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“Let me guess, you’re from Georgia?”
Her smile brightens. “I am. You could tell?”
Yup, this bodes well for me.
“My grandma is a self-proclaimed Georgia Peach. I spent many brutal, humidity-filled summers out on her screened-in porch, rocking on chairs with her as she filled me in on the latest town gossip.”
“Really? Whereabout?”
“Peachtree City.”
Her eyes widen in delight. She presses her hand to her chest. “I grew up in Fayetteville, just east of Peachtree. Wow, what a small world.”
Yes. Yes, indeed. Especially since my grandma actually resides in San Diego, and I’ve never been to Georgia, actually, but they don’t need to know that. They also don’t need to know I recognize her accent because I dated a girl in college from Peachtree City. All semantics
Her smile brightens. “I am. You could tell?”
Yup, this bodes well for me.
“My grandma is a self-proclaimed Georgia Peach. I spent many brutal, humidity-filled summers out on her screened-in porch, rocking on chairs with her as she filled me in on the latest town gossip.”
“Really? Whereabout?”
“Peachtree City.”
Her eyes widen in delight. She presses her hand to her chest. “I grew up in Fayetteville, just east of Peachtree. Wow, what a small world.”
Yes. Yes, indeed. Especially since my grandma actually resides in San Diego, and I’ve never been to Georgia, actually, but they don’t need to know that. They also don’t need to know I recognize her accent because I dated a girl in college from Peachtree City. All semantics
A dinner date.
With my “fiancée.”
Oh . . . fuck.
Abort, Cane. ABORT!
“That would be wonderful,” Dave says with a jovial smile.
FUCK!
“How does Saturday night work?” he continues.
Saturday night?
Double fuck!
That’s four days from now.
Four fucking days to not only find a fiancée, but a pregnant fiancée.
Huxley Cane, you’re no genius, you’re an absolute moron.
With my “fiancée.”
Oh . . . fuck.
Abort, Cane. ABORT!
“That would be wonderful,” Dave says with a jovial smile.
FUCK!
“How does Saturday night work?” he continues.
Saturday night?
Double fuck!
That’s four days from now.
Four fucking days to not only find a fiancée, but a pregnant fiancée.
Huxley Cane, you’re no genius, you’re an absolute moron.
Kelsey turns me toward her and forces me to look her in the eyes.
“Oh . . . you’re going to that reunion. Do you hear me? You’re going, and you’re going to show up with some hot-as-shit guy on your arm who’s going to make Ken look like a freaking troll, and Angela is going to drool all over him.”
“Oh . . . you’re going to that reunion. Do you hear me? You’re going, and you’re going to show up with some hot-as-shit guy on your arm who’s going to make Ken look like a freaking troll, and Angela is going to drool all over him.”
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