Page 9 of Meet Cute Reboot
“I don’t care.”
“You’re a local celebrity now. Five hundred people were watching your livestream. You don’t want anyone to post angry pictures of you.”
Cassie leans in and jabs her finger into my chest. “Know this, Luke Curtis. I’m over you. I was over you in five minutes. Now, get your sneaky self out of my sight and out of my life.”
She means it. She more than means it.
I fall back a step. “I know I acted like a jerk back then. Iama jerk. Wait.” I touch the pads of my fingers to my temples. “I’m not a jerk anymore. I’ve changed.”
“You’re still a liar. You’ve proven that.”
The truth punches me in the gut, deepening my slouch. “Yeah. Right. I’ll leave.” I turn on my heel and point my face toward the ocean even though I’m parked in the opposite direction.
“Wait.”
I look over my shoulder.
“You’re not ruining my launch,” she says, ushering me back. “I need to take some selfies and a Reel for Instagram. And then I need you to be at I107 at four o’clock on Monday to tell Chris Sands how wonderful our date was.”
“Okay,” I say tentatively as I return to her side.
She slides next to me. We smile into the camera through several clicks, and then we record a Reel, still smiling, before she drops her phone into her purse.
“We’re done,” she announces brusquely and then walks away.
Chapter 4
Cassie
My family has gone to Charleston Christian Apostles for forty-seven years, beginning with my Grandpa Allen in 1975. I remember causing mischief in the musty, vinyl-tiled basement when I was a kid, pestering the preschoolers after Sunday School, or getting into people’s way as they transferred casseroles to the serving table before the eleven o’clock service let out.
The late-1800s commercial building needed attention then and could use some now, but the elders have a habit of donating the maintenance fund to Samaritan’s Purse, or to the City Mission—with the congregation’s approval. The outdated windows are drafty on cold days, and on hot days—like today—humidity seeps past the aging sills and fills the sanctuary with muggy warmth despite the groaning air conditioning.
Although it isn’t fancy, the sanctuary has a welcoming charm. The thirty-five-year-old red carpet is unraveling along the aisles, held in place here and there by tape so people like Granny andNana don’t trip. Pews line the room, angling toward the center aisle to accommodate the rounded altar.
The “Sears pew” is on the left side of the room, seven rows back. We drop our purses here at quarter ‘til eleven and slide into our seats a few minutes before the choir starts, after Nana and her euchre friends have caught up for the week and my mom has rounded the room at least twice saying her hellos. I usually hang back with Granny and hold her up while young and old alike approach her for hugs. Being ninety-seven years old garners much attention, as it should.
We settled into our pew thirty-five minutes ago. Fifteen minutes ago, Pastor Ellis began his sermon. The choir sits quietly behind him in the alcove. They’re sweating. Granny’s sweating. Everyone is sweating.
It’s a small price to pay to help feed orphans and widows, people who are suffering much more than we are. Although, I have a secret goal, desire, dream—whatever you want to call it—to anonymously donate to the church for a sanctuary remodel and AC upgrade. If, or should I saywhenMatchAI takes off, it will be my second act of corporate altruism.
Remodeling Nana’s house will be my first.
Ironically, Pastor Ellis is preaching on forgiveness. Or maybe not so ironically. When I’m wrestling with a moral dilemma, Pastor Ellis invariably preaches about it, or we talk about it in our women’s Bible study, or I hear a song on the radio that convicts me.
Am I trying to wriggle my way out of forgiving Luke? Yes. I am.Hewrongedme, not the other way around. First by cheating on me, and now with his weird attempt to hijack my launch. To say I was furious Friday night would be an understatement.
I’ve had time to think about it, time to settle, and I’m still furious.
Also, I’m not sure time heals all wounds because I’m still mad at him for cheating on me. I like to pretend that I’m over it, but the hurt remains. I thought he was “the one.”
We met while I was waitressing at the Mudroom to pay my way through Trident Tech’s Small Business Administration and Management program. I could only afford a class or two a semester on top of rent and living expenses. (I wasn’t going to mooch off my mom. She’d already worked too hard to provide for me.) Luke came in that Friday afternoon with a buddy.
His good looks stood out in the modestly decorated room: his tall, muscled build, evidenced by the ropy veins on his exposed forearms; his longish face, topped by generous waves; his manicured beard that shadowed his strong jaw.
He gave me a fifty dollar tip for a twenty dollar meal. I grabbed the receipt and marched over to the lobby, where he stood waiting for his friend.
“You tipped too much.” I held out the receipt.