Chapter Four #2
“Quiet, Ethan,” I bark out. “You’re going to ruin the ruse. I want that man to just stay away from me.”
“Okay, okay.” He throws his hands up though he can’t wipe that stupid teasing grin off his thickly bearded face. “I’ll only play along because I never liked that Vanilla Wafer man.”
Now I’m the one smiling as I recall Ashton’s insult. “We can’t use Vanilla Wafers because they’re actually good. We have to use stale, bland crackers.”
That starts round two of laughter from the table, and even Mom and Dad join in, though Mom’s laugh is silent as she fights to not let it loose like the proper Southern woman she is.
“What’s the ruckus?” Pastor Larry of Whitney Baptist Church, the only church in our tiny town, approaches the table with his wife, Veronica. But I call the duo Pawpaw and Meemaw.
“Hi!” I spring to my feet and wrap Meemaw into a hug before Pawpaw noogies the top of my head. I quit asking him to stop a long time ago because it was a hopeless request. “Glad y’all could make it.”
“Like we’d miss our Pumpkin’s twenty-seventh birthday lunch.” Meemaw sits in the empty chair next to me, straightening the lapels of her floral dress. “I’m paying, by the way.”
“Don’t have to tell me twice,” Dad replies, earning the look from his father. It’s proper etiquette to at least deny the offer once before humbly accepting, but Dad has never been one to turn down his mom's offering to treat any of us. He knows it’s her love language—to spoil us through gifts.
As we settle in for my after-church birthday lunch, my phone vibrates.
Ashton’s name flits across my screen, causing a blend of nervous excitement to overwhelm me.
I make a scene of pretending my phone is vibrating and that there’s a call I need to take.
The family is too busy mocking my momentary fake boyfriend situation to care, though Dad and Mom seem to be watching me with a strange expression.
A mix of concern, a million questions, and…
fear? I smile at them and stand to “take my call.”
I wind around the heavy wooden tables with horses and riders carved into the back of them, pass the bar of draft beers, and slip into the single restroom just to take a breather and have the freedom to react however I need to to Ashton’s messages.
Ashton Prewitt: I know it’s Sunday (don’t worry, I’m not texting in church), but I just finished your draft and was wondering if you’ve made any progress on the last third of the book. If so, would you mind emailing me a copy?
I squeal. That’s a good sign, right? That he’d text me on a Sunday. That he’d want to finish my book after church? And then message me for more?
My fingers fly over the screen.
Me : I’m not finished, but I have written up to the climax of the story. However, I’m still trying to figure out what it should be or how it should go. But I will send you what I have as soon as I get home! *orange heart emoji*
Crap. I meant to press the smiling emoji.
Me: So sorry! I meant *smiley emoji*
Three dots immediately appear, and his response doesn’t take long to come through.
Ashton Prewitt: You’re an orange heart kind of woman? Orange feels a little… loud, don’t you think?
I release my breath, thankful that he isn’t being weird about the mistype.
Me: Pre-amnesia me would have chosen pink, but there’s just something about orange that calls my name. When I watch a sunrise or a sunset, I feel like heaven is smiling down on me. There’s something comforting about it. It’s not loud, it’s… warm.
Ashton Prewitt: Here’s to sunsets and warmth. *orange heart emoji*
I giggle like a schoolgirl, biting my bottom lip as I begin to type out a series of orange emojis, but a knock at the restroom door snaps me out of the daze I found myself in.
I stare at the message I was about to send, laden with orange hearts, sunsets, orange swim shorts, coral, fire, notebook, and—oh my gosh—peach emojis.
Holding the backspace button down until all that’s left is a blinking cursor, I flush the toilet even though I didn’t use it and then wash my hands, wondering what in the world came over me to try and send something like that to my potential literary agent when all he was doing was saving me from embarrassment over a mistyped text.
Talking to him comes as naturally as breathing.
I exit the bathroom and my phone buzzes in the back pocket of my jeans.
Ashton Prewitt: If you need help brainstorming the ending, I may have some ideas. Say the word, and I’ll make the drive.
Me: We can do a video chat! I don’t want to inconvenience you. Plus,
I hesitate, wondering if I should tell him that I used him today as my fake boyfriend. I continue my text.
Me: We can do a video chat! I don’t want to inconvenience you.
Plus, I might have used you as a scapegoat today.
My ex-fiancé, Bryan, (remember him?) showed up to lunch and asked about you in front of my family.
