He’s so much more than my high school sweetheart; he’s the person who taught me how to love. When I was older and ready to settle down, it was my relationship with Jake that I looked to as a model for how to make “happily ever after” work.
I did my very best with all that but turns out my former fiancé wasn’t ready to settle down. He made that abundantly clear eight months ago when tragedy struck, and I hit rock bottom. Instead of being there to catch me, the way a man like Jake would have been, Caleb packed his things, said good-bye, and left me alone in the dark.
I cried for two days straight.
By the time my family arrived to help me pull myself together for the trip to the cemetery, I’d lost five pounds and my eyes were nearly swollen shut.
The only bright spot was that I was able to keep my pregnancy and the baby’s premature delivery from the press. My sister, brother, and parents were the only other people at the gravesite.
Caleb didn’t come. He didn’t even send flowers for our daughter.
Even now—eight months and a lot of therapy later—the memory of that tiny coffin and my ex refusing to help mourn our baby is still enough to make my throat lock up and my heart shrivel.
I clench my jaw against the wave of emotion.
No, not tonight. I’m not going there tonight. Tonight is for the future, for nurturing new beginnings, not licking old wounds.
I take a deep breath, force a smile, and lift an arm to wave at old school friends near the coat check.
I’m home now.
Home, where pain can’t eat me alive.
Home, where I might finally have the chance to make things right with the best man I’ve ever known.
Or make a complete fool of yourself. Again, the inner voice warns, but I ignore it.
The only good thing about going through hell? It makes the little things—like making a complete fool of yourself in front of half your hometown—seem little, indeed.
Chapter Two
Naomi
Inside the basement, the air smells vaguely of tater tots, chili, and other standard-issue fellowship meal fare, but the bright fluorescents have been shut off and a catwalk decorated with fire hoses is illuminated with sultry red spotlights.
The thirty or so round tables surrounding the catwalk are already filling up. Maddie and I have to hustle to find two seats together near the back of the room, at a table of gray-haired ladies with flushed cheeks and mischief in their eyes.
“Mrs. Watson?” I laugh at the sight of my seventy-something sixth grade teacher twirling her auction card—a cutout of a red firefighter’s cap with a number in the center glued to a wooden dowel—between two fingers.
“Naomi! You look amazing, sugar!” Mrs. Watson leverages her considerable bulk from her chair and envelopes me in a cushiony hug that feels as great as it did when I was twelve. “We’re so glad to have you back where you belong, baby girl. And Maddie, too!”
“Aw, thanks. It’s so good to see you,” I say with a happy sigh. “Though I confess, I can’t believe you’re here.”
“Of course, I’m here,” Mrs. Watson winks as she releases me from her embrace. “Where else would I be? It’s not every day you get to see fourteen brave men in the prime of their lives without their shirts on.”
“Men, indeed. Those boys are young enough to be your sons, Mimi Watson. Or grandsons for that matter,” Gretchen March pipes up from across the table, her lips pruning with disapproval. Gretchen is our business partner, Aria’s, grandmother and never shy about sharing her opinions. “If you ask me, this monkeyshine shouldn’t be allowed in church, even if it is only the church basement.”
“Oh, hush, Gretchen.” Mrs. Watson laughs as she reclaims her seat. “I don’t remember twisting your arm to get you in the car tonight.”
Gretchen lifts her nose into the air. “Well, someone has to keep an eye on the rest of you, make sure you don’t spend your grocery money on some shirtless hoodlum.” She glances furtively over her shoulder before leaning in to add in a loud whisper, “I heard one of them was going to be wearing a bathing suit like Italian men wear at the beach.”
“Oh, I hope so,” Mrs. Watson says, clapping her hands.
Maddie and I settle into our seats amidst a wave of giggles from the rest of the table. I pluck my auction card from the tiny vase of flowers next to my slice of chocolate cake and clench it in my slowly thawing fingers.
Lucky number fifty-eight.
At least I hope it’ll be lucky, and that I brought enough cash to secure Jake as my date for the month. I can’t imagine anyone else will be willing to bid above fifteen hundred dollars. The proceeds from this fundraiser are going to a great cause—a badly needed new firehouse—but most women in Bliss River aren’t CEOs of multi-million dollar companies.