Bad Cruz(11)

She looked eons less put-together than the glamorous Catherine Costello, who only had a handful of responsibilities, which included keeping up appearances by looking like a gracefully-aging movie star, looking appropriately scandalized when a popular food chain tried to open a branch in Fairhope and ruin what locals referred to as the “town’s authenticity”, and giving sizable donations to church functions in order to avoid participating.

“Nessy! You’re here. Have you started with the kits? We don’t have much time. I need to get your sister to her aesthetician appointment. Apparently, it’s best to get the glow facial a few weeks in advance.”

“I’m on it.” I made a show of waving one of the polishes in my hand.

“Good.” Mom wrinkled her nose when she saw the donut pack. She flipped it closed and picked it up between her fingernails, like it was contaminated. “No one needs these, Nessy. That was completely unnecessary. Your sister’s trying to lose weight—are you trying to sabotage her weight loss?”

“My sister looks like she hasn’t seen a sandwich since 1999.”

“Do you mind finishing up here and adding the macarons to the bags while I take your sister to get her blackheads removed? Oh, and each macaron needs to be individually cellophane-wrapped.”

They were leaving me to do all of this by myself? Alone?

“Of course I don’t mind,” I heard myself say through the strong Cinderella vibes.

I knew my family loved me. But I also knew they were, at this point, completely shuttered to what I was going through.

“You’re a star, Ness. Get dressed, honey.”

Mom patted Trinity’s shoulder on her way to the fridge to grab the iced tea Dad had made for her before he went fishing earlier that morning.

My father, bless his heart, was as involved in family matters as I was invested in the condition of mole rats in Uzbekistan. To sum it up, he showed up to important events when we asked him to.

“How’s Bear, Nessy?” Mom asked, finally showing interest in something in my life.

“He’s good.” I looked up from the kit I was making. “Actually, I—”

“I want to take him to Hanes Mall next week. Get him a new backpack and perhaps a few pairs of jeans. His pants fall down his butt. Did you know that?”

Intentionally so, but give it your best shot changing his style, Mom.

“He’ll love that,” I chirped. “Anyway, you won’t believe what—”

“I think he’ll grow to be as tall as his father. The only good thing that useless man had to offer was his height.”

“Ha! Well, speaking of Rob—” I tried a third time, a little more aggressively.

Trinity breezed back downstairs wearing a summery dress. A new, tight-knit braid was flung across her shoulder, and she was wearing some mascara, blush, and lip gloss.

“Well, see you later, Nessy. Thanks for doing all the gift bags for me!”

“Oh, and honey, make sure to tidy up afterwards,” Mom called. “I’m going to have my hands full when I come back, what with getting the house ready for the party.”

They closed the door with a slam, just as my phone lit up with a new message. It came from an unrecognized number, with an Arizona area code.

Come on, Nessy. Are you going to let me see my son or what?

Not in this life, gasshole.





Two weeks later.



Gabriella Holland was a bad idea.

I knew that the night I’d met her at that bar.

The same night I took her home.

And the morning after it, too, when she casually examined the family pictures that hung on my living room wall, naked as the day she was born, and dropped the bomb that she was actually from Fairhope, too.

That her best friend, Trinity, was working at my clinic, and her mother would be delighted to know we knew each other. Closely.

What was an honorable man to do?

A man who had been crowned Fairhope’s Most Likely to Become President?

Who couldn’t afford to make a mistake, let alone four mistakes in one night, one of them in a pretty adventurous Kama Sutra position, resulting in a thoroughly compromised young woman?

I’d given my relationship with Gabriella Holland a fair shot.

There was, after all, absolutely nothing wrong with her as far as the eye could see. She was objectively stunning, had graduated from Columbia the previous year, and worked as a blogger and influencer, promoting beauty products and street fashion on social media.

She wanted to be a housewife, to pop out cute, chubby babies, and I supposedly wanted a wife who would do just that.

Our goals, plans, and ideologies were theoretically aligned.

Supposedly being the operative word, because I couldn’t, for the life of me, take any more of her photographing every goddamn thing we ate before consumption, or getting a selfie in every public restroom she visited, citing the great lighting.

“But…but why?” Gabriella sniffed, patting her nose and eyes with a tissue demurely, trembling all over.

I privately disliked all the trembling. She trembled when she ate a chicken salad at Jerry & Sons, when she saw something sad in the news, and when a draft came in through the window.

She was so fragile, so gentle, she belonged in a museum, not a red-blooded man’s bed (although, ironically, it should be said, Gabriella was pretty much game to do anything I wanted to do, just as long as I called the next day).