“You’re doing it again, lad. The damn sighing. What’s it this time? She didn’t text you back?” I inhale and turn to tell him to piss right off but he pulls his face long and changes his accent to mimic me, “Piss off, Nigel.”
“I do not sound like that.”
“Aye, a polite, charming, little twat since you were a teenager. Spare us both and say it.”
I look away, uncomfortable, and lie, “I’ve nothing to say.”
I’ve plenty to say.
Mother called, over the moon about Janie. Her voice was more animated than I’ve heard in years. While I love the sound, it gave me a bit of heartburn. What will happen to all that joy when we separate in a year? What if she finds out it’s not even real? What if she…
“Arsehole!” Nigel yells at a semi truck that pulls in front of us and slows down.
I smirk. He’s not used to these interstates with all the eighteen wheelers. Very different from city traffic.
My phone buzzes. Again. Samantha cannot stop texting. Even my grumpy older brother wants to come visit us, the happy newlyweds. It’s hardly been a week and I’m already having to put everyone off.
Meanwhile, my quote-unquotewifebarely responds to my texts. I sent her some photos of the house, claiming they were from the decorator—not about to admit I’d indeed flown back in, signed the papers in person and then sulked on my tour of the big, gorgeous place all by myself—she gave them a thumbs up.
An emoji.
“There it is again. Your sighing is the stuff of Shakespeare.” He leans forward at the wheel. “Take my gun out of the back of my belt and murder me, would you?”
“Then who will drive me around?” I say back.
It’s worth sighing over.
She sent me one singular emoji.
After I not only bought the coolest house in the area, I also had it decorated to suit her the week of closing. I figured that gal did such a bang up job on her office, why not the home too? I was right. The house is not new, so it has some charm, but in recent years it was fully renovated inside to maximize the hillside view of Juniper Fall’s one large lake. Now it’s also fully furnished and the designer made it feel calm but vibey, modern and dark and very…Janie.
But does my bride want to see it, or, I don’t know, stay there and have sheets like butter and a walk-in rain shower with five shower heads? No. Stubborn thing.
After we texted back and forth about our backstory, I guess she was done with me. No other calls or texts until she sent a Google spreadsheet about our fall activities. How romantic.
Not that I need romance. What am I so riled up about? Honestly.
That’s what bothers me the most. That I’m bothered. My life is bliss. Dad’s pleased. The press is buying the story. I’m helping Janie recover financially and she did send me that spreadsheet. She’s keeping up her side of the agreement.
My longtime body man is right. No more of this little bitch business. I sit up straighter in the backseat. It’s almost showtime. Fun with the townsfolk, cutting up for the paps, shameless flirting, this is what I do best. And what I enjoy, too.
Nigel must notice the change in me because he finally stops staring in the rearview.
Or he’s looking at the view as well.
The area around Janie’s tiny hometown is starting to turn into the vivid picturesque fall scene it’s known for. It’s just barely yellow round the edges now but it’ll be a damned advert for a pumpkin spiced life in a week’s time.
That’s before the snow dumps and it turns into the cheery Christmas scene it’s also known for. I read in some article that popped up on my phone—spying techy wankers—that for holiday towns like this one the town income is below the poverty line nine months out of twelve. October through December saves it, year after year. I guess that explains why now, as we reach the edge of the town, there’s suddenly some normal traffic.
“Just pull into town you said?” Nigel asks.
“Yes, she said to meet in the town square at five for the contest.” She didn’t spell out not to come early but I felt it was implied. No surprises. “Anywhere on Juniper Street is fine.”
He nods before turning onto the main thoroughfare street that crosses through town. Not named Main Street, oddly enough. Shops line the sides of the quaint road, many of them vacant until you get further down the street near the square.
Just like something off of television, there’s a big square garden area with grass and a fountain, a gazebo, little twinkle lights criss-crossing…the whole bit. The side of Harper’s bakery is one of the storefronts on the square, along with the steakhouse, a big grocery and a few more shops that I didn’t catch the names of.
“Contest?” Nigel asks.
