face, laughing too. “All this mockery for one, tiny error. One.” She shakes a single finger. “You guys are ridiculous.”
We repeat “ridiculous” over and over with British accents, not that she sounds like that, but it’s funny to see her squirm.
“Aww, come on Bren.” I tug on her arm. “We’re just messing around.” She pulls away, faking mad. “You want to be that way, that’s fine.” I cut my eyes at Van.
“Finer than a frog hair split four ways,” we say in unison.
“You people are going to hell.” Bren gives me a fake glare.
“Now that’s the spirit.” I hook arms with her. “Now, say, ‘y’all.’ Come on now.”
She does—with zero twang—but she indulges me. Even though we’re all goofing off and having fun, her words do not slip my mind. We’ll figure it out … together.
I hope that’s exactly what we do.
Chapter 11
Today is a big day. Andrew and the boys finished framing out the float. The plan this morning was to pick up Sarabeth after breakfast. If I’m already running late, I know she will be for sure. I hurriedly blow dry and scrunch my hair. By the time I pop into the kitchen for a bowl of cereal, Mother is already in there, cooking away.
A huge pot of sauce simmers on the stove, fresh basil and mushrooms on the cutting board. Two bottles of wine sit next to the loaf of French bread. Somebody’s planning a sleepover with Mr. Billy. It’s silly they hide their relationship. But I know how my mother thinks. It just wouldn’t look Christianly to date someone two months after his divorce. I wonder what our Baptist preacher would say about the wine.
I bite my lips to keep from letting a grin escape. “It’ll be a late night, so I’m staying with Sarabeth,” I say.
“I figured so. Don’t stay up too late and miss church in the morning.”
“I won’t.” But we always do.
“What about that new girl, Bren? Is she going to be there?” The question comes out of left field. Mother casually stirs the spaghetti sauce, but her eyes keep dancing back to me. I don’t answer right away. “Because, you know, I really don’t know her family all that well. I’m not sure if I want you hanging out with her.”
That confirms it for me. Freaking Billy Arden ratted me out to Mother, and she knows. She knows! I knew this whole dating Bren stuff was a bad idea. Whatever made me think I could hide it from Mother was beyond me. This sucks. Now how am I supposed to see Bren? I slurp down the milk left in my bowl. When I come up for air, an idea hits me. “No,” I say, while I put my bowl in the dishwasher. “I heard she has a date with Mark, Jenny Littleton’s son.” The lie slips out as easy as breathing.
“How nice.” Mother perks. “He’s a right sweet boy.” Relief softens her entire posture. I grab my keys. “Don’t forget we have the bake sale after church tomorrow. Don’t be late.”
I kiss her on the cheek like a good girl. “Don’t worry, Mother, I won’t.”
Out in front of Sarabeth’s house, floral vans and catering vehicles fill the driveway and block the street. From the side gate, I see Mrs. Beaudroux signing for deliveries and directing her staff where to set up the tables. Crates of stemware and fine china clank as they are carried to the back by the Beaudroux’s maid—degraded with a cliché fifties uniform for house maids.
I wait for Sarabeth to load the rest of her stuff in my car, float decorations and whatnot. I check my Instagram. Bren posted another picture of an accidental love note—a pothole in the asphalt in the shape of a lopsided heart. A huge smile breaks across my face. It’s our way of saying “I miss you” to each other as publicly as possible.
“Whatcha grinning at?” Sarabeth asks as she gets into the car.
Quickly I lock my screen and shove my phone in my pocket. “Eh, just a stupid text from Van. What’s up with the big shindig?” I redirect the conversation.
“That?” She looks up from her cell to the
We repeat “ridiculous” over and over with British accents, not that she sounds like that, but it’s funny to see her squirm.
“Aww, come on Bren.” I tug on her arm. “We’re just messing around.” She pulls away, faking mad. “You want to be that way, that’s fine.” I cut my eyes at Van.
“Finer than a frog hair split four ways,” we say in unison.
“You people are going to hell.” Bren gives me a fake glare.
“Now that’s the spirit.” I hook arms with her. “Now, say, ‘y’all.’ Come on now.”
She does—with zero twang—but she indulges me. Even though we’re all goofing off and having fun, her words do not slip my mind. We’ll figure it out … together.
I hope that’s exactly what we do.
Chapter 11
Today is a big day. Andrew and the boys finished framing out the float. The plan this morning was to pick up Sarabeth after breakfast. If I’m already running late, I know she will be for sure. I hurriedly blow dry and scrunch my hair. By the time I pop into the kitchen for a bowl of cereal, Mother is already in there, cooking away.
A huge pot of sauce simmers on the stove, fresh basil and mushrooms on the cutting board. Two bottles of wine sit next to the loaf of French bread. Somebody’s planning a sleepover with Mr. Billy. It’s silly they hide their relationship. But I know how my mother thinks. It just wouldn’t look Christianly to date someone two months after his divorce. I wonder what our Baptist preacher would say about the wine.
I bite my lips to keep from letting a grin escape. “It’ll be a late night, so I’m staying with Sarabeth,” I say.
“I figured so. Don’t stay up too late and miss church in the morning.”
“I won’t.” But we always do.
“What about that new girl, Bren? Is she going to be there?” The question comes out of left field. Mother casually stirs the spaghetti sauce, but her eyes keep dancing back to me. I don’t answer right away. “Because, you know, I really don’t know her family all that well. I’m not sure if I want you hanging out with her.”
That confirms it for me. Freaking Billy Arden ratted me out to Mother, and she knows. She knows! I knew this whole dating Bren stuff was a bad idea. Whatever made me think I could hide it from Mother was beyond me. This sucks. Now how am I supposed to see Bren? I slurp down the milk left in my bowl. When I come up for air, an idea hits me. “No,” I say, while I put my bowl in the dishwasher. “I heard she has a date with Mark, Jenny Littleton’s son.” The lie slips out as easy as breathing.
“How nice.” Mother perks. “He’s a right sweet boy.” Relief softens her entire posture. I grab my keys. “Don’t forget we have the bake sale after church tomorrow. Don’t be late.”
I kiss her on the cheek like a good girl. “Don’t worry, Mother, I won’t.”
Out in front of Sarabeth’s house, floral vans and catering vehicles fill the driveway and block the street. From the side gate, I see Mrs. Beaudroux signing for deliveries and directing her staff where to set up the tables. Crates of stemware and fine china clank as they are carried to the back by the Beaudroux’s maid—degraded with a cliché fifties uniform for house maids.
I wait for Sarabeth to load the rest of her stuff in my car, float decorations and whatnot. I check my Instagram. Bren posted another picture of an accidental love note—a pothole in the asphalt in the shape of a lopsided heart. A huge smile breaks across my face. It’s our way of saying “I miss you” to each other as publicly as possible.
“Whatcha grinning at?” Sarabeth asks as she gets into the car.
Quickly I lock my screen and shove my phone in my pocket. “Eh, just a stupid text from Van. What’s up with the big shindig?” I redirect the conversation.
“That?” She looks up from her cell to the
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