Page 15 of From Rivals to I Do

“Well, I could have just not got your stuff then, huh?” I sassed back as Noah burst into laughter.

“Ah, good point,” Zack says with a nod.

“You said she was crazy though? How do you know that?” Noah asks.

“Well, usually when someone makes a mistake, they don’t scream like a dang banshee over it,” I say with a sigh as I pull the meat out

of the bag, slap it onto the cutting board, and begin tenderizing it a bit with the meat mallet.

“She yelled at you?” Zack asks.

“Yep, made a complete scene out of the whole ordeal,” I reply in between whacks. “I even offered to pay for her dress or dry cleaning,

but she was going off about how men never mean nothing they say or some garbage.”

“Sounds like someone was already in their feelings,” Zack replies.

“You’re probably right,” I agree. “Don’t matter though. You can’t—”

“Take your feelings out on others,” the boys say, completing my thought.

“Exactly,” I say with a smile as I pull a pan out from the cupboard, lay the chicken breasts in the pan, and then slide them in the oven before starting a timer.

“Well, hopefully she finds peace,” Zack says.

“Yeah, well, as long as it’s far away from me, that’ll be just fine,” I say as the three of us crack up. “Now. is someone going to help me

peel these potatoes?”

“I’ll do it,” Zack says as he gets up, grabs the bag of potatoes, and starts washing some in the sink before bringing them to the table to

peel. My eyes look toward the calendar. Only one more day before that dreaded day. . . and even though it’s been ten years, I still just

want to hole up in my room and sit there and ignore the world.

But I know I can’t.

I’ve got to keep moving, even if it hurts.

Chapter five

Chapter Five

“I’m back!” I call out as jovially as I can muster as I kick off my shoes, the sun starting to set behind the hills. It’s taken me twice the

time to get the pie for dessert, having driven all the way out to San Antonio after embarrassing myself at the grocery store in town.

Everyone gawked at me in both places and not because I was some beautiful bombshell. But because I looked like a hot mess. Which,

to be fair, at the moment, isn’t far from the truth.

So much for first impressions.

“Oh my gosh, Ma,” Sparrow gasps. “What happened to your dress?”

“You know, I don’t think I want to talk about it,” I say as I hand Sparrow the pie and a half gallon of French vanilla ice cream, and then

walk into the bedroom and quickly slip into something more comfortable. . . and less covered in pie.

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