Me and the Cute Catastrophe (Sweet, Small Town Romantic Comedy in Good Grief, Idaho Book 1)

by Jessie Gussman

  Me and the Cute Catastrophe

  Good Grief, Idaho, Volume 1

  Jessie Gussman

  Published by Jessie Gussman, 2021.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  ME AND THE CUTE CATASTROPHE

  First edition. February 6, 2021.

  Copyright © 2021 Jessie Gussman.

  Written by Jessie Gussman.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Me and the Cute Catastrophe (Good Grief, Idaho, #1)

  Chapter 1 | Claire

  Chapter 2 | Claire

  Chapter 3 | Trey

  Chapter 4 | Trey

  Chapter 5 | Trey

  Chapter 6 | Claire

  Chapter 7 | Claire

  Chapter 8 | Trey

  Chapter 9 | Claire

  Chapter 10 | Trey

  Chapter 11 | Trey

  Chapter 12 | Claire

  Chapter 13 | Trey

  Chapter 14 | Claire

  Chapter 15 | Trey

  Chapter 16 | Claire

  Chapter 17 | Trey

  Chapter 18 | Claire

  Chapter 19 | Trey

  Chapter 20

  About the Author

  Cover art by Julia Gussman

  Editing by Heather Hayden

  Narration by Jay Dyess

  Click HERE if you’d like to subscribe to my newsletter and find out why people say “Jessie’s is the only newsletter I open and read” and “You make my day brighter. Love, love, love reading your newsletters. I don't know where you find time to write books. You are so busy living life. A true blessing.”

  Chapter 1

  Claire

  I WAS GOING TO START this book out with a nice introduction of myself and tell you that my name is Claire Harding and I’m a home nurse, divorced with two girls, and my ex is a jerk.

  But my plans got interrupted a little, and I’m currently scrunched down behind my car, the bumper digging into my back, my daughter’s—extremely heavy—pink unicorn bookbag clutched to my chest, and I am praying—because I do pray and not just when I’m in trouble—that my sister will not answer the door, and Trey Haywood will walk back over to his father’s house or, better yet, get in his car and drive back to Washington where he belongs.

  God answers prayers. I know He does. I’ve seen it. But he doesn’t answer this one.

  And I just want to be clear, I don’t usually do this. I am forty-one years old, and typically I don’t hide from people.

  But my daughter Melody, who’s ten, is cooking supper. (Lord, please don’t let the kitchen catch on fire. At least not until Trey leaves.)

  I know all of you are probably thinking I’m afraid my homeowner’s insurance isn’t up-to-date. The real fear though, if the house catches on fire, is that my mom will show up.

  She’s the fire chief in Good Grief, the town in which I live. It’s a volunteer company. Mom goes to every fire.

  I don’t know about all of you, but I love my mom. I do. Still, I definitely don’t want her to show up now. Not when Trey is here.

  Anyway, my daughter Melody, she’s exactly like me and has trouble getting her nose out of a book long enough to breathe, is cooking supper, so I told her I would get her bookbag.

  And yes, she’s in fifth grade and way too old for a pink unicorn bookbag, but she’s the kind of girl who totally doesn’t pay attention to that kind of thing and would still be using the bookbag she used in kindergarten if it hadn’t fallen apart.

  She gets attached to stuff just like I do.

  Stuff like her father.

  That was all my fault. If I hadn’t gotten old and ugly, he wouldn’t have left.

  Anyway, that has nothing to do with me and what I’m doing right now, crouched behind my car.

  Like I said, I don’t normally do this, but I was in the middle of dyeing my hair. Yeah, for those of you who haven’t been cursed with the early gray—I got it from my dad—it stinks.

  If I didn’t dye it, I’d be almost completely gray, and I’ve been tempted to let it go. After all, I only started hiding the gray to begin with because my husband didn’t want to be married to someone who looked like she was older than he was. Now that he’s been gone—goodness, has it been eight years already?—I don’t need to stay young-looking for him.

  I guess I just didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing me and thinking how old I looked and how glad he wasn’t with me.

  Clutching the bag to my chest, I shake those thoughts out of my head. I can’t think about Cody without feeling like a loser.

  He would be the first person to say I actually was a loser. There are so many times I think he’s right.

  I close my eyes and lean my head against the back of my car.

  I suppose I’m some kind of loser to be sitting hunched down behind my car hoping my neighbor leaves.

  My good-looking, athletic, high-school-crush neighbor.

  Please let him go. Please let him go, I chant in my head. A prayer, sure, but one I know I shouldn’t be uttering. I should have just squared my shoulders, forgotten about the fact that my hair looks hideous, and walked regally to my house rather than closing the car door quietly, scrunching down, and duck-walking to the back.

  It feels like a smack in the forehead when I hear my front door open. My older sister hangs out at my house a lot, and she’s as perfect as I am not.

  An English teacher.

  That’s all I need to say about that. Right?

  Every word spelled correctly.

  Every verb tense perfect.

  She can even diagram sentences.

  Like I said. She is perfect.

