He’s right.
Teresa Shaw-Evans is a saint that could put all other single parents toshame. And my stepsister? She may not share Mom’s hyphenated last name, but Bridget Evans is basically her twin.
My friend’s tone shifts, all scheming and mischief. I brace myself for a subject change. “You know what you should do? You should find your runaway bride. Have another lake-house rendezvous.”
Hannah.
The woman who flipped my world on a dime five years ago. Hazel eyes. Legs for days. Body that fit perfectly against mine. The woman who etched herself into my memory the moment I laid eyes on her. One night together and all I had to show for it was a note, the stained wedding dress she left behind, and my suspiciously absent gray hoodie.Damn,that was a great night.
“I never should’ve told you about that.”
“Told me? You told me nothing, Shaw. I pressed you for details, if you recall.Where’d you go? What’d you do? How many times?You were freaking Fort Knox!”
A smirk forms, but my lips remain sealed.
“Seriously? Five years and you still won’t tell me anything?”
“Nope.”
“That girl really must have done a number on you. That or she wasthe one.” He laughs, but I choke back the pins and needles scouring my throat.
If circumstances were different I think she could have been.
Dubs barrels on, playfully sparring as he presses for more. “What was her name again?”
Nice try.“I don’t remember.”
“Careful, Shaw. I think your pants are on fire.”
3
what happens when i’m gone?
Hannah
Jelly and Jambustles like it does every Saturday morning as I settle into Mom and my favorite booth.
The familiar-faced waitress arrives to fill our coffee mugs. Her smile lights up when she spots Mom breezing through the main entrance.
“You ladies want your usual?” she asks.
Mom sits down and we both give her the go ahead before she flits off to the next table.
I sip my coffee. “How are you feeling?”
At five-four, Mom’s always been small next to my five-eight frame. But with a pound lost here and another few pounds there, there’s a frailty to her these days. A little worse every time I see her.
Her hazel eyes—a shade darker than mine—peer at me through hooded lashes. She peels back the lid on two creamers. I rip open a single sugar packet and flip it over into her coffee, flicking it with my finger.
“I’ve told you to stop taking care of me,” she says on a tired breath. “I didn’t need you to show up at my door three nights ago, and I don’t need you to ask how I’m feeling every time you see me. If I need your help, I’ll ask for it.”
It’s the same revolving door argument we’ve had for years.I bite my tongue.
She changes the subject before I can. “How’s the gala shaping up?”
“Really great. I think it’s gonna be the biggest event yet.”
“That’s incredible, Hannah. I’m proud of you. Gwyn and Maddy would be, too.” I grin over the rim of my mug, pushing down the emotion that always creeps in at the mention of their names.