The one person I couldn’t say goodbye to.
The woman who is now—while still very much alive—haunting me anytime I try to bring a woman home.
Having sixteen-year-old Izzy offer a critique of my form and everything I say when I’m with a woman is terrible.
And hilarious.
And a complete boner-killer.
The most terrifying was when, over a year ago, she popped into the shower as I was attempting to take care of things myself. She asked me how it felt to finally find time to tickle my pickle. When I ignored her, she told me a very dirty story about jacking the beanstalk.
Cackling in the shower at phrases I hadn’t thought about since high school, delivered by a figment of my imagination, didn’t make me the poster boy for sanity, but it did feel nice to laugh. To feel something other than frustration about my lack of musical talent.
Maybe I do need a change. Maybe I do need to get back in touch with my roots.
Hell. Maybe I’m finally desperate enough to go back to Wild Bluffs.
Chapter three
Izzy
“Nowthatbothyoursisters are engaged or married, are you going to start thinking about dating more seriously?” my mom asks as I help her put together a charcuterie board for the family to munch on before dinner.
“Oh, don’t worry, Mom,” I say. “I went deep down a rabbit hole about getting a mail-order husband. He should be here in time to be my date for Bryn’s wedding.”
Ever since Jameson proposed to my younger sister, Bryn, a few weeks ago, my dating life has become everyone's favorite conversation topic.
Especially since my older sister, Kelsey, shocked us all last year by returning from a work trip with a boyfriend who quickly became a husband.
So now, with one sister married and the other sporting a diamond the size of a peanut butter M&M, everyone’s focused on my love life.
I, in turn, have made it my mission to make them as uncomfortable as possible with my answers when they start to pry into my nonexistent love life.
“I can’t wait to meet him,” my dad says, grabbing a piece of salami off the wooden board in front of me.
“Maybe you’ll finally have one son-in-law you can be proud of,” I offer. “One out of three isn’t terrible.”
“It’s about time,” my dad teases. “I mean, did you see Jameson’s golf tournament last weekend when he missed that putt for eagle on hole eighteen?”
Because, yes, my younger sister is about to marry a professional athlete—not a high bar or anything.
“I hope you told him not to come to dinner tonight,” I say.
“I’ve actually banned him from all family events.”
I catch my mom’s eye roll as she mashes avocados for the guacamole.
“Who are we banning from dinner?” my older sister, Kelsey, asks as she walks into the house.
“Jameo,” Dad and I reply at the same time.
Kelsey laughs. “Because of that putt on eighteen?”
“Obviously,” I reply. “What a schmuck. Out there ruining the family name.”
“To be fair to him,” Kelsey’s husband, Carter, says, “he did still win a major golf tournament.”
“Ew. We’re not being fair to him,” I say as I sit at the island to chat. Now that Kelsey’s here, she’ll help Mom with the cooking. Which is for the best. I somehow manage to mess up frying eggs regularly.
