Page 3 of Smooth Talk

Chapter 1

Poppy

It’s been a long hard road leaving my past behind. When we first got to Willow Creek, it was all anyone could talk about. Little old ladies from church, shop owners, my ‘friends’ from high school all wanted to hear my story. It was literally the biggest news to hit our little town since the city had voted to allow alcohol sales on Sundays. After much heated debate in several town hall meetings, mostly between Pastor Norton and the Downtown Willow Creek Restaurant Association, the motion had passed with overwhelming support. It’s a real shame that came before all the Greedy Reed news, as he's known here, I could’ve skidded under the radar.

Now, most people here haven’t forgotten what happened, but at least they don’t bring it up in sidewalk conversations anymore. They’re more concerned with why I haven’t found a nice southern gentleman to be a daddy for Harp and make an honest woman out of me. Deep eye roll. Mainly my mother and a few of her meddling friends. They’re like the kids from Scooby Doo, except they solve singledom in the community instead of mysteries. I don’t mention the fact that Reed was from Texas and technically from the South, they’d never believe it anyway. Southerners do not act that way. It’s disgraceful. We’re honest, hard-working people who care about each other. The term carpetbagger was thrown around liberally to describe my ex. I’m not sure if it was strictly being used correctly, but it seems like a heavy insult for a Southerner to lob at another human being.

Thankfully, Harper’s been resilient through everything. The press coverage, her father’s vanishing act, moving across country, making new friends—after losing 99% of the ones we had. It’s been tough, but we’re in a good place now. Thank God for my parents and my girls. They’ve kept me sane through this whole mess, encouraging me with my business, helping me with Harper, taking me out for a drink when I need one, making me laugh when all I want to do is cry. I don’t know what I’d do without them.

Speak of the devil. My phone dings with an incoming text.

Sara: Ello Love! Plans this week?

Me: Just work, dinner & drinks with Ruby & Emma Friday for Rube’s B-Day. You wanna have a wine chat Saturday?

We usually Facetime once a week, and it usually involves a few glasses of red. Although, I’ve been on a rosé kick lately, my friend Emma’s to be precise— a killer blend of Sangiovese and Red Zin.

Sara: IRL? I’ll be in Charleston tomorrow with a client. I can be in Willow Creek Thursday pm. Maybe spend the weekend?

Me: OMG, Yaaasss! I need some Sara time in my life

Sara: You need some Richard time in your life too

Me: Who’s Richard?

Sara: You know, Dick. Eggplant emoji

Me: Sara!

Sara: LOL. Just saying. How long’s it been?

Me: I don’t know. A while

She already knows exactly how long it’s been.

Me: Too long, but the prospects here… slim. It’s not like I don’t date. Thanks to my mom I have more dates than I can actually go on. I’m just not interested in any of them

Sara: You just need a half-way decent guy to get you back in the saddle. He’s just the dessert, not the entrée. Maybe your expectations are too high. If there are men enough in that small town of yours to keep Ruby and Emma satisfied, then I’m sure there’s someone for you too

Me: You forget that I’ve already eaten the entrée. Anyway, it’s different for them. Guys are weird around single moms

Sara: Don’t use Harp as a crutch. You’re afraid to put yourself out there. And I get it Honey. Reed hurt you, but you give him too much credit. He’s more a side salad, than an entrée. You need a little meat and potato action in your life, and a swift kick in the pants. And Sweetie, I’m the boot. Operation: Get Poppy Laid commences Friday night. I’ll CC a master plan to Rubes and Em

Me: You’re sounding more like my mom every day… scary. LOL. I don’t think we need all the fanfare. I just need a few prospects. Heck, I’d settle for one. The guys my mom and her friends set me up with… Just, wow. Eye roll emoji

My mom had sent me on dates with just about every available 22 to 40-year-old man from here to Charleston. It certainly felt like that, anyway. In the past fourteen days I’ve been out with a Judd, a Nate, a Brady, a Brody, a Kline, two Landons, a Trevor (and a few others I’ve actually forgotten the names of already—don’t judge. I’ve seen way too many men lately). We’ve had coffee, lunch, dinner and drinks. Last night I came home to my mother's rear end hanging out of my refrigerator, making snacks for her favorite girl (Harp took my place a long time ago), as she shooed me upstairs to get ready. My date would be arriving shortly, and I couldn’t expect to impress him with a wrinkled dress, flat hair and smudged lipstick. It’s the third time she’s done it this month. I’m thinking of getting my locks changed. She’s supposed to use her key for emergencies only.

She really didn’t start in earnest until six months ago. “Your divorce has been final for a year. And your marriage was over long before that, Sweetie. I know you’re over him, but you’ve spent too much time on your own; I’m not sure you know how to put yourself out there. I’m your mama, and I’m gonna help you get back on the ol’ dating horse, and someday soon you’ll find yourself flying high again. You just have to take it one day at a time.”

My mother was known to mix metaphors, but that last part is sage advice; the same advice I’ve received from my dad on several occasions, so, at least, I know she got it from a reliable source. I just didn’t realize she’d meant it literally and planned set me up on a date with a different man on a daily basis. I’ve known the woman my entire life, and still manage to underestimate her. Really though, I don’t know how much more I can take. If Mama and her matchmaking flock of mother hens won’t stop their shenanigans, I will revolt!

I hate to admit it, but she’s right. I am ready to get back out there. I want to find someone. But I’m not sure any of the men my mom’s introduced me to are boyfriend material; I’m not even sure a couple of them could spell boyfriend material. None of them are people I see myself going on a second date with, let alone introducing them to Harp.

I’m not trying to be super picky. They all had good qualities: a couple were very handsome, others had good jobs or interesting hobbies, but none of them were the full package. One was successful but conceited. One had good looks, but a bad attitude. Another was an avid hiker but had terrible hygiene. They all sounded good on paper, but there was always just something that had warning bells sounding in my brain. Something nagging at me. Something off. Mainly, there was nothing there. Zero chemistry.

Mom’s only trying to help; I know. At least she knows I’m looking for a relationship, not a one-night stand (unfortunately, my friends don’t seem to grasp the concept that it isn’t my style— never has been). I’ve never even made out with a guy I wasn’t dating. Sara knows I do not do casual. I have a firm three date minimum before sex. Maybe that makes me a prude; I just like to think I’m selective. Not all women are like me, and that’s totally fine. No slut-shaming here. But in order for me to do the deed with a guy, we have to have reached a certain level of comfort. I like the idea of a guy liking me for more than just my body, that we have a connection besides the physical. Not every half-decent guy I meet deserves to have his tongue all over my body. But to be honest, I do especially miss that part of being in a committed relationship.

It’s been a very lonely two years. That’s right ladies and gents— I haven’t had sex since before my divorce. And I’m more than a little nervous about what’s changed in the past few years. Do men expect wild crazy antics in the sack now-a-days? Is it like riding a bike? Can I just rely on muscle memory? Not that I would go through with a random hookup, but what if I do find a guy I’m interested in this weekend and one thing led to another just to find out that I’m the one lacking? My insecurities hit me hard, but I push them away quickly as I read Sara’s latest text.

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