Back at the farmstand, Dee Dee starts wrapping up the bouquet—neatening the arrangement with confident hands.
“Here you go, darling.” She squints at me. “You know, you look so familiar…”
“I’m one of Bill and Joan’s kids,” I say, assuming that she, like Katie Mae, knows my parents.
She shakes her head, peering at me in thought. “Oh, I know!” Dee Dee says, snapping her fingers. “You were on that dating show!LovedBy! You had that terrible breakup.”
Heat shoots up my neck. Fantastic. Exactly what I was hoping for today: to be reminded of my most humiliating, nationally televised failed wedding. Now that she remembers who I am, my worry about what she may think—that I’m in a shotgun wedding, that I could bepregnant—grows tenfold. The stress and adrenaline surge in my veins.
Is this what it’ll be like if I go onA Shore Thing? I can see it now: every interview bringing up the Aaron situation, asking me to relive the heartbreak. At least for those, I’ll be prepped with talking points. Right now, I’m feeling a little ambushed. I force a smile that feels stapled onto my face, suddenly becoming aware of how disheveled I must look—traipsing around out in the field in just a dress over a swimsuit, hair unbrushed, no makeup. Normally, I’d never let myself out of the house like this. What was I thinking?
“That’s me,” I confirm.
“Well, I’m so glad you found love after all. Here, let me see those blooms, and I can try to earmark something similar for y’all’s big day.”
Her words land like salt in the wound. Moments ago, I was blissfully imagining my dream wedding, and now I’m slammed back to reality—the one where I’m hopelessly single, spending all my time being “just friends” with a guy I’m starting to like way more than I should.
Nate must see my stricken expression, because he immediately pulls away.
“Oh no,” he tells her, voice filled with good-natured cheer. “We’renot the ones getting married. It’s her brother. And my sister. We’re just innocent bystanders.”
I breathe a sigh of gratitude for his quick clarification, but I’m still on edge. Dragging our siblings into this will risk leakingthatstory.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Dee Dee says. “You said…”
“I’m actually deathly allergic to the concept of marriage,” Nate continues earnestly. “You might have seen me have a mild reaction out in the field just now? Someone tries to get me down the aisle, my tongue swells up like a balloon; very dangerous actually…”
Dee Dee gives an amused little laugh, but as Nate continues to expound on the myriad symptoms a long-term commitment would cause him to suffer, another thought occurs to me: Did this Dee Dee woman see us almost kiss in the flower field? Could she have snapped a photo? Great. Another chance for the world to speculate about my “mystery man”—who is currently making it abundantly clear how uninterested he is in anything serious.
I place a hand on Nate’s arm to stop his rambling. The less we say, the better. “It’s fine. It was just a misunderstanding.” I hand him my credit card and force my smile to stay in place. “Can you ring these up? I’m going to head back to the truck.”
I throw myself into the passenger seat and try to lower the anxiety creeping up my chest. But without the car on, the sunshine pouring in starts to get oppressive. Sweat accumulates along my hairline and trails down the side of my face. The bikini feels like it’s riding all the way up into my butt crack. I’m itchy and uncomfortable and longing for that shower I should have taken earlier.
Finally, Nate climbs into the driver’s seat.
“Everything okay?” he asks, starting the car. The sweet relief of air conditioning blows across my face.
“Everything’s fine. Let’s just get out of here.” I try to iron the edginess out of my voice. I look down at the flowers he’s still holding. After all that, all we’ve come away with is the bouquet he made for me. They’re a little worse for the wear after being used to swat bees, but the selection is still pretty beautiful.
“Dammit,” I mutter.
“What?” Nate asks warily.
How can I explain the surge of emotions roiling inside me? It’s everything. It’s the way Nate looks at me one minute, then professes to have no interest in a relationship whatsoever the next.
“Nothing,” I sigh.
“Sorry they got a little mangled,” he says, sounding a bit crestfallen.
I shrug, feeling something curl up tightly inside my chest as I sink deeper into the seat. “I mean, it’s not like they were meant to last anyway.”
“Whatever you say.” He places the bouquet, now dusty and battered, on the console between us and pulls back onto the highway without a word.
23
THE RIDE BACK HOMEis unexpectedly tense. Nate can obviously sense that my mood has shifted, but I can’t bring myself to admit why.
As if in response, a light rain has started, and Nate drives slowly, the steady rhythm of the windshield wipers the only sound.
