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Once our plates are cleared, we volunteer to clean the kitchen while Mawmaw calls her friends on her brand-new cell phone. It’s part of her morning routine to catch up on all the town gossip—a habit she’s maintained for decades. If someone needs to know something, Mawmaw is the source. And if she’s ever out of the loop, she has those who do know on speed dial.
As we scrub the dishes, I say, “I have a bone to pick with you.”
“Don’t be upset. It’s ten months from now,” he replies.
I open my mouth to respond but then shut it. “But …”
“But what? You don’t see me in your life then?” he questions.
“What? Of course I do! If I think ahead ten years, you’re there. It has nothing to do with that; it’s just hard for me to predict mylife that far in advance. Tree season in Merryville is intense. You’ll see when they put you to work.”
“I’m looking forward to it.” He laughs. “How did she know it was fake?”
“I think she just knows me that well,” I whisper. “It had to be a lucky guess.”
“Oh, so she’s as perceptive as you? Got it. I need to watch myself around her then,” he offers, studying me.
“What?” I ask.
“Your words are haunting me.To love and be loved takes courage. Fucking powerful. Spoken like someone who’s survived true heartbreak.”
“Really?” I ask, turning to face him, leaning my hip against the counter.
“Yes. You amaze me.” Weston dries his hands on a kitchen towel, looking at ease in my grandma’s kitchen like he’s supposed to be here with me.
“Thank you,” I say, clinging to his words.
As I dry my hands, an alarm on his phone suddenly goes off.
“Shit.” He pulls it out of his pocket. “Outside-the-courthouse coverage is starting.”
Weston opens the page, and the cameras are already rolling. My heart races as a car pulls to a stop. Out walks Easton, sporting a pair of Ray-Bans and a smug smirk. People in the crowd shout questions at him, truly believing he’s Weston.
“Tell us about your new fiancée!”
“She’s incredible. Carlee is the love of my life,” he responds confidently.
“When are you getting married?” someone presses.
“Very soon,” he replies, waving with a grin that feels almost like it’s meant for Weston.
I chuckle. “He’s an asshole. But, wow, he’s good at playing you. Shocking,” I say.
The camera pans out, and Lena emerges from the car, dressedin all black, as though she were attending a funeral. It’s dramatic, just like her.
“Lena, Lena!” someone yells.
Weston swiftly closes the feed and locks his phone. “Guess I’ll officially be divorced in an hour.”
“We should celebrate,” I tell him, wrapping my arms around his neck.
“Yeah?”
“I’ve got the perfect idea,” I reply, bubbling with excitement. “But you might want to wear some jeans.”
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WESTON