Page 1 of Checking Mr. Wrong
CHAPTER 1
MABEL
The phone is pressed so tightlyagainst my ear, I’m half convinced it might become a permanently embedded accessory. My other hand adjusts the carry-on strap digging into my shoulder, and as I step outside the terminal, the crisp Washington State air slaps me awake—like an overenthusiastic welcome committee. Not quite enough to drown out my mom’s voice, though.
“Did you land safely? How was the flight? Did you remember to hydrate?” Her words tumble out like she’s racing against a clock.
“Yes, yes, and yes,” I reply, already regretting that I agreed to play the role of responsible daughter today. “I drank so much water, I’m practically a human sprinkler.”
She hums approvingly, but I can feel her skepticism even through the phone. My eyes sweep across the bustling curbside crowd, a sea of people I shouldn’t know. However, judging by the looks I’m getting, it seems they recognize me. There’s always the first glance that lingers too long. Then comes another, followed by the dreaded double take. It’s like a ripple in the current of the sea I call my life.
What’s the saying, that this ain’t my first rodeo? Well, it isn’t…but I wish it was.
“Is that her?”
“No, it can’t be.”
“It is. Mabel McCluskey.”
I should be used to it by now. Instead, my stomach churns, tying itself into knots that would impress a sailor. This right here is why I didn’t want to accept this assignment. But here I am anyway, headed to Maple Falls, the town that remembers everything and everyone.
And I call it home.
“Mom, can we not do the interrogation right now?” I hiss into the phone, lowering my voice.
Her tone softens, but only slightly. “I’m just making sure my daughter survived crossing three time zones. Don’t get snippy with me.”
“Yeah, yeah, I survived. Barely.” I fiddle with a frayed strap of my bag, my nerves stretching thinner with every passing second.
“Oh, stop it. It’s not like Maple Falls has sharks waiting to eat you alive,” she says.
“Only people armed with sharp memories,” I mutter under my breath.
Behind me, a snicker breaks through the low hum of voices. I glance over my shoulder to see the same two women still staring, but now their hands partially covering their mouths. It doesn’t work. One of them tilts her head toward me.
“She’s the one who dumped that bucket of dirty water on him, right?”
“Yup. And on live TV.”
I can’t resist. I know I shouldn’t do it, but I have to. It’s the city girl in me. I turn to the women and smile. “I also compared him to a broken pencil: pointless and a waste of everyone’s time.”
One of the women bites her lip in an obvious attempt not tolaugh, while the other nods and holds a fist in the air. “Solidarity. I’m in awe.”
I know I should probably maybe kinda enjoy the attention—it’s not every day you break up with someone on live television and the whole world sees it. Let’s just say that the next time my ex wants to cheat on someone, he shouldn’t do it to his reporting partner (ahem, me), and with their segment producer. Very proletarian.
Ah, but lest I forget, there is one woman in this world who does not think what I did needs to be celebrated. As the pair disappear into a cab, I turn my attention back to that one woman. I can feel my cheeks flaming with fresh heat as I press a hand to my forehead. I’m not even in front of her and this is how I feel before I get to my mother.
“Well,” I begin, making my tone lighter and more cheery than usual, “at least they were on my side, right? Maybe I’ve hit legend status?”
“Oh, sweetie,” she says in that too-sweet, patronizing tone that only moms can pull off, only this one is laced with condescension. “You’re a traveling circus. All you need is a unicycle, some big ole clown shoes, and a red nose.”
Honestly, you would think some days she dated him and I broke them up. My moment of weakness also coincided with a live crossover from the winning team’s locker room after an NHL game. I was on the path to becoming a full-time sports reporter a year ago. I’d paid my dues as one half of a reporting duo, my partner being my college boyfriend. We reconnected, started dating again, and for a while, it worked.
We spent long hours putting together segments with our producer. She was sharp, talented, and always around. Until she wasn’t just around—she was sleeping around…with him.
We were covering a game and right before we went on air, I happened to catch the two of them, my man and our “boss” making out in the parking lot. In the backseat of some old Honda, of all things, that I happened to park beside. So, was Imad when we walked into that locker room to do our live segment? I was boiling. He’s just lucky that the bucket of water I poured over his head wasn’t.
Did I handle it well? Judging by my mother’s reaction, that’s still debatable in some circles.
