up for myself rose, I remembered my job prospects in this town were slimmer than Gabby’s waist. Raising a thirteen-year-old wasn’t cheap, and besides, moving back in with my parents was not feasible. I did not get along with Momma Turner.
“Top of the mornin’ to you. How can I help Fairhope’s Bold and Beautiful?”
Gabriella scrunched her button nose in distaste. She wore casual skinny jeans, an expensive white cashmere shawl, and understated jewelry, giving her the chic appearance of effortlessness (and possibly French).
“How are you, Nessy?” she asked without moving her lips much.
“Well, Gabriella, every morning I wake up on the wrong side of capitalism, I’m pretty sure my car’s about to die, and my back’s not getting any younger. So all in all, pretty good, thanks for asking. Yourself?”
“I just got a big contract with a cosmetic company that will probably gain my blog a lot of traction, so really good.”
“Wonderful!” I cooed, doing my best not to notice Cruz.
Gabriella did that thing where she posted pictures and videos of herself on Instagram, trying out new products, making you believe you could look like her if you used them, too.
She dragged her plate across the table like there was a dead rat on it.
“Look, I don’t want to be that person, but I don’t think my turkey burger is…you know…”
“Cooked?” I curved an eyebrow. Or turkey…
“Organic,” she whispered, shifting uncomfortably.
I had a Sherlock on my hands.
Did she think she was at The Ivy? She should be happy her lettuce was washed and that the bun didn’t come from a can.
“It’s probably not,” I agreed.
Her eyebrows slammed together. “Well, I specifically asked for organic.”
“And I specifically asked for a winning lottery ticket and a hot date with Benicio del Toro. Looks like we’re both having a bad day, hon.” I popped my gum again.
Cruz was quiet, as he usually was when I was around. The elephant in the room was that Gabriella Holland was my baby sister Trinity’s best friend. And my sweet baby sister was engaged to Wyatt—Cruz’s older brother.
Sounds super Jerry Springer? Why, I think so, too.
Which meant that, technically, I had to play nice with both of these uppity gassholes. But while Cruz made a deliberate effort not to acknowledge my existence in any way, I was perfectly happy to show him what I thought about him.
“Do you think that kind of attitude will help you get a tip?” Gabriella asked incredulously, folding her arms over her chest. Some best friend to my sister she was, treating me like I was a dry horse turd on the bottom of her stiletto shoe.
“I don’t think I should be given attitude over a diner burger’s origin story,” I supplied.
“Maybe if you were nicer and more conscientious, your poor son could have more opportunities.”
Yup. She went there. She actually mentioned Bear.
A bullet of anger pierced my gut.
“Well, if you were just a little bit prettier, maybe you wouldn’t have come in third on Miss America.”
I smiled sweetly.
Clearly, I was willing to go there, too.
Gabriella’s eyes watered and her chin wrinkled and danced like Jell-O as she fumed.
“I would like to speak to management!” she cried out.
“Oh, you mean the big boss?” I asked. “The one in charge of this entire culinary empire?” I made a show of moving half an inch to turn to Jerry. “Management! Table three wants to speak to you.”
Jerry rounded the counter, spitting his tobacco into a nearby trash can, already looking alert while I turned back to the happy couple.
“Anything else I can do for y’all?” My silky smile was as big and fake as Gabriella’s breasts. “Maybe offer you some complimentary white truffle oil while you wait? Perhaps some foie gras?” I made sure to pronounce the ‘s’, to keep that uneducated bimbo label alive.
I definitely wasn’t doing myself any favors. But dang, getting sexually harassed by a kid my son’s age and patronized by my baby sister’s friend just about hurled me to the breaking point.
“Yes, actually. I can’t believe Trinity—”
Gabriella’s scathing remark was cut off when a choking sound came from booth number five, the one occupied by Grabby McHandson himself.
“Oh my gosh!”
“Jesus! No!”
“He’s choking! He is choking on the straw!”
Karma must’ve heard my prayers and decided to intervene, because the guy who’d pinched my ass was now lying on the floor, clutching his neck, his eyes wide and red as he kicked his legs about, trying to breathe.
The whole diner was in a frenzy. People ran back and forth, chairs toppled, women screeched. Someone called 911. Another suggested we flip him on his stomach. And one of his friends was recording the entire thing on his phone, as if we needed more reason not to put our trust in Gen Z.
And there he was.
Dr. Cruz Costello, running in slow-mo to the kid, his sandy hair swooshing about like a Baywatch montage.
He performed the Heimlich maneuver on my assailant and made him cough out the piece of straw he was choking on, saving the day once again.
The jukebox, on cue, started belting out Kid Rock’s “All Summer Long”.
It wasn’t like I genuinely wanted the kid to die.
Being a gasshole was not a sin punishable by death. But the fact that the entire diner glossed over the overt sexual assault I’d been subjected to was jarring, if not completely depressing.
And then there was the fact that Cruz Costello was standing there, tall and muscular and alive, bathing in the compliments everyone around us showered upon him.
“…saved the boy’s life! How can we ever thank you? You are an asset to Fairhope, Dr. Costello!”
“…told your mother when you were three that you were going to become someone important, and whaddaya know? I was right again.”
“My daughter is coming back from college next year. You sure you’re set on Gabriella, sugar? I’d love for you to meet her.”
I leaned against the counter, narrowing my eyes at the scene.
One of the teenager’s friends called his mother, who was going to pick him up. Jerry tried to calm everyone down by announcing everyone would be getting complimentary ice cream, and Gabby clung onto her boyfriend’s arm like she’d been surgically glued to it, fussing in his ear, urinating all over her territory.