I may have said we were dating. Don’t worry, I told my family the truth after Bryan left.
Seconds pass by, and I grip my phone tightly as I stare intently at the message thread. Dots finally appear.
Ashton Prewitt: Bass Pro Shop? Remember?
Don’t rob me of a trip, Esme. And you can happily use me if it keeps Box of Bland Crackers (trademark pending) away from you.
I saw the way he makes you uncomfortable, and no woman should have to deal with that.
He left you, plain and simple. Like him. Get it? He’s plain and simple. Ha.
I sit down at the table, still memorizing the text. He typed back a whole paragraph! What guy does that? I laugh, reading over the text one more time before responding.
Me: You’re kind of really cool, you know that? Then let’s plan for Friday or Saturday. That way you have time to read what I send over today.
Ashton Prewitt: I’m sure I’ll have devoured it by the end of the day. How does Tuesday sound?
My heart thumps in my chest, and through shaky fingers, I type.
Me: See you then!
I set my phone face down on the table, fighting but failing to hide my mile-wide smile and a wicked blush.
What is it about this guy?
I’ve met him once and have only chatted with him a few times over text about book updates. But this time? It bordered on flirty. At least, I think it did. Right? I’m not crazy? Man, I need to get out more. Date. Even if it’s just for fun.
The self-talk helps. I have a new mission: figure out who the Branda woman he was talking about at the coffee shop is. I can’t assume it’s his woman. Because if this man is available to me, I might take the leap regardless of whether he’s my potential agent or not.
Though… I don’t want him to think I’m flirting with him just to get a book deal. But he’s flirting with me, right? Or maybe he’s just a friendly guy, my brain retorts.
I continue to wrestle with my attraction and my morals, but honestly? If we both air it out and decide business can be separated from pleasure, then why not?
If I’ve learned one thing from losing three years of my life, it’s that the time we have on this earth is short. Make every moment count and live it in joy to the fullest while bringing glory to God. We were created for nothing less.
Which means if I have a chance with this man, I should take it.
A throat clears, and I glance around at six sets of curious eyes.
I cough, taking a guzzle of sweet tea. “So that was the agent.”
“And?” Mom demands, a little too jumpy if you ask me, but she’s excited for me.
“He wants the rest of my book. I’ve got to buckle down and finish it. We are meeting again on Tuesday.” While the pressure to finish weighs on my shoulders like a loaded barbell when I’m doing squats at the gym, I work well under tight deadlines.
Sam squeals, eliciting half the people in the restaurant to look our way. Unlike Mom, who seems a little too on-edge for happiness, Sam is elated.
“What’s going on over there?” Buddy, the old owner of Whitney Hardware, shouts.
I’m about to shout back for him to mind his business, but Ethan beats me to the punch. “Our Meme is going to be a famous author!”
Groaning, I sink low into my chair. Buddy Smith and his wife, Gloria, stand and walk toward the table. Shortly, more families who attend church are joining and offering their congratulations.
“Well, would you look at that,” Branson Grant says, patting Ethan on the back.
Those two are peas in a pod. His wife, Cathryn, wrangles her three-year-old boy while firing off questions I don’t have answers to.
Thankfully, another interruption occurs, saving me from further humiliation.
I’m going to murder Ethan when we get back.
I hadn’t planned to tell anyone anything until I signed a contract.
The entire staff of El Mariachi appears, holding a deep-fried ice cream with a lit candle on top.
Everyone begins to clap—and I’m talking about everyone in the restaurant—so I join in as they sing “Feliz Cumpleanos” to me.
Warmth replaces the malice in my heart as I look upon the smiling faces of my family, both blood relatives and those who I’ve known since diapers.
Twenty-seven is going to be my year. I feel it in my spirit. Everything will change.
The owner, Paulo, wishes me a year full of blessings before the staff disperses and I wave to my townsfolk family, many of whom I saw at church earlier, and say my thank yous as if they didn’t sing to me during our discipleship class this morning.
And as we’re leaving, I overhear Sam whisper to Ethan behind me, “Do you think she’ll remember him?”
I freeze, and Ethan runs into me. “Meme, what are you—”
“Remember who?” I demand as I spin on my heel, rogue thoughts of Ashton being someone I should remember flitting across my vision. The coincidences are too… coincidental.
“Oh, uh,” Ethan searches for words, but Sam fills in for him.
“Bryan, of course,” she says through a tight smile. I want to question her further, but the couple steps around me and bolts for Ethan’s truck.