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.