“I want to make it up to you, too, Nessy. Not just Bear. I want to try to win you back, too.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“No. I’ve never stopped caring about you, Tennessee. I—”
“Thanks, but I’d rather lick the door handle of the nearest public bathroom.”
This time when I slammed the door in his face, I didn’t open it again.
There was only so much bull a woman could tolerate in a day.
I was well into my third serving of fine—discounted, almost-certainly-expired—wine when I remembered to book those tickets for the cruise.
I fired up my ancient laptop and typed in the web address my parents had given me for the cruise company. They had warned me a thousand times not to screw it up.
They had a good reason to, too.
I had a bad, self-diagnosed case of ADHD and was pretty terrible about doing anything that required more than three minutes of concentration and/or heavy machinery. My mind constantly felt like a multi-lane highway with no traffic signs. And after Rob’s appearance, I was justifiably rattled.
But it was literally just booking tickets—how hard could it be?
I really didn’t want Dr. Punched-Him-in-the-Throat （I’m building up to this story, okay? Bear with me!） to pester me about it. Not that he did. Cruz Costello was somewhat of an expert at ignoring my existence.
But if I could ensure he and I wouldn’t have to speak to each other before the cruise, I was going to give it my best shot.
On the cruise company’s website, I entered the Elation into the search bar, the cruise ship we were going to be on. It sailed from Port Wilmington and proceeded on a ten-day cruise to various Caribbean islands.
Apparently, this was a long-time tradition for the Costellos, who took their sons on a cruise to a different exotic destination every summer. We, the Turners, had had a few summer traditions of our own before I gave birth to Bear.
Namely, to haul ass to Disney World every August, complain about the Floridian heat, and then, later, about the insane lines, swear we’d never, ever come back again, and frantically try to find my very drunk, very friendly dad striking up a conversation with whatever poor actress they had dressed as Elsa that day.
Admittedly, I was a little tipsy when I booked my and Cruz’s tickets.
Things were a bit…blurry as I entered all our details and forwarded the confirmation via email to [email protected]. Which was why I peppered the email with middle finger emojis, just so he’d know who it was from.
In the end, I shut down my computer, took my wine to my room, and collapsed onto my bed for an honest, six-hour-long slumber. A slumber filled with dreams of Benicio del Toro, and lottery tickets, and no Rob Gussmans or Cruz Costellos.
The next day, I went to my parents’ house after dropping Bear off at school. I had an evening shift, and I’d promised to help my sister Trinity make goodie bags for the bachelorette party later that evening.
Yup.
That was right.
One of the two bridesmaids—me—wasn’t invited to the bachelorette party. Or, if we were going to get all technical about it, wasn’t available at that hour, on that date.
But Trinity knew dang well there was no one to cover my shifts—and Tuesday was a night shift. So what I gathered from this, was that she didn’t want me to be there.
Which, admittedly, wasn’t a huge loss, seeing as Trinity’s friends weren’t my biggest fans.
Still, it stung she’d chosen this date—weeks before the actual wedding—just because she knew I couldn’t make it. Although, if you asked Trinity, she’d say 0720 was her lucky number. Which we all knew was bull-bleep. No one’s favorite number is 0720.
“Hello, hello, hello! I’m here!” I used my key to open the door to my parents’ Cape Cod-style house, holding a huge box of donuts. I toed off my leopard-print heels, strutting my way to the kitchen and flicking the coffee machine on.
As far as interior design went, my parents’ house was a disaster of global proportions. My mother, who was an art teacher at the local elementary school, had pretty eccentric taste. And by eccentric, I mean, of course, hideous.
They had turquoise wall-to-wall carpet, a painting of some kind of a freaky farm on the kitchen wall that was supposed to be pastoral, and the bathrooms and bathtubs were painted in hot red and orange, which gave the rooms the elegance of a whorehouse on fire.
“Coming!” I heard footfalls coming from upstairs.
Trinity was still living with my parents. I was actually mildly concerned about her getting married and moving in with Wyatt. Home at twenty-five, she’d grown up way more sheltered than I had.