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It was during those times that I’d think about the cookbook.
The one I spent a whole summer dreaming up with Riley’s help. I had it all planned out: I’d write the cookbook, publish it, and then hopefully make enough money to one day open my own seafood restaurant here on Bald Head, where I’d live full-time in a sweet little place in Harbour Village. A cottage maybe. One close to the water.
Obviously my plan had huge holes in it. Did I really think I could make enough money from one cookbook to open a restaurant? How would I build a platform large and engaged enough to launch a cookbook onto a bestseller list? What would I do for health insurance?
And was I willing to live the kind of around-the-clock lifestyle owning a restaurant requires? As an event planner, I work with restaurants and catering companies daily. I witness firsthand how hard the industry is on its workers.
But really, it came down to practicalities. I was a wreck my freshman year at Wake. When Pa offered me an internship at The Gibbes Group the summer between my freshman and sophomore year, I jumped at the opportunity. My grades were shit, and I didn’t have any other options. Plus—and I’m ashamed to admit this—ditching the cookbook and restaurant ideas to pursue a nice, stable corporate career in Charlotte felt like sticking it to Riley.
It felt good. And terrible. But since I didn’t get to decide when our relationship ended, it felt empowering to choose a life totally different from the one we’d planned together. It put distance between us, psychologically and geographically, and since it was the only kind of satisfaction or closure I’d ever get, I took it.
And then I took a job as an event planner at The Gibbes Group when I graduated, organizing events for the firm’s attourneys and clients. I never forgot about the cookbook and restaurant. I just sort of shoved those dreams aside and chased after different ones—dreams that felt more familiar to Pa and Mom and everyone else, really. I still cooked on the weekends for family and friends. But I stopped developing recipes, and I definitely stopped saving restaurant aesthetic images on Pinterest.
Lady still visited me in Charlotte when I lived with Patrick, but she and I didn’t cook all that much. Mostly because we were paleo at that point. I’d allow myself a cheat meal every so often—the kind of meal Lady and I liked to make together—but Patrick didn’t.
Just the thought of being back at the stove with Lady makes the drumbeat of sadness and shame inside my chest fade. We’ll miss Granny, of course. But maybe we can FaceTime her while we cook.
Aunt Lady claps her hands. “It’s a date. We’ll have everything ready when you and Goldie get back.”
All but licking my bowl clean, I rise and give her a hug. “Thank you.”
“This too shall pass,” she whispers in my ear.
I tell myself she’s right. As much as it hurts, I’m glad Patrick showed me his true colors before I married him.
As embarrassing as it was, I’m also kinda glad I confronted Riley last night, because I got to see his true colors too.
What’s that saying? Thank God for unanswered prayers? That’s definitely true when it comes to my past relationships. I wanted so badly for those men to love me the way I loved them, but they didn’t. And maybe things happened, or didn’t happen, for a reason.
Maybe there are better things to come.
I’m just crossing my fingers and toes that I won’t have to see Patrick or Riley again. I haven’t heard from Patrick, and Goldie told me Cooper hasn’t either. I’m taking that as a sign he’s definitely not coming to the wedding.
As for Riley—well. Bald Head may be a small place, but it’s not like he’s going to be involved in any of Goldie and Coop’s wedding festivities. Cooper did summer out here as a kid, but as far as I know, the only guest attending the wedding not from Charlotte is his best man DR.
So like Taylor so wisely once said, I just need to shake off this anxiety—this hangover. I’m going to help my best friend pull off the best damn wedding week ever, and I’m going to have a good time doing it.
Maybe I’ll need to fake it ’til I make it for a day or two, but I am so done letting guys ruin my fun.
six
Louise
Emotional Support Animal
Cars aren’t allowed on Bald Head, so after a quick shower, I hop onto our golf cart and head across the island to meet Goldie at The Ocean Club.
I’m late. But it’s literally impossible to rush when you’re here. There’s a saying that you’re on “turtle time” on Bald Head, meaning exactly that: things move slowly, including this golf cart. Old Winny, as Aunt Lady affectionately dubbed her years ago, groans when I put the pedal to the metal, topping out at a whopping fourteen miles an hour.
