Page 8 of Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend (Catching Feelings #1)

Was my explanation to him enough? I can’t stomach the thought of him blaming himself when he saved me.

Marrying Aldridge would have been the nail in the coffin of my personality, my happiness, my hope.

And if Sean had married Serena, it would have been the nail on the coffin of all my hopes here, too.

Funny how things work out.

“Well, good for Serena that she’s such a good cook,” I say.

“Oh, she is wonderful,” Loretta says. “The girl is good at everything she does. Always has been. Sean forgave her, and she and her ex are married now. You know, he was the father of her little girl, so it really worked out for the best.”

“Just because someone fathered a child doesn’t mean he’s dad material,” I say, too firmly, but I can’t stop myself.

“No one said that,” Eunice says. “But Serena and Tucker paid their dues and they’re happy. And he’s repented of his ways and is a good father.”

“Too bad he didn’t figure that out before he ran off and then broke up a wedding,” I mutter.

Both women turn from their plates and raise their eyes in pure shock. “Bless his heart,” I add, but it doesn’t help. They’re positively scandalized by my saying the quiet part out loud, as if they haven’t been dancing around it through the entire potluck line.

Pull yourself together! They already hate you—this isn’t helping!

When they pile desserts on their plate (because apparently you have to grab the banana pudding before Janice from the choir snags half the bowl), they swap looks and head to a table.

They don’t ask me to join them.

And I’m standing friendless and plateless in the Fellowship Hall just long enough to see Loretta wrap my egg in a napkin and throw it away before she returns to the line to grab two of Serena’s.

I escape outside and sit in the shade of a large magnolia tree, sipping ice water from my sleek matte tumbler, this one in maritime white, the same color as my pantsuit (yes, I match my tumblers to my outfits. Add it to the list of things to hate about me, people).

The back of my throat aches from trying not to cry. I walked around the Fellowship Hall for two, maybe three minutes, and not a single person made room for me.

Most of them wouldn’t even look at me.

Flashes of memories assault me—me walking into a new ballet studio to judgment and sneers. Me laughing too hard at a mixer in college with the Martha’s Vineyard crowd. Me talking to the “wrong people” at one of Aldridge’s parents’ parties.

My phone buzzes.

MERYL

How did the deviled eggs go over?

KAYLA

Did you know that not everyone loves truffle salt?

MERYL

What? That place is crazy, Kay. You know what place isn’t crazy??

Except her next text isn’t of Bora Bora. It’s of Phineas and Louisa holding pictures they’ve drawn.

MERYL

BORA BORA! We miss Auntie Kay! COME!

The pictures are of them on the beach … except they’ve added me, too. I can tell because of the height and the orange hair (even if I’m auburn). We have huge smiles, no torsos, and are all arms and legs. Though I appreciate that they’ve added a bikini top on my stick.

If I were still with Aldridge, I could laugh. As it is, I only want to cry more.

Through the propped-open doors, muffled laughter and the clacking of plastic utensils wafts on the light breeze, reaching me as surely as the smell of fried chicken seasoned with passive aggression.

The muggy air is almost too much for comfort, but it’s not as hot as the embarrassment I felt in the Fellowship Hall.

Although one of my shoulders doesn’t fit under the shade of the tree, and the sun is starting to make it feel toasty.

Is that my punishment for getting an F in church? A taste of the fire, if not the brimstone?

Why did I leave a world where at least some people loved me?

Why am I here when no one wants me?

What is so awful about me ? —

The scrape of boots on the gravel path interrupts my thoughts, and I turn just in time to see Sean … carrying two heaping plates.

“Mind if I join you?” he says, sitting right next to me.

Not across from me.

Why does that make me want to cry?

He puts the smaller of the two plates down in front of me, but it’s still almost overflowing. “I wasn’t sure what you wanted, so I got you some of everything that looked good. Including your deviled eggs.”

I scoff. “What was I thinking using homemade aioli? No one’s going to like them.”

He takes one off his plate and puts the entire thing in his mouth. He gives me a “not bad” look as he chews, and after he swallows, he nods. “Wow. That’s a good deviled egg.”

