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Dad trained me and my siblings to steer clear of the three Ls: language, ladies, and the love of money.
“You should really stop verbing nouns.
and I have … I don’t even know what. My sparkling personality? My keen wit? My ability to binge several seasons of a TV show in a week? I’m still trying to figure my life out at twenty-seven.
“I knew I shouldn’t have watched all those renovation shows with you. Now they’ve got you thinking you can just up and Joanna Gaines a town.”
I avoid what I call the PTO Mafia, a tiny legion of women in athleisure-wear who coordinate—aka emotionally manipulate and browbeat—parent volunteers.
“I’ll be in touch if I find a spare husband by the side of the road.”
And DO NOT JUDGE ME for knowing all those shows. I am a man comfortable with his love of small-town drama with a heavy pour of romance.
I order a waffle platter and the migas plate, which makes Mari raise her brows. I pat my stomach. “Gotta nourish the food baby.”
If I had access to a T.A.R.D.I.S., I would go back and punch myself in the face. Repeatedly. But as any good Whovian knows, you don’t mess with your own timeline.
“I just finished reading the novel,” she says. “Chief Brody is my favorite, but I also love Quint. I like to think the shark just needed a friend.”
Ladies Literary and Libations Society,”
Here at the LLLS, we are serious about our libations, less so about our literary, and just plain willy-nilly with punctuation.
Though Lindy isn’t just into my looks, no woman turns down a good set of abs. This is about as far as I’ve gotten in terms of plans to win Lindy back. Step one: Get my hot bod back. Step two: Show off aforementioned hot bod by strategic losing of shirt. Repeat as necessary. Step three: Show her I’ve changed. Step four: Do whatever it takes to restore the sparkle in her eyes.
“I know what I want,” I insist, meeting and holding James’s gaze. “This is it. She is it.”
wave my hand and the server passing by thinks I’m signaling him to clear my plate. When he tries to take my now-cool fajita platter, I grab it with both hands, hunching my body over it protectively like Gollum. I think I might have even hissed.
But I will keep coming after you like the Terminator.”
The only thing my actual wedding has in common with my imagined one is the bride.
“We’re not getting divorced, bear cub. Pat was just putting his things in the guest room because there’s no room in my closet,” I explain, my eyes still glued to Pat’s. This is true. My closet is full of the crying coats.
Longing, hoping, dreaming—they’re liabilities I haven’t been able to afford. Not even if there were some kind of no-limit, no-interest credit card could I consider these things. At least, not if I don’t want to be buried alive under disappointment later. I swallow, my mouth feeling dry and papery. Can I possibly allow myself to feel these things now?
Happy weeding day, weef.”
“Will you be my alibi?” she asks. “I’ll be your everything, darlin’.”
Bringing Pat into my life was like turning up both the saturation settings and the volume. I feel almost like a new person—and this is after only a few days.
The team didn’t need to wait for the clock to run down on the final score to dump a cooler full of Gatorade over my head. I won the moment Lindy kissed me.
I have no question. This is my life. She is my life. She and Jo and whatever else might come our way.