  And she did not inherit our dad’s propensity for early gray. Her hair is a honey blonde, natural, falling in silky waves to the middle of her back.

  She’s even older than Trey than I am, but she is perfect for him.

  I hear voices mumbling in the background. I’m still trying to dictate how this is going to go down. Whatever he wants, let it not be me.

  But no such luck on that prayer either.

  “Claire! Claire! I know you’re out there.” That’s my sister yelling at me. No-nonsense, like she’s still in front of a class of senior high English students who would rather be anywhere else, because who in the world would want to be sitting in high school English when there are frogs in formaldehyde only steps down the hall just waiting to be dissected, right?

  More mumbling as they talk in lower tones. I could almost hear my sister saying she just ran out for her daughter’s backpack. It’s not like we have a huge yard or that my car’s parked a half an hour away. It’s like maybe fifty feet from the house.

  There’s no way I could have been attacked by a moose or eaten by a grizzly, although we do have both in Idaho.

  Not that I’ve ever seen any.

  “Claire.” Now my sister sounds exasperated. “I can see your feet underneath the car. What are you doing? Get over here. Trey wants to talk to you.”

  Man, I hate this. Not only did I do something stupid and immature, now I have to fess up to it.

  Resigned, I straighten. But inspiration strikes when my phone, which I’d shoved in the back pocket of my jeans, because yes, I’m old enough to prefer wearing jeans over yoga pants, catches on the bumper of my car and clatters to the ground.

  Of course!

  I’ll just pretend I was on the phone.

 
My stomach unclenches slightly, and I smile, impressed with my brilliance.

  Typically, I’m not the slightest bit creative and am actually quite boring. My ex made sure to tell me that too.

  But this is just absolutely a stroke of genius if I do say so myself. Which I have to, because no one else is going to.

  Well, possibly my mom, but your parents don’t count.

  Grabbing my phone, I hold it to my ear with one hand, sliding the pink backpack a little bit to the side with the other. I can block it with my body a little at least so its sparkly brilliance doesn’t blind anyone—Trey—as I business walk into the house.

  I’ve got my head down, and I’m nodding and making those humming noises that people make when they’re on the phone and agreeing with whoever’s talking to them while not interrupting them.

  I’m good at that.

  Not just on the phone, but as a nurse, I hear a lot of complaints on a daily basis, and while I love what I do and truly enjoy listening to my patients, sometimes you just have to nod and agree, because being sick stinks, and sometimes there’s just nothing you can do about it.

  Regardless, I’ve made it to the steps—there’s three of them—with Trey and Tammy standing on the stoop.

  Figuring I can be a little gracious, I lift my eyes, very, very conscious of the dye that feels like it’s solidified in my hair. I typically go for a golden brown, as close to my previous natural shade as possible, but this dye has been in long enough that I’m going to be at least seventeen shades darker than I normally am.

  That’s fine. I moonlight as the girls’ basketball coach, and I can wear a baseball cap, right?

  And as a nurse in Idaho, I can wear a beanie, even if it’s September. It gets cold early here.

  Still, I’m gracious, lifting my fingers in a little wave and putting an expression on my face that says, goodness, I’d just love to stand here and talk with all of you fun people, but I’m in the middle of a very important phone conversation and just absolutely can’t.

  It’s a new look for me, but I think I pull it off.

  At least judging from the look on Trey’s face, he believes me.

  The look on my sister’s face isn’t quite as trusting, but I’m typically not the slightest bit devious. She has her hand on the door, and she pulls it open for me. I might have made it inside and spent the next thirty minutes congratulating myself on my brilliance, except—I hear a phone ring.

  Right beside my ear.

  It’s mine, of course.

  Chapter 2

  Claire

  I STOP MID-NOD. BUSTED. As my (ringing) phone reverberates through the entire town of Good Grief.

  Okay. So maybe I’m exaggerating a little. But it feels that way. Definitely Tammy and Trey hear it with no problem.

  There have been lots of times in my life where I would really like to have been able to sink through the floor.

  This is one of those.

  I’m sure that doesn’t come as a shock to anyone.

  But it also probably doesn’t come as a shock to find out that I didn’t...sink through the floor, that is.

  It’s pure fantasy.

  Real life doesn’t work that way, just in case you’re reading this and you’re young enough to think that it might.

  I can tell you right now. It doesn’t.

  When you do stupid and embarrassing things, you always have to face the people that you don’t want to face and admit the things you don’t want to admit. Which makes you feel even more stupid and more embarrassed.

  Take it from me.

  Although, I’m fresh out of ideas on how to stop doing stupid and embarrassing things. You’ll have to get that advice from someone else.

  I’m ashamed to say, if my sister hadn’t closed the door in front of me, I would have just kept walking.

  But I suppose older sisters everywhere have this sense of justice they’re born with that keeps them from allowing their younger siblings to get away with anything.

  Including pretending to talk on the phone in order to avoid having to face their old high school crush with black blobs of hair dye all around their face and their hair itself looking like someone threw up on it.

  Serves me right for going outside, I suppose.

