Page 7 of The Wedding Favor

But that was fine for him to say, given he was the one who broke up with me.

What followed were three years of late-night phone calls and text messages telling me he missed me. Three years of him standing too close, his hand brushing against mine. Three years of “friendly” dinner plans that felt like dates. Three years of me never knowing quite where I stood with him. Three years of still loving him… Then his engagement to someone new after only a few months of dating.

“What if I should have fought harder for us?” That question had always plagued me.

The pickles didn’t reply, but it felt like a burden had been lifted off my shoulders to say all this out loud to someone… er, something. Who needed to pay for therapy when I could get the same results from the condiment aisle of the grocery store?

“Thanks for listeni…” My voice trailed off as I noticed the smoke. It began to trickle from the hood of my car, about the same time a little red warning light lit up the dashboard. “This cannot be good.”

In response, the smoke increased, coming out in white puffs, like it had heard me and was laughing.

“No. No. No,” I chanted, dread filling me. “You are not allowed to die on me.”

I pulled over onto the shoulder beside a patchy field of wild grass. After the smoke cleared, I propped up the hood and stood there, staring down into the engine like I had any idea what I was looking at.

This birthday would surely go down as one of my worst. I grabbed my purse and the pickles and started walking on the uneven, grassy shoulder toward the house. It was less than a mile but, if I was lucky, maybe someone would drive by and take pity on me.

With each step, my anxiety grew. I’d already dumped money into new tires and an alternator in the last month. My savings could only stretch so far. I had bills to pay. Oh, and I had to figure out what I was doing with my life.

I’d graduated last month with a degree in psychology. Why psychology? It seemed like a good idea at the time. Don’t get me wrong, it had been interesting. The things we’d learned about in Abnormal Psychology would keep me primed for making small talk for years. (For example, did you know you could bang your head and suddenly develop a foreign accent?)

When I’d started school, I had big plans for getting my master’s in counseling. Then I took that Intro to Counseling class my last year and that sealed the deal. The idea of sitting across from someone and listening to them talk about their problems week after week? I couldn’t see myself doing it.

Except, if I didn’t follow the plan, then what? As a rule, I didn’t second guess myself. Decisions always came quickly to me. But now, my entire foundation seemed to be on shaky ground. Who was I? What was I going to be? Where was I going to go?

So, I applied for grad school in Austin because I had to do something. Mae had been encouraging me (read: nagging) to do it. And… I got in. It came with a nice financial aid package and a partial scholarship. Mae had been excited enough for both of us. After all, this had always been my plan… right?

At nine years older, Mae had always been more like a second mom. My relationship with her had never been sisterly. With a single mom working two jobs to make ends meet and a dad who was more ghost than human, Mae had always had a lot of responsibilities.

When Mom had her stroke when I was in high school, Mae had had to step up and take care of everything—the bills, Mom, me. She put off opportunities like that scholarship she got for grad school that would have required moving three states away. She didn’t know I knew about that, but I’d found the acceptance letter in the trash. Sometimes I felt more like a burden than a sister.

Holding my acceptance letter in my hands had made it all so real and made me admit to myself that I couldn’t do it. So I’d turned down the scholarship and the grad program. No one, especially my sister, knew about that though. I was going to tell them, honest. But I wanted to have a new plan in place, something better, something I was excited about.

I just didn’t know what that was.

And there was the state of my life—no plans for the future, Aidan was getting married and I wasn’t the bride, a dwindling savings account, a broken car, a jar of pickles as my confidante, and the strangest part of them all, a fake date with Abe Ramos.

I yanked my t-shirt from where it had suctioned to my skin. Despite the setting sun, the air was sticky and heavy. It was like walking through a bowl of soup. Sweat pooled in all the uncomfortable places.

Even with the sauna-like weather, I loved living here on the outskirts of our small Texas town. The quiet peacefulness of it. The feeling of safety, even walking along a country road at dusk. I even liked that everyone knew everyone’s business… as long as I wasn’t the subject of that business. I’d never lived anywhere else, and I wouldn’t, if I could help it.

My phone vibrated with an incoming text.

Aidan: It was good to see you tonight.

ME: Thanks for the surprise.

I cringed at the lie. But Aidan had never been good at seeing through me.

Aidan: You looked beautiful.

I glanced down at my outfit. My jeans and black t-shirt were nothing special. I wore an iteration of it every day. My blonde hair was cut in a chin-length bob with fresh turquoise streaks—not too many. Aidan had always hated the streaks in my hair. He’d never said that, though. That’s not how Aidan worked. No, he’d say everything he meant through little off-handed comments and gentle suggestions.

But the real problem was that a guy a month out from his wedding shouldn’t be saying that to anyone but his bride-to-be. I knew it was wrong and yet I couldn’t stop my heart from racing with unfettered hope. He thinks I’m beautiful.

Clearly, I was a horrible person.

“We’ll think about this tomorrow. Today is my birthday,” I said aloud. “Say nothing if you think I’m right.”