What ifs ping around my brain for the rest of the night like an annoying screen saver where the words never reach the corner. No matter how hard I try, I can’t convince myself I made the right decision all those years ago. And even worse, I still can’t tell if I’ll make the same decision again a second time.
All I know is that June says she hates me. But I don’t hate her. In fact, I think I’m just as wild about her as I was back then. Maybe it’s a mistake, and maybe I’ll think more clearly in the morning, but I want June’s attention again. And it turns out, the strategy is exactly the same as it was in high school.
I’ve gotta get under her skin.
Chapter 5 June
I am going to murder my best friend.
Go ahead and zip me up in an orange jumpsuit and lock me in the slammer for life, because Stacy Williams is dead to me.
Was she out of her everlovin’ mind to plan her bachelorette party on a Sunday night? Meaning, the night before MONDAY—the day that I have to wake up at five in the morning to open the bakery. (For those of you doing the math at home, that’s only about two and a half hours after I stumbled into my bed.)
I hate her. I grumble it fifteen more times before I bring myself to squint my eyes open, and good heavens, that’s one spinning room.
How did this even happen? I haven’t had more than two drinks in a night since my early twenties. I’m usually very careful, especially knowing I have to open the bakery the next day. But last night, having Ryan only feet away from me did strange things to the rational thinking part of my brain. I was too nervous to eat and lost count of my drinks (did I mention I never do that?). The combo was brutal and life-changing. Life-changing in that I will never touch another cocktail again.
Women hung around Ryan like the world was suddenly being depleted of oxygen and he contained the superspecial, never-ending supply behind his lips. Everything he said garnered a barrel of laughs. The man should be a stand-up comedian for how funny everyone seemed to think he was. If the conversation just barely turned to something that wasn’t worship for His Majesty, some little darling would pull it right back to him and then stare at his special oxygen lips while he spoke.
Ooooh, Ryan, you’re a chef! Ryan, what’s it like running a prestigious kitchen? My, what big muscles you have, Ryan!
I don’t know if it’s the tequila trying to make its way back up or the thought of Ryan that’s making me want to barf, but the nausea is real.
Finally bringing myself to open my eyes, I realize I’m hugging a man’s gray suit jacket, and I fling it to the ground. Memories assault me like I’ve just put a beehive on my head. Ryan brought me home last night. STING. He came in my house. STING. Put me in my bed. STING. Covered me with a blanket. STING, STING.
And…oh no. I admitted to wishing he had kissed me!
Now I’m really going to be sick. Oh, but no worries. There is a wastebasket beside my bed with a fresh trash bag in it, because RYAN put it there, knowing I’d be out-of-my-mind hungover today. Cool. Cool, cool, cool.
My head is throbbing, and my body feels like a semi has run over it, hit reverse, and then taken one more pass. Honestly, I wish it had. Then I wouldn’t have to face Ryan the rest of this week.
All I want to do is lie here in my bed and wallow all day long, but I can’t. Although I thought ahead to have Stacy’s shift covered, I didn’t anticipate myself trying to drink the entire contents of four bars in one night and still thinking I’d be in tip-top shape this morning. Somehow, this is all Ryan’s fault. It feels good to throw the blame on him.
Tossing off the covers, I force my legs off the side of the bed and sit up straight. I immediately spot another clue that my nemesis was in my house. Two little aspirin pills lay innocently beside a full glass of water, taunting me. Sure, it could have been a friendly gesture: I hope you feel better soon, June! But I know Ryan. This is his way of saying I win again.
I don’t even want those pills—don’t even need them!
But when I stand and cross the room at the pace of an injured snail, I turn back and down the aspirin like my life depends on it. Ryan will never know.
Twenty minutes later, I still feel (and look, mind you) like the Grim Reaper, but I’ve wiped the caked-on mascara out from under my eyes, brushed my teeth for a solid two minutes, and signed a contract I scribbled out onto an old receipt, stating that I will never drink again. I also attempt to scrub off all my regret in the shower. It doesn’t work. With every minute that passes, I realize I despise my actions from last night more.
After dressing and applying a fresh coat of makeup to hide the new circles under my eyes, I make my way to the kitchen. More clues are littered around my house, and I want to scream. There is a fresh pot of coffee on my counter (How did he get the auto brew feature to work? I’ve been trying all month!) and my favorite mug sitting beside it. There’s an innocent photo of Nick Lachey printed on the front, but when you fill it with hot liquid, his shirt disappears, revealing his glorious, chiseled six-pack. Best magic trick ever. But that’s beside the point.
All these little “acts of kindness” are nothing but Ryan setting the stage.
Telling me he’s the boss.
Reminding me of my indiscretions.
Just to spite him, I fill a different mug, take a sip, and dammit, he makes incredible coffee! Of course he does. But Ryan doesn’t matter to me anymore. I don’t have a crush on him. I don’t think he’s hot. I DON’T. And I only smelled his suit jacket one time to see what gross cologne a spawn of the devil wears. Okay, I smelled it twice. Three times. FOUR, GOSH!
Unable to stomach all the reminders of Ryan scattered around my house, I take my coffee out on the front porch to enjoy it in peace. I tiptoe toward the patio seat, trying to sip as I walk without sloshing any coffee on myself, when my foot bumps into a package I somehow missed yesterday. It’s little and taped up with a familiar washi tape, tipping me off immediately to who sent it.
