Page 37 of Love Me Reckless

Below the picture of the little green house with the two giant trees in the yard and the big windows and the lush flower garden in the back that will be perfect for a watercolorplein airpanting class is a simple message:

I’m not buying this dump

My hands are coated with clay, so I wipe off my fingertip on my apron and one-finger-type a reply.

It just needs a little bit of work

You should have consulted me

Wincing, I flip my phone face down because I don’t really want to argue via texting while I’m coated in clay.

And the last thing I want is to share that I consulted someone else.

My father’s words scamper through my mind:We trust Birch.

This leaves me with three options: defy my family and get my own loan… one I’m not sure I qualify for, given that I technically don’t have a job. Or dig in my heels, see if I can get Birch to change his mind. The last option is my least favorite: find a different property.

I leave a short message for the real estate agent thanking her for her time. It’s short and to the point, but my breath judders in my throat, and when I say goodbye, a big fat tear is skimming down my cheek.

That night, it snows again, and though it melts in town, the hillsides stay a pretty white. The ski area will be open before Thanksgiving if this keeps up. Will Sawyer take me up on my offer to teach him to ski? Part of me is excited, while the other part ishoping he’ll turn me down. Because I might like it a little too much.

By Friday, I’m so excited for my weekend of bachelorette fun that I can’t sit still. Throughout my Get Lit board teleconference where we discuss the next month’s agenda and the holiday events we’re planning in both libraries and rural schools, I have to sit on my hands to keep focused. It’s my goal that every child who signs up for a book through our program will get one from their wish list on Christmas morning.

After my meeting, I lead a tour of the ranch for a family from Copenhagen—the fit but aging parents and their two adult sons.

When we reach the upper ballroom, the afternoon sunshine is lighting up the white-dusted foothills and the distant peaks and rocky spires of the Bitterroots.

“Oh my, what a view,” the woman says, walking to the giant windows.

“This is the wedding venue?” one of the sons asks, gazing around the room.

“Yes.” I list off the highlights and options, including the private patio that can accommodate over 250 guests.

“You’re going to be married here, yes?” the woman asks, turning from the window.

“That’s right.” Maybe I’m just eager to get out of here and start my adventure with my friends, but my smile feels forced. “I can’t imagine getting married anywhere else.”

Both sons eye each other like they’re marking my words.

It’s creepy.

Finally, I can turn over the Larsons to our sales lead, Naomi, and make my exit.

At my bungalow, Sofie’s ancient Wagoneer is parked outside. My walkway is decorated with paper lanterns and turquoise and pink streamers hanging from either side of my door, framing what looks like a Polaroid picture collage of us.

“Here comes the bride,” Ava sings when I step from my car.

“This is so sweet!” I say as they hurry to hug me. Ava stuffs a white knit hat with “bride” stitched in loopy cursive on the lip on my head. She and Sofie slip on identical ones that say “babe.”

I squeeze both of my friends.

“Say cheese!” Sofie says, snapping a selfie of us with her phone.

Ava whips out a checklist. “You’ve got ten minutes to pack.”

I start to protest but Sofie waggles her finger. “Tick tock.”

Once inside, I race upstairs and grab my suitcase from the hall closet. Inside my room, I consult the list, my excitement growing with each item.

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