He stares at me for a long moment, his dark eyes raking my face, searching for… reassurance? Truth?
Finally, he nods, running a hand through his hair and leaving the strands standing on end. His disheveled appearance is so achingly nostalgic that I can’t help the warm feeling filling my belly.
“So, how about them Lions?” he finally asks, changing the subject. “Hell of a year.”
I paste a grin on my mouth, forcing the melancholy from my thoughts as we talk football.
It’s only later, as I’m getting ready for bed that I allow myself to think about the evening and what it means.
I can do this. Be normal. Feel okay about my life.
Liar, liar, pants on fire.
TWO
MOLLY
Ispoon another mouthful of Ben and Jerry’s Chocolate Fudge Brownie while watching Elle Woods kick butt at Harvard. I need tonight. NEED IT.
We’re two weeks post-engagement announcement and I’ve already been sucked into the wedding vortex that is Bess Kirkson.
I don’t like to speak ill of my best friend, but all evidence points to Bess becoming a stage five Bridezilla.
And I’m pretty sure the stages only go to four.
The day following their engagement announcement, a Tiffany-blue box had arrived on my doorstep. Inside sat a gorgeous black tote bag with Tiffany-blue trim embroidered with my initials.
The entire thing had exploded with glitter and butterflies the moment I’d opened it, dousing me, my entry floor, and my ceiling in blue shimmer. The butterflies had been those paper wind up ones that spring out at you like bats outta hell.
Scared the beejeebus out of me.
The bag also held a note asking formally if I would be her maid of honor, then requested that I attend a breakfast to meet and greet the other bridesmaids—the following morning.
Between then and now, I’d already talked her down three times, negotiated a fight between her and her mother, helped interview thirteen wedding planners, and agreed to meet next week to view dresses.
And I’d done all of that around my day job while trying to negotiate more funding for the local rec center.
I didn’t just deserve a night at home—I’d earned it.
“You tell ’em, Elle!” I lift my spoon in support as Elle Woods argues about sperm emissions being reckless abandonment.
“I wish I had scented ink,” I mutter, licking the spoon. “I should order some. Cotton candy. The kids will love it.”
I pause, thinking it over.
On second thought, I’m sure I want a pack of second graders trying to eat their homework.
My phone buzzes with a text from Bess. I think about ignoring it, then sigh. If I don’t answer, she’ll just start calling.
Bess
You okay? You skipped yoga
Molly
Fine. Just a long week
Bess
