But my head feels clearer. And as I get into the shower, I remind myself of what I told Ginny the other day—rather than dwelling on Logan and his love life, I’m going to focus on myself.
First things first though—I need to sign those divorce papers.
Two hours later, the unsigned divorce papers sit next to Vivian’s open diary at the empty bar counter in front of me.
Every time I pick up a pen and let it hover over the divorce agreement, my stomach twists into knots and I have to fight the urge to tear the papers in half. Needing a distraction, I opened up Vivian’s diary because it seemed like a good way to do research for the backstory of my novel.
After an hour, I’m ready to give up. My head is filled with Olde English phrases referencing Vivian’s growing frustrations with her husband, and my eyes burn from straining to decipher the faded handwriting. Before The Cowherd was allowed to hold the diary for wedding season, Mama would sneak behind the roped-off area in the Darcy Museum and use her magnifying glass to try to uncover clues. She swears that diary is why she needs reading glasses now.
I look back down at the page I’m on— can’t help but feel a twinge of homesickness for my motherland to the part Mama always recited by heart—cattle and oil roots are everywhere on this foreign soil. This land is hot and dry and dreadful, just dreadful.
Ginny’s incoming text is a blissful interruption.
Wildflowers for my bouquet?
I smile as I text her back. Perfect.
Thirty seconds later. Mama’s agreed to let you try on other dress options. Eloise says to come by anytime.
Thank God.
How’s your novel coming?
I type her back quickly. Not one word since you-know-who came back with a blond-haired sidekick. I’m afraid my creative streak went away somewhere permanent.
A minute later. Have you read your diary yet? Specifically the Vegas part? I really think you should, Mace. Remember what I said about letting go of the past. Read the entire thing from front to back.
The whole thing?
Yes. Purge the past. It’s the only way to move forward.
Maybe she’s right. I haven’t read the Vegas entry because I’ve been so busy, and have much more important things to do with my time than rehash a drunken night, and because I’m…
Scared.
I’m terrified to read what my subconscious said about the only “wedding” I’ll ever have.
But maybe I can start from the beginning like Ginny said.
I pull my diary out of my purse and flip to the first page. Re-reading about my father moving out for the first time should be harmless enough. I doubt Logan’s even in here much.
Today is Independence Day, the day Mama and Daddy got married for the first time. I was there too, in Mama’s belly.
This morning Mama said to me, “we’re independent women, baby, and we can stand on our own.” But she’s clearly bluffing or else she wouldn’t cry all night long.
Mama’s never blamed me out loud, but I know what’s in her heart—if she hadn’t gotten knocked up with me, she wouldn’t be where she is now—trapped and miserable. Since Daddy moved out, I’ve been reading Pride and Prejudice to her as much as I can because it’s the only way she sleeps when he’s gone.
Mama “discovered Jane” when her family moved to Darcy her senior year of high school and after she met Daddy, her very first boyfriend. So when she got knocked up with me only three months later, she took it as a sign that Daddy was her very own Mr. Darcy. Well, far from it, but she’d named me Austen Macey before she was sure.
I swear I will not end up like my mother. I will never fall in love and forget I’m happy being by myself.
Okay, this first entry is super depressing. I flip through until I reach the pages about Ben and Free’s births.
Right in the parking lot, Mama yelled, “head, head!” Daddy was holding Riley, and he shouted at me to do something. So I stepped out of the car. Mama opened her door, and out shot Ben Jr., right through the side of her underwear, and I caught him! I held a miracle in my arms, and I will love Ben forever. Just one year later, Freedom May Henwood came along…and then Mama kept her promise and got her tubes tied. So no more babies for me to take care of, thank goodness.
I turn the page to the year I turned ten. My breath catches in my throat as I read the opening sentence.
I had my first kiss this summer.