  But I was doing a good deed for my daughter. That should count for something. I suppose I’m saying that to the Lord, like He needs me to point it out to him.

  I know it doesn’t work that way—I do a good deed and get rewarded for it instantly—but it’d be nice if it did.

  I stop. The hand holding my phone to my ear drops slowly to my side, and I look at the doorjamb, thinking that I’ve never pounded that loose nail in. Easier to think about nails than what the next minute or two is going to bring.

  I make a mental note to fix it, then gather all of my mental energy and focus on trying not to look as stupid as I feel.

  That involves straightening my shoulders and my spine. And I stop trying to hide the sparkly pink unicorn backpack.

  I’ll be proud of it.

  Proud to be holding the sparkly pink thing.

  Proud of my marked-up face and gooped-up hair.

  Proud of pretending to talk on the phone.

  Oh, who am I kidding. I’m not proud of any of it. But I still straighten my back and lift my chin and smile sweetly at my sister.

  My phone stops ringing. I didn’t even look at it.

  Tammy’s brows are knotted, and she has that condescending, older sister look on her face. “You remember Trey, don’t you, Claire? I mean, I know you do. You had the biggest crush ever on him in high school. I’m pretty sure you had Trey and Claire in a heart on all of your schoolbooks and possibly even on the walls in your bedroom.”

  Trey laughs. A deep rumbling laugh that vibrates across my diaphragm as much as I try to not let it touch me.

  Can’t catch sound waves and pass them to a teammate, as much as I might wish that to be true right now.

  “I think you’re thinking about Kori, Tammy.” Trey’s voice, deeper than I remember, is worse than his laugh, and I suck my stomach in, trying to control the weird waves rolling across it.

  “No, I’m not.”

  I suppose it was too much to hope that Tammy would just let it go. I should have known she wouldn’t do it until I was writhing on the ground in pain from the acute embarrassment.

  She’s never quite gotten me to that point, but it’s been close.

  I have to admit this is one of the worst. Because she’s right. I did have a huge crush on Trey. I wrote his name everywhere. His name with my name. His name by itself. His name and our name together with his last name. Didn’t everyone do that in high school?

  Probably not. Not Tammy, at least. She was too busy diagramming sentences and reading Hamlet.

  Plus, Trey was so much younger than I was—although he was tall, so he looked older—that I probably really was the only girl in history to have such a huge crush on such a younger kid. In high school at least.

  “You and Kori went out, true.” Tammy narrows her eyes, and her hand still holds onto the knob, or I would have opened it and gone through.

  Maybe I don’t have an escape hatch underneath my feet, but there is a door in front of me.

  Too bad I couldn’t use it without dropping the bookbag I’d gone out to get or putting my phone away, which right now, with the luck I’ve been having, would end up dropping to the ground.

  All right. At this point, I’ve decided I’ve been a coward long enough. Yeah, I look hideous, I’m carrying the pink backpack, and I just got busted for pretending to be talking on my phone, but I’m an adult, and I can adult.

  Even in front of my high school crush.

  I allow a little smile to grace my lips, and I look at Tammy, willing my face to have that look that says high school was eons ago, and I barely remember any of it, and I was such a child anyway.

  Then I turn my head back to Trey.

  This look is a little harder to master, because when his
deep blue eyes meet mine, something wild and delicious shoots down the back of my neck, and like it’s on springs, it bounces down my legs, hits the ground, and shoots right back up the same path.

  It’s kind of hard to have a serene, mature expression on one’s face when one has zinging bolts of something crazy shooting up and down their back and legs.

  But I try.

  I’m the stubborn one in the family. The one with bulldog tendencies. It’s amazing Tammy has never given me the nickname Bulldog. Not that I would ever suggest it to her, because she would immediately fall in love with that nickname for me and call me Bulldog for the rest of my life.

  “Hello, Trey. Of course I remember you. We were neighbors for years.”

  Tammy snorts, but I ignore her and hope that Trey offers her a tissue.

  No such luck. He doesn’t even look at her, because his eyes are glued to mine. That’s probably because of those bolts of craziness in my body and the laws of attraction and possibly some type of magnet that his body contains that seems to be pulling mine.

  I’m going to have to look that one up later this evening. I’ve never heard of human bodies containing magnets, but I’ve never had this overwhelming desire to step closer to someone in my life before either.

  Not even my ex, whom I did love when we got married and right up until he told me he’d found a twenty-year-old with tight buns and expensive boobs and said he was turning me in.

  I probably loved him for a while after that, even though I shouldn’t have.

  You can’t just turn love on and off. I spent a lot of time hoping he’d come back.

  Regardless, he didn’t.

  I don’t keep tabs on him; truly, I don’t. I deleted my Facebook profile, and I’m not on social media at all, and I have no clue what the guy’s doing other than he’s supposed to take the girls over summer vacation and he seldom does and never keeps them more than a week or two. Fine with me.

  To my knowledge, though, he’s still with Expensive Boobs. At least he was the last time he took the girls. I was pretty proud of the fact that when they came back, I didn’t even ask if she had a ring on her finger yet.