Page 2 of The Accidental Text

Chelsea moves to sit next to me and puts an arm around myshoulders. She has the ability to go from judgmental to compassionate in a split second. It’s impressive. The comforting gesture, combined with my still-churning stomach, makes tears well up in my eyes.

“Mags, it’s going to be fine.”

“I know,” I say, adding a sniffle. “I was totally on board until we got here. I’m just—maybe I’m not ready or something.”

“Ready for what?” my dad asks. He’d been standing some feet away from us engrossed in something on his phone, the white cylinder urn filled with my mom’s ashes tucked under his arm. I hadn’t realized he’d moved closer to us. Now he’s looking at me with concern in his blue eyes, deep crow’s-feet in the corners. Chelsea has his eyes, minus the crow’s-feet. Devon too. I got my mom’s green ones.

“Maggie’s having second thoughts about the jump,” Chelsea says.

“Oh, Magpie.” My dad uses the nickname he’s called me since I can remember. He takes a seat on my other side, setting the urn next to him. He’s wearing a black jumpsuit with gray detailing. He wraps an arm around my waist. I’m now in a very public family sandwich. I just need Devon to come over here and pull us all in a big hug. Not that Devon would ever do that.

I feel my dad reach up and run his hand down my ponytail, then he tugs lightly on my dark-brown locks. I may not have gotten his eyes, but I did get his hair, except that his is now mostly gray.

“What’s going on?” he asks.

“I feel … anxious, I guess.”

“We don’t have to do this today,” he says.

My heart skips a tiny beat at this idea, and the churning in my stomach starts to slow.

“What?” Chelsea says, sitting tall next to me, her back rigid. “We have to.”

“Why?” Dad asks. “There’s no rule.”

“But it’s—”

“Your anniversary,” I finish Chelsea’s sentence for her. My shoulders slump, and a weight drops inside my gut.

“So what?” my dad says.

“Well … I mean … I …” Chelsea trails off, and I feel her stiff posture falter next to me.

Today, February eighteenth, would have been thirty-three years for my parents. That’s why we picked this date. It has significance. My parents had a marriage for the ages. Something I’ve hoped my whole life to find. They met through mutual friends when my mom was twenty-four and my dad was twenty-six. It was love at first sight, according to my dad; my mom needed a little more convincing. It didn’t take much, because they were married less than a year later.

All my life, I’ve had this movie in my mind of being walked down the aisle by my dad and looking over to see my mom crying tears of joy. I’ve dreamed of this since the day I decided boys were no longer gross and smelled like sweaty feet. Well, sometimes they still smell like sweaty feet—I’m just able to overlook it.

But my mom didn’t even get to see me in a long-term relationship. Not anything that went beyond six months. I’ve never really been in love, I’m pretty sure. At twenty-six, my dating history has been sparse, to say the least.

I realize I’m still young, and I hopefully have a lot of life ahead of me, but my wish to have what my parents had looks so far away, it seems unobtainable.

So far my parents’ relationship has only rubbed off onChelsea, who, at nearly twenty-nine, is married and has two kids. The most adorable girls in the world, in my doting-aunt opinion.

Devon seems to be more on my track. Only he’s too big of a player to look for anything lasting. He’s a year and a half younger than me, so he’s old enough that it’s starting to be concerning.

“I don’t care about dates,” my dad says. “We can do this anytime.” He runs a hand up and down my back.

“I think we should just do it today,” Chelsea says. “We’re already here.”

“Not if Maggie isn’t feeling it.”

“Why’s everyone sitting here?” Devon asks, walking toward us, the top half of his jumpsuit unzipped and hanging around his hips, the arms swinging back and forth as he approaches. He’s got a white T-shirt on that shows off all the time he spends in the gym.

“Maggie doesn’t want to jump,” Chelsea says.

“I didn’t say that.” I whip my head toward her.

“Oh, sorry.” She purses her lips. Her eyes move to Devon. “She’s ‘not feeling it.’” She uses air quotes for the last part.

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