1
FAITH
“Never marry for love,” Aunt Miranda told me when I was eight.
I don’t remember much else from that year, but for some reason, that stuck.
“If you do, you’ll end up like me,” she said. “With a man who walked out on you, and too old to be working Saturday night shifts managing a busy restaurant. Marry a good man with a good family who’ll take care of you.”
Once, I asked her, “Why not marry for both?”
She laughed, rolled her eyes. “Don’t be a silly romantic. That’s not possible.”
Now that I’m heading into my senior year of college, that wisdom—or is it just bitterness? Jury’s still out—has stayed with me.
And while Idoconsider myself a romantic… I also happen to be in love with my fiancé.
At the moment, though, I’m not thinking about love. I’m hiding in the back of our family restaurant, catching a quick breather during my shift, when Aunt Miranda finds me.
“Well, hello there,” she says, wearing her signature faded smile.
“Hey, Aunty M. Just taking a quick break.”
This is my dad’s place, and after a full year away at college, I’m back working here for the summer. I’m glad to be making extra cash for school, but I’d somehow forgotten how physically brutal this job is. I’ve probably walked five miles today, and I’m halfway convinced my arches have collapsed. I need new work shoes. Maybe orthopedic ones.
Sexy, I know.
Aunt Miranda stares at me like she’s waiting for an apology. I don’t plan to give her one.
“It’s been nonstop since two p.m.,” I say. “This is the first break I’ve taken.”
“I know, I know. But we can’t be on break during the six o’clock rush, now can we? Won’t you check on table twenty-two?”
I smile, even though I want to frown. Classic passive aggression. I could point out I’ve been running around since brunch at nine a.m., or that table twenty-two probably just sat down thirty seconds ago—but I don’t.
“Of course. I’ll be right out.”
“I know you will—it’s been a long day,” she says, sighing like she’s carrying the weight of the world. “I’m sorry to be the wrangler. You know how I hate to have that role here. But someone has to stay in touch with reality.”
I bite the inside of my cheek instead of my lip. If I bite my lip, she’ll notice—and if she doesn’t say anything, she’ll give methatlook.
Truth is, I don’t have anything against Aunty M. She’s solid. Much more responsible than her sister, myotherAunty M—Misty.
Misty moved to California when she was seventeen. I see her every few years, and every time she shows up, she’s got:
A) a new boyfriend—usually an actor or a musician
or
B) a new tattoo—either a romantic flower or some Latin phrase likeamor fati
My dad, the family’s pride and joy, is a preacher, so Misty gets side-eyes and headshakes every time she rolls back into town.
I don’t have any tattoos myself, but I don’t judge. And if I had to choose between living like Miranda or Misty…
Let’s just say I’d be headed for California.
When I head back out to the floor, I’m startled to find my fiancé, Keith Stinson, sitting at table twenty-two—with his best friend, Dave Smalls. Those two have been thick as thieves since they sat next to each other in second grade.