I pull out my phone, and although it’s early, I dial my mom because I know she’ll already be up. I settle myself on the porch chair and pin my phone to my ear as I tear into the box, pushing the polka-dot tissue paper aside and extracting the gift.
“Well, morning, darlin!” Mom says with a chipper tone that I can’t help but grin at. Here’s the thing, I’m southern, but my mom is country. Ask anyone in the South and they will tell you there’s a big difference. Her family is from Kentucky, where you never pronounce the g sound on the end of a sentence, and when you’ve had enough to eat, you’re “full as a tick on a hound.” She’s like sunshine poking through a rainstorm.
“WHERE did you find this sweatshirt?” I ask, holding up the most amazing article of clothing that’s ever been created.
I hear Mom clapping with excitement on the other end. “It’s the best, isn’t it? I bought it a month ago, and it’s been torture waitin’ for it to get to you. I found it in a little Etsy shop called 90s Hot-tees. Get it?”
You know those moms you see on TV that seem too good to be true? The ones you watch, feeling jealousy grow inside your chest because no one that amazing really exists? Well, she does. Her name is Bonnie Broaden, and she is my five-foot-nothing southern firecracker mom with teased-up blond hair, toenails that always match her purse, and just enough progressive opinions to make you question everything you thought you ever knew about this particular stereotype.
Only a mom like mine would commit to a five-year-long inside joke, buying up every unique piece of fan merchandise devoted to the king of 1990s hot guys: Nick Lachey.
Five years ago, when I called off my wedding at the last minute with the weak excuse of it just didn’t work out, I expected my family to be angry and full of questions. But my mom took one look at my puffy, bloodshot eyes, asked if I wanted to talk about it—to which I responded with a firm no—and then never questioned me again. She took care of canceling the venue, returning my wedding gifts, and contacting all the guests to let them know that Ben and I would no longer be getting married—all without ever demanding a single reason why. Sometimes I look back and wish I had told everyone the truth right away instead of hiding behind the excuse that we weren’t right for each other, but it just hurt too bad at the time to say the words out loud.
On the day of my supposed-to-be wedding, Mom showed up at my doorstep first thing in the morning, giant cup of coffee in one hand and a massive gift bag in the other. When I opened the bag and pulled out a huge fleece blanket with the image of my high school celebrity crush, Nick Lachey, printed across it, she said, I figured if you’re not gettin’ married today, you might as well have your favorite man in the world to snuggle with.
And that was that.
From then on, every holiday, every birthday, and sometimes when she knows I’ve had a hard week, I find presents like this one on my doorstep.
Today’s treasure, though, is my all-time favorite. It’s a white cotton grandma-style crewneck sweatshirt with a picture of the band 98° in their red zipper jumpsuits with text down the side that says Turn Up the Heat!
Basically, it’s better than gold, and I’m going to be the most popular girl at school. Well, actually, I’ll probably be trolled in the grocery store by thirteen-year-olds because I’m a grown woman and shouldn’t be wearing boy band apparel from the ’90s, but I don’t give a shit. I will risk humiliating remarks from teenyboppers because I adore my mom and these trinkets of love she sends me. They are our thing. Our secret code. Our BFF bracelets, if you will.
Sometimes I feel guilty that she’s given me all this unconditional love, and I still haven’t told her what happened between Ben and me, but the more time that passes, the harder it gets to rip those memories out of the steel vault I locked them away in. They are better left sealed away where they can’t hurt me anymore.
Or…at least where no one is able to see that they hurt me.
After I finish gushing to Mom about the sweatshirt, we talk about the bachelorette party. I tell Mom a happier version of the night, tiptoeing around the part where I accidentally got hammered and made a fool of myself (even cool moms don’t want to hear those bits). But mostly, I use all my energy avoiding any mention of Ryan and how he’s ridiculously hot now, and successful, and brought me home safely, and made me coffee, and put aspirin beside my bed. Ugh, the jerk.
When you say it all together like that, it paints him as the knight in shining armor just like he wants. It’s his tactic—I know it—and I will not aid his campaign of complete world domination.
Once I finish talking with Mom, I pull on my sexy new sweatshirt (That’s right, fellas—I’m single and totally ready to mingle) and go back inside. Unfortunately, Ryan is still on my mind. I need to get him out. So, only to prove to myself how much I really don’t care about Ryan, I find the clutch I carried with me last night and dig through it, intending to pull out my secret weapon: random guy’s number.
Sure, I don’t remember what he looks like…I think he had brown hair? And I don’t remember if I told myself to throw his number away or call him first thing in the morning, so I think I’ll split the difference and text him. A fun dinner date with a cute guy is exactly what I need to remind myself that Ryan means nothing to me anymore.
Except the phone number is not here. It’s been replaced with a note from a psychopath.
He was a tool. You can thank me later.
I won’t thank him later. I will replace his shampoo with Elmer’s glue later.
—
I pull into the parking lot of Darlin’ Donuts around six a.m., see my employee Nichole’s car, and thank my lucky stars that I no longer have to do the graveyard shift. Perks of being an owner: I never have to work from three a.m. to six a.m. prepping the dough if I don’t want to—which I never do. Having to be here at six is bad enough. And honestly, right now I would give this whole bakery up to the highest bidder if it meant I could just go home and sleep. Five whole dollars?! Sure, why not! Can I go home now?
