Losing Me, Finding You(27)

I sigh as she walks out of the room and drop my face into my hands. Not much longer, I think, trying to find an exact date of departure in my head. After the motorcycle show is over, of course, just in case Austin does come through. I set my sights on the twentieth and rise to my feet before somebody else comes in and yells at me. The whole family is in a state of panic with people running around like chickens with their heads cut off. It's nauseating.

I plan as I walk down my aunt's hall and into my cousin's room where my dress hangs menacingly in the corner. Beneath it sit the horrible fuchsia shoes I purchased yesterday. I start to get dressed while my mind spins.

I don't know where I'm going or what I'm doing, but I'll figure it out. There is only one thing that could make or break this: my bank account. It's a joint account I have with my parents, meaning if they got wind of my plans, they could ruin everything. I know I don't have time today to take the money out, so I've got to act as normal as possible and make sure I don't give them any reason to suspect that anything is wrong. When I do decide to go for it, I've got to be quick. In and out. Like Austin. I shiver as I pull up the zipper on the side of my dress, turning to look at myself in the mirror next to Jodie's dresser. I look terrible, I think as my blue eyes stare back at me with horror. My hair is slicked tight against my head and my bun is a twisted, frizzy mess. The color of the dress makes my skin look sallow and my hips enormous, and the shoes … Don't even get me started on the shoes.

I sigh and head downstairs where my mother is waiting, nursing a cup of coffee with one hand and marking something down in a notebook with the other. There are only going to be fifty-seven guests at this wedding (the exact size of our congregation), but the stress on Mama's face suggests that there are multitudes of people waiting desperately for the four of us (who happen to be running late). Again, this is apparently all my fault.

“I told you to be showered and ready,” she snaps without looking at me. I say nothing. Mama slams her notebook closed and pauses to stare at me. “Goodness, Amy,” she says, moving forward and picking at my already sore scalp, rearranging my aunt's handiwork with pursed lips, as if the bad hair do were my fault. “I need you to look presentable today.” The sound of the doorbell ringing brings a quick smile to her face as she licks her thumb and smooths back a stray hair from my forehead.

Uh oh.

“He's here,” she whispers, and I don't ask her to clarify because she won't. I just watch with a sinking feeling in my gut as Mama moves around me and answers the front door. “Well, don't you look handsome,” she coos at our unknown visitor, ushering him into the coolness of the house with the world's fakest smile. I watch as a boy I've never met rounds the corner into the kitchen with a brown sweater on his shoulders and a pimple, right there on the tip of his nose. Oh dear. This must be the new guy in town that my mother was referring to. He looks a little young to me, but I can smell a setup from a mile away.

“Amy,” Mama begins, flashing me a quick look before she touches her hand to the boy's arm with a smile. “This is Crandle Rogers. Crandle, this is Amy.”

“Lovely to meet you,” Crandle says, and my mind immediately begins to build a chart, so I can start comparing him to Austin. This isn't a new thing for me. I've been setup loads of times – usually with boys from our church. I've always, always, always turned them down. In the past however, when I made my mental charts, I used to compare the boys I was meeting to the men in my romance novels, wondering all the while if I was holding them up to an ideal that couldn't possibly exist.

I now know otherwise.

“Nice to meet you, Crandle,” I say, trying not to grimace when he pulls my hand to his lips for a cold, emotionless kiss. Now, I don't mean to sound frigid or heartless or rude. I wouldn't say that I'm superficial, but when I look at Crandle's skinny shoulders and his blotchy skin, his pasty cheeks and his thin lips, I can't help but think that Austin is better looking. It's not a judgment, just a fact. And maybe (probably) Crandle is a nicer person than Austin Sparks. None of that matters to me, though. I'm not looking for a husband to settle down with and marry. I'm looking for change and freedom and passion and some of that heart-stopping angst that's always in my books.

I close my eyes briefly and think of Glance Serone and Sali Bend.

“You stupid, stupid bitch,” Glance says as he looks me up and down, a trembling mess in my robe with a wad of tissues in one hand and a butt load of tears making their way from my eyes to my pointy chin, so they can crash down on my unpainted toenails. “You thought you'd be happy with a guy because he was 'nice'?” I stare at him, and I don't know what to say. Mark was nice. Very nice. But he couldn't f*ck for shit and he didn't make my toes curl or my stomach ache. “I'll tell you what, Sali. I can't cook a casserole or crochet a f*cking blanket.” I glance briefly at the blue and pink monstrosity lying across the back of my couch. Oh, Mark. “But I can promise to f*ck you hard and dirty, day in and day out. Come on, Sal. Be mine. What do you say?”

I open my eyes and smile.

“Crandle just finished his senior year over in Dallas and moved here recently with his parents and sister. They'll be at the wedding, of course.” He enjoys long walks on the beach, Popsicles made of root beer, and can play a mean game of croquet.