Page 12 of Trapped and Tackled

“I left a dress on your bed. I think it will look beautiful on you.”

Tears prick the corners of my eyes as I pull in air. “Thanks, Mama.”

I haven’t called her mama in years, and I know the moment she hears it because her gasp is audible.

Silence hangs between us and I can feel her presence, standing, waiting, just outside the bathroom door.

I take in another breath, get my thoughts under control, and slowly pull myself together. Then, I step into the shower and scrub until my body and mind are clean once more.

“Leni Strauss! You look amazing!” Marylee Picolin announces.

I blush under her praise and kiss her cheeks in greeting. “How are you, Marylee?”

“Wonderful, darling.” She lowers her voice. “But you must tell me your secret. You must be a size two now!”

I drop my chin, forcing a smile.

Anxiety, guilt, and failure will do that to a woman. Not a weight loss cocktail I recommend.

Of course, I don’t say that. I just titter a laugh and let her lead me to the waiting table of women.

“Welcome home, Leni! We missed you.” Anna Louise Shreider waves.

The warmth with which the women receive me eases some of my panic. Mom and I sit down at the table with the perfectly coiffed society ladies. We exchange greetings, fix our tea, and get down to business.

As Marylee explains the event, the vision, and their current plans, I begin to relax. The debutante ball—while a staple in our town—isn’t as elaborate as some of the weddings I helped bring to life for Manhattan’s high society.

When we start to discuss the design aesthetic, I jump in with suggestions that the women gobble up. Beside me, the tension Mom was holding in her shoulders and back ease. Beneath the table, I reach for her hand, and she finds mine, squeezing my fingers reassuringly.

I press my thanks into her palm and know that she operated with my best interests at heart.

I can do this; I can help plan Knoxville’s debutante ball.

Craig: I miss you, Leni.

My heart rate ticks up at Craig’s text message, and I grip my phone tighter. I scan the thread of our exchanges, noting that my last reply was before that night. Before I left. And still, he continues to message me.

He’s relentless.

Shaking my head, I try to brush off the panic that sparks with any mention of Craig. There are hundreds of miles between us and I’m safe, here in my hometown, in my parents’ house.

After a busy day and a leisurely lunch with Mom, I feel more like myself than I have in a year. I’m more relaxed, less on edge, and filled with energy.

There’s no way I’m letting Craig—and the memory of what was—ruin it.

In my room, I tug on my swimsuit and toss a towel, goggles, and an old swim cap into a backpack.

“Dad!” I call out, knowing he’s busy at work in his office. “I’m heading to the pool to get some laps in. I’m taking your truck.”

“Drive carefully!” he yells back.

I swipe his keys from the hook by the door, fingering the little AirTag attached to his keyring for all the times he misplaces them, and make my way to his truck.

I blast music on the ride to the community pool, singing along at the top of my lungs and laughing to myself. When was the last time I felt this carefree?

This…happy and excited for the future?

After stowing my items in the locker room, I make my way out to the pool, snag an empty lane, and dive into the cool water. It sluices over me as I come up for air, inhaling deeply. Then, I swim laps, allowing myself to get lost in the comfortable, monotonous strokes. My mind clears, my breathing evens out, and I settle into a steady pace, relishing the feel of my body cutting through the water.

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