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?
Too bad it’s so early that I don’t even pass anyone on the street to give them the purchasing option. Plus, there’s already a space for sale across the street from us. Pretty sure if someone was in the market, they’d snatch up that little shack in a heartbeat. And I must really be hungover to keep dwelling on this ridiculous hypothetical.
Instead of being relieved of my bakery-owner duties, I’m forced to nurse my head all morning as I’m rolling out dough, resisting the urge to toss up my cookies at the smell of donuts in the fryer.
Sometime around ten o’clock, after the morning rush has faded out and we are nearly sold out of our most popular donuts, I see Stacy enter the bakery. She’s wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap, and her blond ponytail is waving down her back with leftover curls from last night. She looks like a celebrity trying to fly under the radar.
“You’re brave, showing your face around here,” I say as she approaches the counter.
“Ugh. I feel like someone tried to kill me but then decided to keep me alive just enough so they could continue torturing my body slowly and painfully.”
“Really? I feel amazing.”
“You do?!”
I don’t have the luxury of wearing sunglasses to aid my pounding head, so Stacy has a front-row seat to my icy glare. “No! I got two hours of sleep before I had to wake up and open the shop. I swear, I’m never touching alcohol again. It’s prune juice for this grandma from now on.”
Stacy has the audacity to laugh, because apparently, she’s hoping to get punched today. “It’s your own fault. No one forced those last few Jell-O shots down your throat.”
“No, it’s your fault for planning a bachelorette party on a Sunday night!”
