I thank her, then meet four sets of eyes staring at me.
“Awkward,” Sam sings out, leaning back toward the table. “But Meme. Girl. I’m a little butt-hurt you didn’t tell me.”
Guilt swirls in my stomach, and I quietly blurt, “I lied.”
“Huh?” Ethan asks around his straw as he sips his sweet tea.
“I’m a big ole liar,” I say, sighing into my hands as I hang my head. “Bryan saw me meeting with the agent, and he surmised we were dating. I decided not to correct him just to keep him off my back.”
I lift my head just in time for Ethan to burst out laughing as Sam elbows him. She’s grinning, though, despite herself.
“You had to go and get a fake boyfriend because you can’t get a real one,” Ethan guffaws, wheezing with laughter. I level a stare at him, but that sends him over the edge with a roaring sound that garnishes the attention of those around us.
“Quiet, Ethan,” I bark out. “You’re going to ruin the ruse. I want that man to just stay away from me.”
“Okay, okay.” He throws his hands up though he can’t wipe that stupid teasing grin off his thickly bearded face. “I’ll only play along because I never liked that Vanilla Wafer man.”
Now I’m the one smiling as I recall Ashton’s insult. “We can’t use Vanilla Wafers because they’re actually good. We have to use stale, bland crackers.”
That starts round two of laughter from the table, and even Mom and Dad join in, though Mom’s laugh is silent as she fights to not let it loose like the proper Southern woman she is.
“What’s the ruckus?” Pastor Larry of Whitney Baptist Church, the only church in our tiny town, approaches the table with his wife, Veronica. But I call the duo Pawpaw and Meemaw.
“Hi!” I spring to my feet and wrap Meemaw into a hug before Pawpaw noogies the top of my head. I quit asking him to stop a long time ago because it was a hopeless request. “Glad y’all could make it.”
“Like we’d miss our Pumpkin’s twenty-seventh birthday lunch.” Meemaw sits in the empty chair next to me, straightening the lapels of her floral dress. “I’m paying, by the way.”
“Don’t have to tell me twice,” Dad replies, earning thelookfrom his father. It’s proper etiquette to at least deny the offer once before humbly accepting, but Dad has never been one to turn down his mom's offering to treat any of us. He knows it’s her love language—to spoil us through gifts.
As we settle in for my after-church birthday lunch, my phone vibrates. Ashton’s name flits across my screen, causing a blend of nervous excitement to overwhelm me. I make a scene of pretending my phone is vibrating and that there’s a call I need to take. The family is too busy mocking my momentary fake boyfriend situation to care, though Dad and Mom seem to be watching me with a strange expression. A mix of concern, amillion questions, and… fear? I smile at them and stand to “take my call.”
I wind around the heavy wooden tables with horses and riders carved into the back of them, pass the bar of draft beers, and slip into the single restroom just to take a breather and have the freedom to react however I need to to Ashton’s messages.
Ashton Prewitt:I know it’s Sunday (don’t worry, I’m not texting in church), but I just finished your draft and was wondering if you’ve made any progress on the last third of the book. If so, would you mind emailing me a copy?
I squeal. That’s a good sign, right? That he’d text me on a Sunday. That he’d want to finish my book after church? And then message me for more?
My fingers fly over the screen.
Me: I’m not finished, but I have written up to the climax of the story. However, I’m still trying to figure out what it should be or how it should go. But I will send you what I have as soon as I get home! *orange heart emoji*
Crap. I meant to press the smiling emoji.
Me:So sorry! I meant *smiley emoji*
Three dots immediately appear, and his response doesn’t take long to come through.
Ashton Prewitt:You’re an orange heart kind of woman? Orange feels a little… loud, don’t you think?
I release my breath, thankful that he isn’t being weird about the mistype.
Me:Pre-amnesia me would have chosen pink, but there’s just something about orange that calls my name. When I watch a sunrise or a sunset, I feel like heaven is smiling down on me. There’s something comforting about it. It’s not loud, it’s… warm.
Ashton Prewitt:Here’s to sunsets and warmth. *orange heart emoji*
I giggle like a schoolgirl, biting my bottom lip as I begin to type out a series of orange emojis, but a knock at the restroom door snaps me out of the daze I found myself in. I stare at the message I was about to send, laden with orange hearts, sunsets, orange swim shorts, coral, fire, notebook, and—oh my gosh—peach emojis.
Holding the backspace button down until all that’s left is a blinking cursor, I flush the toilet even though I didn’t use it and then wash my hands, wondering what in the world came over me to try and send something like that to my potential literary agent when all he was doing was saving me from embarrassment over a mistyped text. Talking to him comes as naturally as breathing.
