jukebox plays in the background, Carrie Underwood blasting through the speakers. He twirls his cup and gulps down the last of his beer and pours another one. Not the demeanor I expect from someone telling me he’s getting married — and is happy about it.
“If you ask me she's only using you.”
“Gretchen, would you please stop?” Kellan’s tone changes through his gritted teeth. “I’m very aware of your opinion of her and I wish you would learn to keep your mouth shut.”
“I’m just saying she aspires to be a TV star and you're on TV. Seems a little convenient if you ask me.” I tense up as I watch this banter between them. She leans back and pops a pretzel in her mouth, crosses her arms and stares down Kellan.
“Well, I didn't ask you and I'm only on the local station. I’m not a big celebrity. She can't get on TV through me and she knows that.”
Tiffany pops her head in. “There’s no way you could ever star in a sitcom.”
“Why not?”
She helps herself to the mix on the table. “You’re too stiff.”
“Stiff?” Kellan shakes his body. “I feel pretty loose.”
“I think that woman of yours keeps you too much in check.” Taylor appears and pours himself another glass. “I agree with Tiff. You’re fine doing the weather, but what is that, a five-minute segment advising people if they need a jacket or not? Anyone can do that.”
“I’d like to see you try!”
The bickering between this group of friends reminds me of my college years, before I bore the responsibility of running the B&B and taking care of my dad as he grieved the death of my mom. “So, how did Macy sprain her wrist?” Let’s move on from this topic.
“Too much shopping.”
“Gretchen, let me tell the story.” Kellan is getting more upset by the second.
Clark comes to the rescue. “Honey, let’s go play some music.”
She shoves off the table and takes off with her husband, and Tiffany and Taylor join them, leaving Kellan and me alone. “How does someone hurt themselves shopping?”
Kellan’s smile is bright and his eyes pull me in. I believe I can trust him, and I’m sure his audience does as well. I, for one, think he’d be fine in a sitcom. He’d draw in women viewers no problem. “She was carrying way too many bags and her wrist just snapped. It’s a small sprain. Gretchen makes it sound much worse than it is.” He taps his hands on the table. “So you don’t watch TV at all?”
I pick up my wine and hold the glass with two hands. “I didn’t say that. I said I don’t have it on often, and I tend to avoid the news.”
His eyes widen and he takes a drink of his beer. “Oh, I see.”
“Well, Channel 13 anyway. Remember, I’m more of a Channel 8 gal myself.”
He slams his cup down and pretends to shove a knife into his stomach. “Ouch! Way to knock down a guy’s pride!” He pulls the fake blade out and cleans it off on his slacks. “Why don’t you hold onto this in case you want to torture me some more?”
I won’t tell him I’ve already pictured him naked and wondered how soft his lips are. “Brian Turdow is probably much more accurate.”
“Okay, okay, stop now. I can’t take this anymore!” He’s holding his hand over his chest.
I fake taking the knife from him and set the blade on the table. “I’ll keep this so you don’t keep injuring yourself.”
“Thank you. Now don’t hurt yourself on accident. That knife is tainted with Channel 13 blood.”
“I won’t,” I tell him. “I don’t bleed.” My entire body is full of scars, emotional ones that I refuse to open back up.
He looks confused, but adds, “Be careful anyway.”
I’m trying.
Chapter
Nine
I sit up in bed, drenched in sweat. My shirt sticks to my stomach as I pull at the hem and my hair is plastered to my face. The sheets beneath me trick me into thinking I’ve wet the bed. These nightmares need to stop. I’m waking up way too often and barely getting any sleep. I glance
“If you ask me she's only using you.”
“Gretchen, would you please stop?” Kellan’s tone changes through his gritted teeth. “I’m very aware of your opinion of her and I wish you would learn to keep your mouth shut.”
“I’m just saying she aspires to be a TV star and you're on TV. Seems a little convenient if you ask me.” I tense up as I watch this banter between them. She leans back and pops a pretzel in her mouth, crosses her arms and stares down Kellan.
“Well, I didn't ask you and I'm only on the local station. I’m not a big celebrity. She can't get on TV through me and she knows that.”
Tiffany pops her head in. “There’s no way you could ever star in a sitcom.”
“Why not?”
She helps herself to the mix on the table. “You’re too stiff.”
“Stiff?” Kellan shakes his body. “I feel pretty loose.”
“I think that woman of yours keeps you too much in check.” Taylor appears and pours himself another glass. “I agree with Tiff. You’re fine doing the weather, but what is that, a five-minute segment advising people if they need a jacket or not? Anyone can do that.”
“I’d like to see you try!”
The bickering between this group of friends reminds me of my college years, before I bore the responsibility of running the B&B and taking care of my dad as he grieved the death of my mom. “So, how did Macy sprain her wrist?” Let’s move on from this topic.
“Too much shopping.”
“Gretchen, let me tell the story.” Kellan is getting more upset by the second.
Clark comes to the rescue. “Honey, let’s go play some music.”
She shoves off the table and takes off with her husband, and Tiffany and Taylor join them, leaving Kellan and me alone. “How does someone hurt themselves shopping?”
Kellan’s smile is bright and his eyes pull me in. I believe I can trust him, and I’m sure his audience does as well. I, for one, think he’d be fine in a sitcom. He’d draw in women viewers no problem. “She was carrying way too many bags and her wrist just snapped. It’s a small sprain. Gretchen makes it sound much worse than it is.” He taps his hands on the table. “So you don’t watch TV at all?”
I pick up my wine and hold the glass with two hands. “I didn’t say that. I said I don’t have it on often, and I tend to avoid the news.”
His eyes widen and he takes a drink of his beer. “Oh, I see.”
“Well, Channel 13 anyway. Remember, I’m more of a Channel 8 gal myself.”
He slams his cup down and pretends to shove a knife into his stomach. “Ouch! Way to knock down a guy’s pride!” He pulls the fake blade out and cleans it off on his slacks. “Why don’t you hold onto this in case you want to torture me some more?”
I won’t tell him I’ve already pictured him naked and wondered how soft his lips are. “Brian Turdow is probably much more accurate.”
“Okay, okay, stop now. I can’t take this anymore!” He’s holding his hand over his chest.
I fake taking the knife from him and set the blade on the table. “I’ll keep this so you don’t keep injuring yourself.”
“Thank you. Now don’t hurt yourself on accident. That knife is tainted with Channel 13 blood.”
“I won’t,” I tell him. “I don’t bleed.” My entire body is full of scars, emotional ones that I refuse to open back up.
He looks confused, but adds, “Be careful anyway.”
I’m trying.
Chapter
Nine
I sit up in bed, drenched in sweat. My shirt sticks to my stomach as I pull at the hem and my hair is plastered to my face. The sheets beneath me trick me into thinking I’ve wet the bed. These nightmares need to stop. I’m waking up way too often and barely getting any sleep. I glance
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