44. 44
“A
re you planning on telling Mom you’re in town?”
“Do pigs plan on becoming delicious crispy, fried bacon? No.” I dig into my plate of enchiladas.
“Not even Grandma?”
I sigh, my fork hovering. “Eryn, you know how tricky this gets—if I visit Grandma, Mom will find out. That’s the trouble of living in your ex-daughter-in-law’s mother-in-law suite. Who does that?”
“We both know why Grandma never sold the house, why she rents it to Mom, and why she stays there,” Eryn says. Her dark blonde waves wisp down her head, resting just above her shoulders. She gives me a pointed stare, waiting for me to admit the truth.
“Yeah!” I belt out like she’s made a point for my side. “Mom doesn’t even own the house. Grandma could kick her out!” But Eryn isn’t wrong. We know why Grandma never kicked Mom out. Grandma paid for the house and let Mom live there with us for the past fifteen years with the stipulation that she got to keep her mother-in-law suite. It was her way of staying close to us so she could see us daily.
And thank goodness she did. I would have run away from home a dozen times had it not been for my grandmother.
Eryn’s glare does not waver.
I groan. Fine. “I know,” I say. She isn’t wrong. I need to see my grandmother. One lousy phone call does not make up for the year I’ve been absent.
“She’s getting old, Delaney.” Eryn may be nineteen, but she is no stranger to manipulation. Thank goodness she doesn’t have our mother’s ruthless spirit, or she’d be one scary Cruella.
I purse my lips and glare.
“Well, she is.” She shoves a bite of Cari?o’s spicy burrito into her mouth.
I clench my jaw. “How’s school?” Yep—changing the subject on purpose.
My sister is studying molecular biology—she got all the brains in the family. And mother loves shoving it in my face. She wouldn’t be so ruthless, except that my mother’s dream for Eryn happened to match Eryn’s while my dream for myself did not match up to Mom’s.
I never had an interest in pageants. She may have demanded singing lessons for the talent portion of a pageant but I went along with it because I wanted to. It didn’t matter what she did, she could not get me to perform in a pageant, not even at the age of five. But my heart wanted to sing.
“Nope, we aren’t talking about me right now,” Eryn says, refusing to answer my question. “You’ve got yourself a sugar daddy, and I want to hear all about it.”
”Sugar daddy? We have no children, and the man barely has a dime to his name.” I give her a pathetic smile—one that says you”ve got it all wrong.
“Okay, but how do you find someone willing to marry you—even you, Delaney—when you’ve only just met?”
Okay—I admit it—I told my sister the truth. I couldn’t help it. She was finally right in front of me and it all came out. She’s my sister!
But I’m paying for it. I have all sorts of guilt knowing I told Miles he wasn’t allowed to tell his family. That’s why he’ll never find out about this.
I blame this in-person visit.
I swallow, strangely unwilling to admit to my little sister that I have been crushing on my husband since day two. “It’s a business arrangement, Eryn. I help him. He helps me. It’s all working out.”
She scoffs. “It’s a bunch of phony bologna.”
“Shh,” I hiss, though we are the only two people in this dive. Cari?o’s makes the best enchiladas in the city, but hardly anyone knows it. That, and Claire Jones would never set foot in the place.
“So, you have a prenup?”
“Of course we have a prenup.” Ash made certain that we did. I didn’t think of it. I should have, but I didn’t. I stumbled on Miles and the whole idea too quickly to think about a prenup. “Though we don’t need one. Miles would never take anything that wasn’t his. He isn’t like that. He’s literally a saint.”
Her brows cinch and her eyes narrow. “You like him.”
“What?” I shake my head.
“You like your husband.” She scoffs at me, shoving another bite into her mouth. “I can’t believe you.”
“So what if I do?”
“Delaney, you went on a dating show—no, a marriage show. You had guys pining for you twenty-four seven, and you turned them all down.”
“Well,” I say, “they weren’t Miles.” Standing, I dab at my lips with my napkin, toss it to the table, and walk back towards the not-so-fabulous one-stall bathroom that Cari?o’s has to offer.
I lock the door behind me and pull out my cell. I haven’t heard from Miles since I got here two days ago. Does he not believe in checking in? Or is he too busy with his real life back in play that he can’t take a minute to text?
I’m not sure why I’m suddenly amped up and annoyed with him. I’ve only sent one text and it said, “I made it!”
I cram my eyes closed and breathe—only breathing in Cari?o’s not-so-impressive bathroom isn’t my best idea. Ick.
I am Lane Freaking Jonas, for heaven’s sake—if I want to text a guy, I will.
No, even better—I am Delaney Jones, valiant enough to defy my mother, brave enough to leave The Judys, daring enough to propose to a perfect stranger. I can do this, no matter my name.
Me: Hey, how is your week going?
I am anxious and I send all the positive mojo in the universe to force Miles to write me back—immediately—because my nerves cannot hang out waiting all day. They’ll explode all over Cari?o’s bathroom, and we know that won’t get cleaned up until Friday.
Thankfully my husband is a good man who doesn’t make me wait long.
Miles: Hey, stranger. I’ve taught three classes and the building is a hit not only with my special friends but my elementary students. Tony Taylor is thrilled he no longer has to climb steps just to paint.
I laugh and, despite my better judgment, lean against the bathroom wall.
Me: Who is Tony Taylor?
Miles: A seven-year-old who has possibly eaten ten too many Little Debbie cakes. He‘s one of my private lessons. He’s also a sweet kid—but for context, the snacks and the stairs do not go well together for poor Tony.
Me: How’s Alice?
Miles: She was not invited to Sarah Parker’s birthday party. It’s a thing.
Me: I’ll beat Sarah Parker up.
Miles: I don’t advise beating up eight-year-olds—it never goes over well.
Me: Well, why wasn’t she invited???
My blood races with giddiness, and I hold my phone as if it were a lifeline. And in a way, it is a lifeline to the real world, or at least the world I want to be real.
Miles: You’ve met Alice, right? She can be blunt, and I’m told she let Sarah know that snow boots do not go well with tutus and that her own dog is much cuter than Sarah’s.
I chuckle, the sound reverberating off the walls of this bathroom. Poor Alice.
Me: Well, she’s right.
Miles: Being right doesn’t always make friends.
“Delaney?” Eryn says, pounding on the bathroom door. “How long are you going to hide in there? Did you pass out? You know, Cari?os only cleans on Fridays. It can’t be pretty in there.”