Cruz tried to pay Jerry, but Jerry shook his head exaggeratedly.
“Your money’s no good here, Dr. Costello.”
Luckily for Dr. Costello, his money was good and welcome in my pocket. I pushed off the counter and strutted toward him, stretching my open palm up.
“I’m ready for my tip now.”
Gabriella’s mouth fell open.
Something mean was about to come out of it—the fact that my sister and she were best friends, that we were both going to be Trinity’s bridesmaids in less than two months, didn’t matter.
Today had reinforced the notion I was fair game in Fairhope, and everyone had the agency, the God-given right, to be mean to me. But Cruz stopped her, patting her flat ass with a lazy, lopsided grin.
He knew I loathed his golden boy act.
“Go on and wait in the car, honey.”
“But Cruuuuuuz.” Gabby stomped her foot, dragging his name out with a pout.
“I’ll handle it,” he assured her.
“Fine. But don’t be too nice,” she sulked, catching the car keys he threw into her hands, and sauntered out of the diner.
Cruz and I stood in front of each other. Two cowboys waiting to draw their weapons.
“Aren’t I going to get a thank you?”
His whiskey-soaked voice stirred something warm and sticky and unwelcome behind my ribcage. He had that Justin Hartley kind of body you just wanted to feel pressed against you.
“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.
“Mom? I made pasta. Sorry, I had a ton of homework and forgot to take the chicken out to thaw.”
I entered the kitchen and pulled my son into a bone-crushing hug. After I took a step back from him, I took inventory of his face, before tugging at his velvety earlobes and smacking a wet kiss on his forehead, something he disliked, yet indulged me nonetheless.
At thirteen, Bear was already a head taller than me. Not a huge surprise, seeing as he took after his father, who was a six-three tight end in high school.
It probably should depress me.
How Bear used me as a womb-for-hire and came out the spitting image of Robert Gussman. The same floppy chestnut hair, impish emerald eyes with golden flecks, deep dimples that popped out even when they talked, and slightly crooked nose.
It should, but it didn’t.
Because Bear was so much his own person, Rob had become nothing but a faded scar at this point. Like an old penciled letter, the words erased by time and nearly indistinguishable.
“Pasta’s perfect.”
I rose on my toes to kiss his cheek. For all his handsomeness, Bear, like other boys his age, smelled of socks, hormones, and farm goats.
I pulled away, noticing he’d already set the table and served our dishes. “How was school?”
We both sat at the table, digging into his extra al dente (read: completely uncooked) pasta, drenched in a suspicious supermarket sauce.
“Pretty good. I mean, Mr. Shepherd is still pestering me about joining the football team, which is a drag, but other than that, it was nice.”
“Don’t let him strong-arm you into anything. You are not Rob. You don’t have to play ball.”
“There’s no danger of me becoming a jock. It’s so much effort for basically nothing.”
“Anything else going on in your life?”
Bear scrunched his nose, which made those dimples pop. “Not really.”
Something inside me softened, turning into an almost-dull ache. He didn’t want to tell me about the video game. Didn’t want to worry me about it.
“How was your day at work?” He looped a forkful of red pasta and scooped it into his mouth.
Well, son, it was worse than Abraham’s on the day God spontaneously told him he needed to circumcise himself at the age of ninety-nine.
Now it was my turn to lie. Or at the very least, give him an edited version of the truth.
“Great. Jerry might be needing me for some extra shifts in the next few weeks. That means more money. We can splurge a little. Anything you need?” I hoovered pasta into my mouth.
Thankfully, the stupid cruise was paid for by the Costellos, who weren’t exactly strapped for cash.
“Nah, don’t worry ’bout me. You should spend that money on yourself, Mom. You never get yourself anything.”
“That’s nonsense.” I waved my fingers, gulping air like there was too much of it in my airpipes. Holy sheet-balls, had he put Tabasco in this sauce? “I get myself these nails.”
“Nice try. Auntie Gail does them for free. I’m not stupid.” He rolled his eyes.
He was, in fact, the opposite of stupid. Bright and wise beyond his years. It was time I stopped lying to him about the small stuff just to make myself feel better.
The rest of the evening was bliss.
Bear and I watched American Idol together while eating pistachio ice cream in front of the TV. We laughed and passed judgment as if either of us could hold a note to save our lives. Then he kissed my forehead, wished me goodnight, and retired to his room.
A few minutes later, I heard soft snores down the hallway, escaping from his ajar door. That boy could sleep through the Kentucky Derby. Whilst being on a horse.
I grinned to myself, shaking my head as I gathered our ice cream bowls and empty iced tea glasses, making my way to the kitchen. The doorbell chimed just as I began to rinse the dishes clean.
With a soft sigh, I turned off the faucet, wiped my hands dry, and made my way to the front door.
The doorbell rang again before I could reach it.
“I’m coming, I’m coming. Sheesh.”
Was it my mother, passing by on one of her nightly walks in a bid to lose weight to tell me she’d decided to buy Bear his video game after all? Or maybe my sister, wanting me to look over a last-minute change to the flower arrangements or the wedding menu?
I flung the screen door open, and all the air left my lungs in one shocked whoosh.
On my front porch stood Rob Gussman, my high school sweetheart and Bear’s no-show Dad.
Thirteen years after leaving me pregnant at sixteen.
“Messy Nessy.” He smiled. “All grown up and lookin’ good.”
