Bad Cruz

“That’s ridiculous. If that were true, it means you’ve never had sex after having Bear.”

I knotted my arms over my chest, my lips turning downward in a wince.

His eyed widened. “No.”

“Yes.”

“Tennessee, you… you can prevent pregnancy these days.”

“Agreed. And I do so in the most effective way of all. One-hundred percent effectiveness, actually, if you exclude Virgin Mary, and versions vary on what happened to her—I. Don’t. Have. Sex. And I especially—especially”—I unknotted my arms to point a finger to the ceiling as I continued my righteous speech—“am not having sex with a man who has already sexually assaulted me.”

“Sexually assaulted? You?” he spat out, his eyes flaring in alarm. “You played with my dick while I was discussing the Panthers not even an hour ago.”

“I meant the time I throat-punched you. Don’t act like you forgot about that.”

“You thought I was assaulting you?” To be fair, he did look horrified.

I guess it was time I revisited that day.

Buckle up, gang.

Okay. So about that context…

I kind of, sort of, throat-punched Fairhope’s MVP back in the day.

When I was twenty-four and Cruz was…what? Twenty-six? And had just come back to town from med school.

There were a few different ways to tell this story, but the main facts remained as follows:

I’d just gotten my job at Jerry & Sons. Before that, I had to clean houses and mow lawns all over town to pay for Bear’s school tuition, swimming lessons, judo practices, and, you know, general life.

Cruz was in his prime. He was so sought-after, the folks from The Bachelor had given him a call to see if he wanted to audition. He’d just purchased his first house, before he’d even started practicing medicine. A stunning, lime-washed colonial with six white columns, black shutters, and rosebushes at the entrance. It looked like Barbie’s Dreamhouse and had been occupied by a glamorous ex-model and a baseball player before they retired to Florida. Growing up, I’d fantasized about buying it for myself and my family with the hypothetical money I was going to make becoming a Hollywood actress (despite the fact I didn’t have one acting bone in my body and largely didn’t think I’d be any good at it). Now, it belonged to that tool bag.

It was July Fourth, and the entire town was in a frenzy. There was a parade, BBQ stands everywhere you turned, and horse-drawn carriages rolling through downtown. Floats were made the morning of, and there was face-painting, music, clowns, fireworks, and the kitchen sink (True story. Wannabe comedian Charlie Spacey brought his kitchen sink as some sort of a political statement about the wastefulness of that day that nobody cared about).

Jerry & Sons had been closed for the day, so I’d let my parents take Bear downtown for the festivities while I’d stayed home, nursing a Costco tub of ice cream, a beer, and my never-ending fountain of self-pity.

It was the first time I’d ever missed a Fourth of July celebration. Even at the height of my scandal, these parades were so deeply nostalgic and sweet to me, I couldn’t refuse them.

Problem was, I’d known Cruz was going to be there, and I really hadn’t wanted to face him. He was a constant reminder of the fact he and Rob had gone and built lives of their own while I made unfair sacrifices and paid my dues for my reckless behavior, even if it had given me the most precious thing in my life.

It was probably nine in the evening, just before the fireworks had started, when I’d heard a knock on the door downstairs. Weirded out (my parents and Bear wouldn’t be there until well after ten and Trinity was out with her friends until the next morning), I’d gone to answer.

“It better not be a serial killer,” I’d muttered as I’d jammed my feet into my father’s checked slippers and swung the door open.

And there he was.

Cruz Costello.

Looking gorgeous, muscular, chosen, and…tanked?

On second thought, a serial killer wasn’t that unwelcome considering the alternative.

“Your tits are great,” he’d hiccupped, his dusky cobalt gaze sweeping over my chest.

It was summer, hot as sin, and I wasn’t wearing a bra under my white tank top. Odd thing to say, only the last time we’d seen each other, I think I’d been breastfeeding. Luckily, I was done nursing Bear. My nipples were no longer the size of a family-size pizza each, and the blue veins as thick as sausages were long gone.

For a while there, I couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to mess with Bear’s buffet. And every time I got into a hot shower to massage said breasts (because I had a ton of milk ducts), I would cry out in pain and my breasts would cry with me, leaking yellowish milk.