Page 117 of Meet Cute Reboot
I made a mess. Now I gotta figure out how to clean it up.
Chapter 22
Cassie
I stew all the way to Kroger to pick up a pound of German potato salad, and then I stew all the way to Nana’s. My mind keeps replaying the moment Macy’s artificially plumped lips slobbered on Luke’s. I should have known he had a woman hiding away in a closet somewhere. Another woman on the side. That man wouldn’t change if a meteor was headed straight for earth.
One thing I don’t do is cry. I will not shed another tear for Luke Curtis. I’ve shed too many. I’m just glad I found out sooner rather than later that he was stringing me along for his own pleasure. Trying to convince me that he’s a good guy. That he’s changed. Well, now I know the truth. He hasn’t. Not one bit.
The parallel parking spaces in front of Nana’s house are filled. I recognize Madison’s and Mom’s cars but not the rest. Rather than turn around and park across the street, I choose a spot three houses down and carry my meager container of potato salad to Nana’s. Along the way, I catch a glimpse of Nana’s dilapidated garage.
“No, no, no. No!”
I veer off the sidewalk and head up the sliver of grass between Nana’s house and her neighbor’s. My eyes weren’t deceiving me. A portion of the garage roof is collapsed. I survey the damage, speechless. My heart pounds harder as I add “fix the garage roof” to my mental list of repairs. Repairs? Who am I kidding? The garage will have to be torn down and replaced. That’s twenty thousand dollars minimum. Probably more.
I look at the sky, watch a fluffy white cloud travel lazily through the deep blue. Fall is coming, and with it, rain. All that water pouring straight onto Nana’s Christmas decorations.
There’s nothing I can do. My money is tied up in my businesses.
I try unsuccessfully to shake off the heavy weight on my chest, before turning in resignation toward the house. The screen door wobbles on its hinges as I tug it open. It needs replaced too. The siding needs repaired and painted. Termite damage needs addressed. The list in my head continues as I step into the kitchen.
Mom, Nana, Aunt Suzanne, and Madison are at their stations—Nana at the stove, Mom at the counter, Aunt Suzanne and Madison at the table. They turn to welcome me with hellos and smiles, except Nana who is stirring something vigorously in the stock pot.
“Hello there,” she says, throwing up her free hand while her back is still turned.
“Hey.”
Mom drops her knife and comes over to hug me. “You look tired,” she says when I’m at arms-length.
“The garage roof is caving in.”
“None of my decorations were damaged,” Nana says. “I moved them all to the empty bedroom upstairs.”
“You went inside after it collapsed?”
Mom rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “I told her not to.”
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Nana says.
“It looks terminal,” I say.
Mom lets go and returns to her chopping. Madison is next in line for hugs. After a quick squeeze, she grabs my container of potato salad and slips a letter into my hand. The bells on the outside are a clue. It’s wedding related.
I open the envelope and pull out a postcard-sized rectangle of card stock. She looks at me expectantly as I read and re-read the text.
He proposed to me, now I’ll propose to you... Will you be there with me when I say I do?
It’s an invitation to be her maid of honor.
My eyes blur. The writing becomes fuzzy. I fake the feelings I know I’m supposed to feel: happiness, gratitude, excitement for my cousin. The weight on my chest is still heavy, impeding the outflow of genuine emotions.
I paste a smile on my face and try to sound lighthearted. “Of course I will!” I successfully exclaim. The effort siphons a large percentage of my available energy.
Madison and I hug, and then she begins rattling off details including dates and times for dress selections and fittings, shoe and jewelry shopping. None of it registers.
“She can’t remember all that,” Aunt Suzanne says from her chair in the corner. She eyes me like she knows something is wrong. I double down on my efforts to appear effortless.
“I’ll send you an email,” Madison says.