“Do you realize I’ve talked more about deviled eggs in the last two days than I have in my entire lifetime?”

He coughs and then pats his chest, like I caught him mid-swallow. “Whoa, jumping straight to childhood trauma already, are we? It's okay. I can handle it.”

“Ha.” I bump his arm with mine and then look at the plate, which may as well be Mount Everest for how daunting it is. “This was thoughtful of you. But I’m not hungry.”

My stomach chooses that moment to growl. Angrily.

“You sure?”

I wince. “The truth is, I don’t really eat in front of people.”

I force myself to keep my eyes on the plate in front of me, some of it mouthwatering enough to make me wish I hadn’t said anything. But tension coils in my stomach like a drawstring pulled too tight.

Sean has just taken a bite of sweet potatoes, so I have to wait for him to respond. And wait.

“I didn’t realize that,” he finally says. “Do you mind if I do?”

“Not at all. I’m sorry. It’s a …” I pause, wondering how little I can get away with telling him. Wondering if the pain of remembering will ever ease up.

Sean puts a hand over mine briefly. “You don’t have to have a reason, and you sure don’t have to apologize. You not wanting to eat in front of someone is enough for me.”

I laugh in relief. “Where did you come from?”

He chokes on a bite of sweet potato. “Beg your pardon?”

I smile. We’re so close that we have to turn to look at each other, but getting a crick in my neck is worth it to see Sean up close when I catch him off guard. “You’re a really good guy, Sean.”

My voice is a bit too quiet when I say this, making it seem like I’m sharing a part of my soul instead of a simple compliment.

He smiles. “Thanks, Kayla. And keep your chin up. Being new in town ain’t easy, but you’re doing better than you think you are.”

“That’s nice of you to say. Uninformed and naive, but nice,” I say, earning a laugh.

“I’m serious,” he protests.

“Oh, really? How do you know that?”

“When Eunice went in for seconds, she grabbed one of your deviled eggs.”

I break into a grin.

Sean looks at me differently than the rest of the town. I don’t feel like a failure with him. Or a misfit.

I feel … comfortable. Like I can be myself.

Pretty impressive, given that this is our third conversation.

“Thanks for being a friend.” Affection swells in my chest, and I rest my head on his shoulder, just for a moment.

And just for a moment, he rests his head against mine.

Like I’m a perfect fit.

But then a door slams in the parking lot, and a minivan full of children rushes toward the Fellowship Hall.

No, not children.

Baseball players.

“Hey, boss!” Lucas Fischer yells. Sean and I both raise our heads, and I wonder if he feels like he got caught as much as I do.

“Hey, Lucas!” I call. Lucas is dressed like an off-duty extreme sports commentator, with a Mudflaps tank top that’s cut too deep on the sides and shows more than a few flashes of his obliques.

His wraparound sunglasses sit backwards on his head as he struts into the church hall.

Something tells me he’ll be met by high fives and backslaps instead of judgment and condescension.

His identical twin is wearing a polo and shorts with leather flip flops. Understated to his brother’s … not. He waves at me, as do a few other people as they go inside.

Fletch isn’t one of them.

“Whoa. He looks even less happy to be here than I bet you feel,” Sean says, bumping me with his elbow.

I like that we already have this rhythm. Playful bumps and nudges. Resting our heads against each other.

Sean is the kind of guy who probably earns loyalty and laughter everywhere he goes.

I’m no exception.

“I should go back in and sit with my family,” he says, standing and grabbing his plate. “Are you coming in?”

I squint up at him. The sun has shifted, and it’s bursting through the tree limbs, illuminating him like an angel.

“Maybe in a minute.”

He puts a hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “Whenever you’re ready. My dad saved you a seat at our table.”

I smile. “Your dad did, did he?”

Sean gives me a sheepish grin. “He’s nice like that.”

“Unlike his son, who’s clearly known for his utter viciousness.”

Sean chuckles, almost choking on the laugh. “What can I say? I am who I am.”

I laugh and watch him leave. And when he gets to the open doors and spins to give me a final wave, I think maybe things are going to be okay.