Wrong Text, Right Reply: A Sweet Accidental Romance (An Accidental But Perfect Romance Book 1)

by Bonnie Sweets

  David steps back into the trailer and wipes his hands off on a towel as he shakes his head at me. “Look, bro. I love you, you know this, but I think you need to get your head examined. Why are you even talking to that shrew?” His eyes are almost mirror images of mine with their dark intensity. “You should go after Sylvia.” He flicks his gaze toward the woman I won’t touch with a ten-foot pole and quirks his eyebrow.

  I sigh and shake my head, joining him inside the trailer to continue our conversation in a lower volume. “Stay away from that one, bro. And I know Savvy comes across as permanently…”

  “Shrewish? I can think of other words, if that one isn’t working for you.” David wipes down the stainless steel counter behind him. The style of my trailer is similar to most food trailer setups. Stainless steel won’t rust or breakdown easily. I went over everything in that trailer with a fine-tooth comb as I inspected the mechanics and engineering of each component when I bought it.

  Yeah, along with my MBA in business and a graphic design, I also have a Bachelor in Engineering because my old man demanded it. Too bad I never did anything with it.

  I move to stand in front of the window and can just barely make out the taillights of Savvy’s Honda Civic as she pulls from the parking lot next to the food trucks. “Nah, she’s not shrewish. She’s been through a lot.” I glance at David and raise my eyebrow. “Maria told me Savvy’s been through a harrowing divorce. She’s raising those kids on her own and working her own business. You don’t do stuff like that without having some balls.”

  “Balls or not, I’m not going near her with mine.” David shakes his head like his joke is the funniest thing he’s thought of all year. He scans the lot to make sure we don’t have any customers approaching before he nods my way. “Seriously, bro. I know what I’m talking about. Just go with the flow. Date around. That’s the best way to be happy. A guy like you or me? Yeah, bachelorhood is not the worst thing that can happen.” He grins as a group of women approach, eyeing both of us and giggling.

  But what David doesn’t understand is that I’m sick of the dating scene. I’m sick of messing things up with the women I date to the point that I’m just a stopping point on their way to finding a long-term relationship.

  How did a man get to be my age – a strapping thirty-nine, thank you very much – without being married at least once?

  Yeah, good question. I asked my last girlfriend that exact thing as she packed up her overnight things in preparation to leave. She’d laughed and said a man as handsome as me didn’t want commitment. It was just a term we threw around to get what we wanted.

  I’d stood there in the foyer of my house and stared after her. All I want is commitment. I want a family, kids, a family pet that may or may not need to be trained to fetch.

  Going on family campouts, fishing trips, day hikes, and nights out to eat are just a few of the things I want more than anything else.

  The dating scene is ridiculous and washed up. I want happiness, comfort, steadiness, and I want everyone to stop acting like a guy like me is less of a man for wanting it.

  Like me. What does that even mean?

  My idea of happiness is all of those things and more. Why should that change just because of how I look? Or how someone else categorizes me?

  If I had my stuff together and knew what to do, I think maybe I’d try to get under that uptight Savvy’s skin. See what makes her tick. The mystery she presented was bigger than the challenge. I want to know why a woman would take on so much on her own. Was there something about her I could find out and maybe apply to my own life?

  Maybe, if I can find the chance, I can learn what her ex-husband did that made her run the other way.

  Wouldn’t it be great to have all the answers before starting my next relationship?

  Chapter 3

  Savvy

  It’s amazing how fast time can fly when you’re juggling a house, a business, two kids, and sanity all by yourself.

  I can’t remember the last time I had a foot rub or a meaningful conversation with someone besides the barista by my house.

  That convo was about the life-altering decision between toasted marshmallow syrup or hazelnut. I was looking for something new so I tried the marshmallow and dang, that woman, now I’m an addict of the hot cocoa with toasted marshmallow and I want to scream. I’m at two a day. That’s how bad my addiction is and how good the drink is.

  See why I need to make that money every day?

  The food truck crowd has thinned for the mid-afternoon lull and I take the moment to breathe. Not to peek at the obnoxious BBQ truck across from me or the man’s arm I can see when he puts it out to wipe up his counter. Those are shivers from the warm breeze and not for… any thoughts about his eyes or his buns. Seriously.

  I need a distraction. I pull out my phone as well as the neatly folded contact list Abby had gathered for me the night before.

  Pushing thoughts of the nosy muscular man to the back of my mind, I glance over the list and take a deep breath.

