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.
“And coffee for me.” Mrs. Holland smiled innocently.
Shooting them one last look, I went over to Coulter and recited their order, highlighting the no-peanut rule.
“I know Gabriella.” Coulter wiped his sweaty forehead with the back of his forearm, flipping bacon strips on the grill. “Don’t worry. No peanuts.”
Hurrying over to a corner of the diner, I pulled out my phone and started writing Cruz a text message.
This was stupid.
Surely, I wasn’t going to give up the best thing to happen to me since Bear (and Spanx) because of a few snotty people, even if some of them were my family. And I did owe him an apology for being difficult and pushing him away.
We needed to clear the air.
Tennessee: Hey. Sorry for what happened at the rehearsal dinner. I’d like to talk. Can you come over at
Coulter banged his fist on the bell, indicating one of the orders was ready.
“Table three.”
My eyes glided back to the text message I was finishing.
“Waitress! Are you going to keep us waiting just so you can mess around on your phone? It’s an ice cream! It melts!” Mrs. Holland hollered loud enough for people in neighboring states to hear.
With a low growl, I shoved my phone into my purse behind the counter, grabbed their order, and stomped my way toward their table.
Mrs. Holland was lounging back on the red vinyl, her daughter nowhere to be seen.
Where’d Gabriella go? To sharpen her fangs before sinking them into my neck?
“There you go.” I set the sundae, coffee, and Diet Coke on their table. “Hope you enjoy.”
“Oh, we will. No peanuts, right?”
“That’s what you asked a trillion times,” I confirmed. “Don’t worry, the only nuts we have around here are you and your daughter.”
“Wouldn’t kill you to be more polite.”
“Wouldn’t kill you to be more gracious,” I deadpanned.
“I cannot wait for Dr. Costello to dump you.” Mrs. Holland’s smile widened.
I couldn’t help it. I laughed.
“Even if he dumps me, which he very well might, he would never be with your daughter. She is everything you raised her to be—venomous, mean, petty, and perhaps worst of all—boring.”
“I suppose you’re a much better catch?”
She wrinkled her nose.
At least the smile dropped from her lips.
I shrugged. “He chose me, didn’t he?”
With those parting words, I went back to the counter, passing Gabriella on my way. She sneered at me, her shoulder purposely brushing mine as she took her seat.
“They seem like quite the pair.” Trixie untangled herself from her phone to squeeze my forearm. “Sorry.”
“It’s all right.” I rubbed her arm. “I’m used to it.”
After taking another order, I was about to retrieve my phone and finish the message to Cruz when I heard a loud gasp behind my back, followed by a thud.
Turning around, I found Gabriella on the diner floor, clutching her neck, moaning that she couldn’t breathe.
“My baby! My baby!” Mrs. Holland waved her hands frantically. “Someone call a doctor! I think she is having an allergic reaction! She’s allergic to peanuts!”
People began running around in all directions. Trixie grabbed the phone behind the counter and dialed nine-one-one. Someone said they might have an EpiPen in their purse, flipped their bag over and rummaged through their belongings.
Mrs. Holland was crying and doing the same, going through her daughter’s tote.
And me…I knew I had been set up.
There were no peanuts in that sundae.
I’d made sure of that.
Coulter’d made sure of that.
Mrs. Holland found an EpiPen in her daughter’s tote.
“I got it! I got it! Thank God,” she cried out in relief, running toward her daughter, who was still slithering on the floor, trying to breathe.
She jabbed the syringe into Gabriella’s outer thigh, with an extra flourish of dramatic flare for a parent who was stabbing their child.
“There’s an ambulance on the way.” Jerry rounded the counter, running toward Mrs. Holland. He crouched down on the floor to be eye-level with her, almost knocking me down on his way. “I cannot tell you how sorry I am, Mrs. Holland. I’m beside myself. This has never happened to us before. A terrible human error. Terrible. We all know Gabriella is allergic to peanuts.”
“She did it on purpose!” Mrs. Holland ignored him, pointing in my direction. “She’d do anything to win Dr. Costello. She couldn’t handle the fact he took a liking to my precious Gabriella! I want her to pay! She tried to kill my daughter.”
That was the last thing she said before the ambulance pulled up at the curb in front of the diner.
And right behind it, the cops.
