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“He sewed, he used puff paint, he put stickers on all two hundred and fifty spaghetti dinner flyers, I will be cleaning glitter out of my curtains for months, and he did it all after a week of me being a total bitch to him.” I sniffle while I finish chewing, lean over the bar, and tug the white bar towel off Tess’s shoulder to clean up the crumbs in front of me as she continues looking at the pictures. “I’m being mean to him, and he’s using a fucking Cricut to make fucking felt pennants to hang on the fucking dugout for the boys during fucking games. I don’t even own a fucking Cricut!”
“You’re giving a lot of fucks for someone you’ve been trying not to give any fucks about over the last week,” Birdie reminds me as I toss the towel to the side, rest my arms back on top of the bar, and smack my head down onto them.
“Whatever. My son is also now grounded for the rest of his life for conspiring with the enemy and then racing out of the house for school this morning before I woke up just because he knew I would kick his little ass,” I grumble against my arms.
“Don’t you touch one hair on that perfect boy’s head, or I will rip you limb from limb,” Murphy warns me from a few feet away.
Murphy Swallow has a soft spot for the Bennett women, but it’s nothing like the one he has for my son, and it’s the only thing that cheers me up right now. The only time any of us have ever seen that man smile was the day he came to see me in the hospital when I had Owen and my mom put him in Murphy’s arms.
“Let me see the note again,” Tess says from above me.
Not bothering to lift my head, I reach back behind me and pull the folded-up piece of paper out of the back pocket of my jean shorts, holding it high in the air above me.
Tess grabs it out of my hand, and I hear the crinkle of her unfolding the piece of paper that was left on top of all the boxes when I got home last night, followed by her reading the words out loud that I already have memorized.
“Don’t be mad, but I gave Owen a ride home from practice. I was already going this way, and it seemed stupid to make Dominic go out of his way. Your son mentioned some projects you haven’t had time to get finished, and just in case you forgot, I enjoy a craft project or two. And before you get mad and call me a fuck wagon again (hilarious, BTW), I did not spend any money on anything. Honestly, Wren, how does someone not have a craft room in their house? You’re lucky I already unpacked mine. A quick trip back to my place gave me everything I needed. Well, almost everything. Your neighbors, Rob and Tianna—lovely people who invited me to dinner next Friday and to snuggle their dogs—let me borrow their Cricut. I mean, have you ever seen more perfect, straight edges on vinyl baseball decals? So, in conclusion, you can’t be mad at me, and you need to find a new place for your silverware in the kitchen, because that is now your ribbon drawer. Relax. Take a bubble bath. Read a book. Do something for YOU, and don’t stress. At least not about this stuff. Have a good rest of the night, Shepherd.”
When Tess finishes reading the note, nothing can be heard in the bar except for the ticking of a clock hanging on the wall above the glass liquor shelf, Birdie tapping her fingernails on the bar two seats down from me, and my snotty, whimpering, muffled crying from where my face is still smushed into my arms on the bar. I get to enjoy the quiet and wallow in my misery for thirty seconds before all hell breaks loose around me.
“Who cares if she’ll be the other woman, she needs to screw his brains out!”
“Fuck him! Who cares if he can sew. He still hasn’t apologized to her for being a shit!”
“Excuse me, Tess, can I just get another beer?”
“Either you take him out at the knees, or I will, but someone needs to do it already!”
“Does no one even care how sweet this is? It’s like something right out of a movie.”
“Fuck movies! Let’s burn his shit!”
“Sorry, I don’t mean to bother you guys. Tess, any chance I can get that beer now?”
“Can we make a decision already? I need to eat and take my water pill.”
“Fuck water! Burn. His. Shit.”
“My tee time is in like, three minutes. I just need one beer.”
“Jesus Christ, Jared, here’s your beer!” Tess shouts, twisting the top off a bottle and then smacking it down in front of the poor man who works at the ferry dock that has been trying to get her attention. “It’s on the house!”