  My plan is to start a divorced women’s support group. Nothing too time consuming or high maintenance. I really just want someone to talk to. My mother doesn’t understand divorce, at all. She’s been married to the same man since before dirt was created.

  I can’t talk to my children because... that would just be unnecessary and cruel to put them in the middle of anything like that.

  So, between raising my kids and working, I literally have no time to make friends. This divorced women support group via text is a desperate attempt to find some people to talk to who have something in common with me. I don’t want people saying “I’m so sorry” when they have no idea what they are sorry about.

  I punch all of the names and phone numbers into my address book and then add them to a group.

  Then – gulp – I type up my message.

  Me: Hi!

  I wonder if the exclamation point is too much. I chew on my bottom lip while I stare at the overly enthusiastic punctuation and then take it out. Why come across as needy or desperate?

  Me: Hi, this is Savvy Miller from Killer Miller Keto in Coeur d’Alene and I wanted to formally invite you to join our Divorced Women’s Group. To start with, it’s just going to be low key as we get to know each other.

  Me: Maybe in a few weeks we can get together for a more in-person gathering, but for now, I thought we would just see what everyone is looking for.

  Me: Does that sound okay?

  Me: I’ll start. I’m thirty-seven and I have two kids. My husband of eighteen years left me last year to be with the cliché – his twenty-year-old masseuse. He then quit his job as a construction project manager and decided he wants to be a lifeguard at Silverwood. He won’t see the kids because he’s living with one. Does that sound bitter?

  Me: I just wanted to start a group where I could make friends with women who understand.

  I hit send between each comment before I can overthink my messages. I won’t even let myself read over my texts after I hit send for about two minutes and then I can’t wait any longer. I read them again, my stomach twisting as I realize five minutes has passed and no one has replied.

  No one wants to be friends with me.

  My chest rises and falls and my mouth is dry. The first time I put myself out there in more years than I can count on my hand and I’m falling flat on my face.

  I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees as I close my eyes and try not to cry. I really need an outlet. I need friends.

  I need… to not feel so alone.

  But not with a guy. No. I don’t want to date again or get in a relationship with man who will just trade me in for a newer model later. I don’t want to do deal with the heartbreak associated with that again.

  I don’t need to worry about that though. Men my age don’t want a woman my age. At least that’s what my experience is telling me.

  And I’m highly irritated about that fact.

  My phone dings and I drop my hands to hang be
tween my knees as I stare at the cell sitting in front of me. I straighten in my seat and then reach for the phone, grateful when it dings again. Even if they’re telling me to stuff the group idea, at least it’s a response.

  Apple: I’m Apple! So nice to meet ya’ll. I’m a new transplant up from Arizona. I’m forty-two and DONE with men. Do you hear me? Done. Why can’t they just get when to give up? I think my ex followed me up here just to continue annoying me.

  Alex: Wow, a group of women I can actually talk with? This will be fun! I’m Alex. I’m 36. I’m one flipping child away from sanity and I don’t think I know what I’m doing half the time, but friends? I’d love some, please!

  I grin at the exuberance in their texts. I pull out my planner and flip to the page I designed for the group. I already put everyone’s names in with a tight, blocky font. I mark off the ones who have replied and if they want to be a part of the group or not. Obviously, these two do. Thank goodness. At least I have two takers.

  I check mark Alex off, glad she isn’t a guy and go to type in a reply and another text appears.

  Genevieve: I’m Veve. Love this. The girl that was asking for signups said this is what it was for, but I wasn’t sure. She also told some guy it was for chocolate samples. LOL

  Tilting my head, I consider what Veve sent. A guy? What guy did Abby tell the signup was for chocolate? I change Veve’s contact name to Veve and another message comes in from her.

  Veve: I can’t have babies so my ex says I’m worthless. Maybe I am, but I’m worthless and alone now. I guess that’s better than worthless and stifled. Anyway, I’m looking forward to getting to know you. I would love to get together!

  A level of anxiety creeps in and I study the list. I don’t recognize any other name that could be a guy’s except for Dion. I mean, maybe K.T.? But what guy would want to use initials that sound like Katie?

  What if there is a guy creeping on the group? That won’t work for me.

  I wait anxiously for the rest of the names to come through. But we don’t hear from the next one until almost eight o’clock that night.

  Dion: This is so exciting. I’ve been divorced for almost four years and it seems to get harder each time spring is here. Is anyone dating?

