Page 17

The Day Before Graduation

Song : Chicken Fried - Zach Brown Band

I wore my best “ Meeting the southern family without looking like I ’ m trying too hard” outfit: a crisp pair of high-waisted Levi ’ s, a black fitted T-shirt, and my beat-up but beloved Sperrys. Simple stud earrings—classy, minimal effort.

My hair was flat-ironed within an inch of its life, not a strand out of place, which in North Carolina humidity is an Olympic feat.

I looked like I’d just stepped out of a J.Crew catalog for girls who don’t want to be judged by their boyfriend’s extended family but also might bring up therapy over lunch.

Jon, on the other hand, was peak small-town man: broken-in Wranglers, a gray polo shirt that clung in all the right places, and the swagger of someone who wasn’t about to meet his aunt, but instead rolled up to a tractor pull and win, naturally .

We arrived at Aunt Becky’s house a little after 11 a.m., pulling into the long, gravel driveway that crunched under the tires like we were entering a sacred southern portal.

The property was shockingly beautiful—immaculately landscaped with boxwoods and hydrangeas, a front porch complete with rocking chairs, a swing, and a flag that said “Bless This Mess” which, honestly, felt like a warning.

I glanced down at Nacho, who sat beside me in the passenger seat, dramatic as ever, ears perked like he expected this to be a covert mission.

“Buddy,” I whispered, leaning in.

“You better not pee in this house. Sit on my lap and try not to act like the spoiled little drama queen you are.”

Nacho let out a sigh and blinked at me with all the indifference of a celebrity forced to fly coach. Message received, though. Grudging compliance.

Aunt Becky met us at the door, all warmth and heavy perfume, like a hug from your favorite teacher who secretly drinks before parent-teacher conferences.

She was wearing a long floral dress, her silver-gray hair swept up in a bun that screamed I run this family and I know where the bodies are buried—in a loving way, of course.

“Lord, she’s pretty, Jon,” she said the moment I stepped in, clapping her hands like she’d just won something. I smiled, the kind of smile that said 'Thank you for not hating me yet.'

To my surprise, Aunt Becky was… pleasant.

Like, weirdly pleasant. Suspiciously pleasant.

Within five minutes, she had us settled in the living room, iced sweet tea in hand (because hydration here is 90% sugar), and was already pulling out the sacred family photo albums. I could practically hear Jon’s soul leave his body.

And then I saw it. A sixteen-year-old Jon.

Mullet. Cigarette dangling from his mouth like he was auditioning for a reboot of The Outsiders. I blinked.

“Woooooow,” I said, dragging the word out as I’d just seen a UFO. Jon groaned across the room.

“Please don’t.” But I was already flipping pages—prom photos (yes, he wore a white tux with a black collar and I will never unsee it), then Navy graduation shots, and finally photos from his tours in Iraq.

It was a visual journey of facial hair and questionable choices.

I looked up to find Jon staring at me in disbelief.

His jaw had dropped, and not in the sexy you-take-my-breath- away kind of way.

More like why-is-Aunt-Becky-doing-this-to-me kind of way.

She caught his expression and waved a dismissive hand.

“Oh hush, Jon. She ought to know where you come from.” I raised my glass to her.

“To context.” After about twenty more minutes of memory lane—and resisting the urge to sneak a mullet pic for blackmail purposes—we sat down to lunch.

The dining room was filled with smells that said we cook with love…

and lard. A big dish of steamed cabbage with ham hocks took center stage, surrounded by fluffy white rice, cornbread that looked like it came from a Baptist church potluck, and crispy fried chicken I’d probably write poetry about later.

I piled my plate like I knew what I was doing and made a mental note to kiss whoever cooked this—even if it was Billy Joe.

Just as I took my first bite, Aunt Becky said, as casually as if she were announcing the weather, “Jon’s boys are stoppin’ by in a bit.

And Holly too—just to say hi.” I froze. I looked up from my plate like I’d just heard someone casually mention they’d invited Satan to brunch.

“I’m sorry, who is stopping by?” I asked, trying to keep my voice light but failing.

Jon cleared his throat and gave me a look. The don’t-freak-out-in-front-of-my-aunt look.

“Yeah, my boys. They wanted to meet you,” he said with an apologetic half-smile.

