Page 5 of Not You Again
All I’ve done since I left is worry about myself. My phone rings on the table. Without thinking, I take a step toward it, but Mom’s sharp gaze stops me in my tracks. My fingers twitch as I fight the urge to reach for it.
The caller ID says it’s one of my bosses. Anxiety gnaws at me. My job pays so well because they need me constantly available. All the time. And after the move I pulled to ensure I got placement in Atlanta, the calls have increased tenfold.
Mom holds her glare.
I groan and pace into the living room until my phone goes silent. I pause to look at the Sears family photo with all of us she still has hanging over the sofa, shame washing over me. It really is remarkable how much I look like him. Staring at the photo, I murmur, “I do enough for me, Mom.”
“I’ll make you a deal.” Mom’s voice carries a bit of playfulness to it.
I slowly turn to face her and quirk a brow. “What kind of deal?”
“Fill out the application. Turn it in.” She tosses me a pen.
“And?” What on earth is she up to?
“And I will accept the help of a home nurse of your choosing without complaint.”
I scoff. “That’s it?” Applying to this stupid show doesn’t mean I’ll get picked. In fact, the odds are I won’t. I could even fill it out with some bogus information just to seal the deal.
“And don’t even think of being dishonest when you answer those questions,” she warns. When I give her a placating look, she snorts. “I raised you, remember?”
I finger the pages of the application and frown. What harm could it do, really? She’s only asked me to apply. I don’t have to actually find someone or fall in love or even be on the show. And, in the end, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to make sure she never had to worry about anything ever again.
“Fine.” I raise my hands in surrender, a smile tugging at my lips. “I’ll fill it out. And I’m setting up interviews for nurses starting tomorrow.”
JULY
CHAPTER THREEANDIE
The giant mahogany doors to the conference room-turned-wedding venue send my heart racing. All at once my dress is too tight, the room is too hot, my heels are pinching my toes, and all I want to do is run.
“I hope he’s handsome.” My mom hooks her arm in mine. When I told her I was getting married to a complete stranger on television, she was delighted. Like, she actually leaped out of her chair, spilled her wine, and tackle-hugged me, saying she thought I was going to be alone forever.
It didn’t inspire much confidence, really.
“I’d rather he not be a dick,” I mutter as I shift in my heels. I can put up with a lot for eight weeks if it means I’ll pocket that hundred thousand dollars at the end, but I’d at least like to be treated with some respect. In any case, I know he’s handsome.
Heidi has been scurrying around the venue, preparing for three weddings today. She hired an extra assistant and enlisted a gaggle of the show’s interns to help wrangle the details. After shoving some champagne in my face in the dressing room an hour ago, she disappeared, only to send me a text that simply said, Technically I can’t tell you, but your groom is hot AF.
“Stop slouching,” my mom scolds. “A bride never slouches.”
I roll my eyes. She would know. She’s been married five times. I can’t fault her for it. She never finished a degree or had a career of her own, but she always made sure we had a roof over our heads and food in our stomachs. I’m well aware of how much she sacrificed for that. With a sigh, I straighten my spine.
“So,” I say casually as cameras move around us, capturing several angles of the pre-wedding moments, “Jim seems nice.”
My mom smiles, her blush showing even through the professional makeup. She swipes a salt-and-pepper curl out of her eyes and says, “He is a very nice man.”
She wandered in with Jim early this morning. I knew she met someone—the ink on her most recent divorce papers had dried a month ago—but I hadn’t met him yet. Jim strolled up in jeans and a T-shirt this morning, just under six feet tall, with a wide smile and wavy hair that had gone gray. He has a soft jawline and eyes that sparkled with laughter. He carried my mom’s garment bag. I’m still not sure why, but that feels so different from the other men I barely called my stepfathers.
“Where did you say you met him?” I ask as a producer approaches.
Her reply is soft. Girlish and demure. “The dry cleaner.”
Before I get a chance to ask more about it—normally she finds them at a high-class bar or a country club—the producer is telling the cameras closest to us what to capture. The room goes silent, and one of the matchmakers approaches, a cameraman on her heels.
“All right, Andie.” The show’s host Petra grips my free hand in both of hers. It’s supposed to be a comforting gesture, but it feels more like a vise. The bodice of my dress feels infinitesimally tighter, and I struggle to take in a breath.
Petra is turned so the cameras can catch her lithe form in the best light, a broad smile on her face. Her pale pink dress shimmers in the sunlight coming in the windows of this anteroom.