  I’ve already closed up the trailer by the time I read her text and I’ve pulled into the driveway of my house. Putting the car into park, I stare up at the double-car garage doors topped with a window leading into the master bedroom.

  Dating. How did I confess to hating men? Raising a young man didn’t mean that I hate men in general, it’s more the dating kind. The kind that… let me feel insecure and tell me I’m not pretty when I’m pregnant or that I’m too fat for anyone to really love. Men like Keith. And since guys don’t walk around with a dating resume or even recommendations or references, I have to lump all men together in one stereotype – take it or leave it.

  I’m clenching my hands and I take a deep breath. I’m not fat. I have to tell myself that at least twelve times an hour. I’m curvy, sure. I’m busty and have hips that seem to go on for days, but I’m not fat. Why would someone who is supposed to love me, tell me I’m fat and disgusting?

  The reason I’m so against men is the answer to this question. I just can’t pinpoint what it is exactly.

  Apple: I’ve tried, but there are some doozies out there. One guy with a thick gold chain once told me I could make a lot of money, if I stripped. He offered to teach me! What is that?

  My jaw drops in surprise. Stripping? Was that really an option for women our age?

  I glance to the side and think for a minute. Stripping. I wonder how much money a person could make doing that. After a minute, I realize just what I’m considering and I shake my head. No. I wouldn’t strip. Why would I do that? I’ve got a mom-bod for sure. According to Keith a fat, mom-bod. If I didn’t cringe every time I thought it, I’d cry-laugh.

  Alex: Pass. I’d rather hang out with guys than date. Men get weird about dating. They act like it’s either a relationship or just a fling. Guys can’t seem to just be friends. What is that all about?

  Dion: I think the last time a guy was able to be friends without anything more it was with a rock.

  I can’t help myself; I finally laugh in the silence of the car and shake my head.

  Me: What would you guys tell yourselves, if you could go back twenty years?

  What would I say? I’d say don’t do it. I’d say stop listening to your libido and listen to your gut. I’d tell myself that I don’t have to try to have what Mom and Dad have, it’s not for me. And then I’d slap myself for arguing, because I know I’d have argued with me.

  Alex: I’d say pay attention to the fact that he’s more interested in your chest than looking at your face.

  Apple: Good question. I’d have to say men don’t determine your worth.

  I stare at Apple’s words. Men don’t determine my worth. Are those words that I live by?

  I’m not sure. I’m not sure because I don’t know what my worth is. But I want to find out and I can’t if I’m trying to make some man happy.

  Alex: This is so great. Hey, Savvy, can I give you the number of a friend of mine and have you add her? This is exactly what she needs.

  Me: Of course. That sounds great. I think after that, we should wait until we add more. I don’t want to manage too many in a group. Then it might feel like a group on EyePage, (the biggest social media platform in the world).

  Apple: Love this.

  Alex: Agree. I like small groups.

  Dion: That sounds good.

  I head inside, stepping a little lighter. Maybe I’ve found some women to connect with. The ones who have replied so far sound like they’re looking for the same thing I am.

  It’s a couple days later until our little group of four has grown and a week later, I’m still waiting to hear from K.T. and Sara.

  So, I reach out the best way I can, while trying not to stare across the food truck lot in the direction of the BBQ truck.

  I text out to the group first.

  Me: Ladies, I know I’ve sworn off men, I do. Trust me, I know this. But… I have to tell you. The guy across from me is wearing a white t-shirt and I can see a tribal tattoo on his upper shoulders through the material and his muscles… I think I’m drooling. Does that make me a bad person?

  I can’t believe I hit send to the women in my group. But the slight glimpse I got of Knox’s back as he bent and picked up a cooler was enough to make me start to pant. It’s not even hot in here! Or, it wasn’t.

  Now, I can’t seem to cool down.

  I fan myself as some of the replies start coming in.

  Apple: Oh, can you take a picture?

  Alex: There’s nothing wrong with appreciating men. They are definitely built well. On that note, what’s his butt look like?

  Dion: Yes, I second Apple. Pics, please!

  Dion: Ps. It does NOT make you a bad person. It makes you a warm-blooded woman. Celebrate that.

  Mandie: Um, yeah, so where is this and when can I reserve my seat?

  Mandie could be funny, but dry sometimes. I still wasn’t sure about her. She hasn’t shared a lot about herself, but at least she’s participating.

  I pull up a separate thread for each Sara and K.T. but send them the same message in the private threads.