Page 1 of Blue Moon Love

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KENNA

“I reckoned growin’ old would take longer.” ~ Archie “Witty” Whitlock

Deadlines were not my friend. They never have been. I’m the girl who waits until the night before a paper is due to stay up all night and write it. I’m the girl who packs for the airport the morning of a flight. I’m the girl who is consistently running five minutes late.

If there were a Queen of Procrastination, I’d wear the crown.

But as I wrote in my journal about a particular upcoming date, I was determined to turn my leaf over anew.

My thirty-fourth birthday was in six(ish) weeks—forty-six days to be exact—and there was something that needed to happen before the clock struck midnight on January 2nd, which, by the way, was not the greatest birthday date to have. I’d never been a fan of it.

I’d never been able to have a pool party or do anything outdoors because of the weather. As a kid in school, my birthday announcement was always lumped in with all the other kids whose birthdays fell over the holiday break. As an adult, people were either broke and recovering from the holidays, or had just begun their New Year’s resolutions to cut down on drinking or unhealthy eating. So yeah, not exactly the optimal celebration environment.

But this birthday was looming for an entirely different reason than my typical apprehension over the date. Because this January second, there was a deadline—a self-imposed deadline, but a deadline, nonetheless.

I needed to have sex.

My virginity was the best kept secret in Wishing Well, hell, maybe all of Clover County, and I planned on keeping it that way…at least until after I was deflowered.

Deflowered. Who came up with that word?

It didn’t matter.

What mattered was that tonight I was taking a step toward reaching my goal. I had a date with a man who I’d matched with on an app. After a quick social media check, I could report that he was gainfully employed, had a full head of hair, and there was no digital evidence of a wife and family.

After spending the last few months getting burned by men who represented themselves as things they weren’t, I started doing some pre-date internet investigating. Some might consider it light stalking; I maintained it was due diligence.

Andrew Collins passed inspection. So, after a thirty-minute journal session to clarify my intentions for the night and three outfit changes, I was ready to meet my suitor.

“How do I look?” I asked my three-year-old multi-colored corgi, Winnie Cooper, who was named after Danica McKellar’s character on The Wonder Years.

Growing up, my dad loved that show, and we binge-watched it before streaming services and binge-watching were even a thing. We had the entire series on DVDs. We also had the complete collections of Miami Vice, Alf, Growing Pains, The Fall Guy, A-Team, Seinfeld, Cheers, Moonlighting, and more. That was just the television series. His ’80s movie collection was even more extensive. My dad’s love of all things 1980s had definitely rubbed off on me. As a nineties baby, I was convinced I was born in the wrong era.

Winnie’s tongue hung from her mouth as she stared up at me. Her adorable little corgi butt wiggled happily. Winnie barked and reared up on her hind legs to “dance” with me. I gave her a little spin. As I did the skirt of the dress fanned out.

After my quick spin with Winnie, I took one more look in the full-length mirror. This dress was sort of an optical illusion. The bustier top of the dress gave me cleavage that I didn’t really have and cinched at my waist before flaring out at my hips. My mother was Italian and had always been compared to Sophia Loren. She’d even had people come up and ask her for autographs. I wasn’t blessed with my mother’s mammary glands, but I had inherited her hourglass figure and the junk in her trunk. I also didn’t inherit her olive skin or dark features. As a pale redhead, I’d inherited my coloring from my father’s Irish genes.

My phone rang, and I saw it was Bryson, my boss and owner of The Tipsy Cow. I’d been a bartender there ever since I moved back to my small town after college. For a few years, I worked there while I was putting my teaching degree to use, but after five years in the public school system, I quit my job and hadn’t looked back. Teaching wasn’t for me.

“Hey, Bryson.” I answered the call.

“Can you come in tonight?”

“Um…” I hated letting him down, but I had a deadline, one that was rapidly approaching. Plus, I wasn’t sure rescheduling at this late hour would be in good form.

“Don’t call Kenna!” Bryson’s wife, Kelsi, shouted from the background. “She has a date tonight.”

I appreciated Kelsi remembering my date. I’d mentioned it to her briefly the night before when we were closing.

“Oh, okay. Never mind.”

“I can cancel?—”

“No. We’ve got it covered,” he assured me. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Have fun!” Kelsi shouted in the background before the call disconnected.

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