“And Holly’s giving them a ride.”

Holly. The Ex-Wife?. Not just an ex-wife.

THE FIRST EX-WIFE. The Original. The one who came with a brother named Trevor and, apparently, joint custody of two actual humans.

I stared at my chicken. This escalated faster than my blood sugar after Aunt Becky’s sweet tea.

I chewed slowly, forcing a smile like this was fine.

Totally fine. Just another day of meeting my boyfriend’s aunt, her man-friend, two children, and oh yes—his first ex-wife.

My inner monologue was screaming. I had planned for southern politeness, maybe a passive-aggressive comment about how I “look healthy.” Not a surprise reunion episode of Jon’s Past Life: Uncut.

And yet, somehow, I wasn’t running for the hills.

I was still s itting there, petting Nacho, sipping tea, and waiting for the next twist like this was all part of some cosmic test. Jon nudged me under the table.

“You good?”

I turned to him, smiled sweetly, and said, “Oh, I’m great. This is just… so much fun.” He winced.

“You’re mad.”

“No, no,” I replied, picking up my fork again.

“I’m not mad. I’m just wondering if we’ll round out the day with your second ex-wife, a secret child, or maybe a surprise appearance from a cousin in witness protection.” He laughed into his napkin, which made Aunt Becky beam proudly like she thought we were just adorable.

At that moment, surrounded by photos of 2002 Jon with frosted tips, a dog who only responds to compliments and a meal that might cause heart palpitations, I realized something truly horrifying. I wasn’t just surviving this. I kind of liked it.

About thirty minutes later, there was a knock at the door.

Showtime. Jon stood up like he was bracing for a military inspection and opened it to reveal Holly—The Ex-Wife?—and his two boys standing beside her like reluctant backup dancers.

Introductions happened in a blur. Jon rattled off names like he was speed-reading a CVS receipt, and I smiled and nodded, praying I didn’t mix up which boy was which.

The whole encounter lasted all of fifteen minutes, tops.

It had the warmth of a job interview and the emotional intimacy of a handshake at a funeral.

Holly was… shorter than I expected. About my height, actually.

But where I had gone for subtle and sleek, she had more of a barn door in a windstorm presence.

Full face, full figure, full commitment to that “ I’m only here because my kids made me ” energy.

She didn’t say much—just a couple of polite “nice to meet yous” and a tense smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. You know the type: all gums, no soul.

Then, as the boys shuffled off to talk to Aunt Becky, Jon leaned in close, dropping his voice to a whisper just for me.

“Would you believe she was ninety-eight pounds when I met her?” I blinked. Internally, I was already filing that under Things I Will Absolutely Bring Up Later When I Feel Petty.

“Yeah… sure,” I thought to myself. “And I was born in a Whole Foods.”

I didn’t say anything out loud—just gave him a tight little smile and sipped my sweet tea like a lady.

A sarcastic, increasingly unhinged lady.

Honestly, the whole thing was so quick and awkward that I half-wondered if I imagined it.

Holly gave Jon a quick wave, said something to the boys about “not staying long,” and then just…

vanished. Like a ghost in yoga pants. The kids stayed behind, which was nice.

They were polite enough, if a little shy, and Nacho immediately made himself the star of the show by flopping dramatically onto the floor like the diva he is.

Meanwhile, I was still mentally processing how I’d gone from quick lunch with Aunt Becky to an impromptu family reunion with Ex-Wife #1 and children in tow in under an hour.

I needed a drink. Or a nap. Or both. Preferably at the same time.

By late afternoon, I had gotten marginally more comfortable with Joseph and Wayne, which is to say, I no longer felt the overwhelming urge to climb out the bathroom window and run for the nearest Greyhound station.

It had been a long, slow social dance—me doing the two-step around my defensiveness while they awkwardly tiptoed around their loyalty to their mother (Holly, aka She-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named ).

Joseph had the energy of a teenager who’d just realized his mom’s new boyfriend wasn’t going anywhere, and Wayne was polite in the way a pastor might be polite to a tipsy woman crying too loudly during communion.

Not rude. Just… distant. Like he was trying to survive the day without picking a side in a civil war that started long before he was even born and then, as if the universe decided I’d earned a reward for not spontaneously combusting from tension, Holly didn’t come inside when she came to pick them up.