But he won’t.
It’s not a dream.
The divorce papers arrive a week later.
2
FALLON
THREE YEARS LATER
September
“Fallon, do you have a copy of the schedule? I seem to have lost mine,” Isaac says, running his hand through his hair.
I laugh softly. “Yes, but remember, you aren’t supposed to be working. That’s what I’m for. It’s your best friend's wedding. You’re off duty.”
Isaac narrows his eyes, but it’s not malicious, more like he knows I’m right. “Fine,” he says.
I shoo him away, glancing down at the clipboard in my hands. Things are going according to schedule, and I’m grateful. I’m still new and getting the hang of things here at Meadow Grove Winery, and I’m anxious to make a good impression.
Isaac took over the winery as the general manager a few years ago after his parents retired, and hired me on as the event planner. After Brad left, it took a long time for me to work through the stress and exhaustion as I figured out howto be a single mom. But we made it through, and finally I can say things are good.
Brad didn’t just leave me. He left Presley too.
We haven’t seen him since the day he left, sending waived custody the day he sent the divorce papers. Moving to Ivy Ridge three years ago made all the difference. We stayed with my mom for just under two years until we got back on our feet and moved into a townhome about three months ago. I’m happy here, especially being so close to my Mom and best friend. Presley loves her new school and has made so many new friends.
My phone rings in my pocket, and I pull it out. My mom’s name is on the screen which is a little weird. She’s watching Presley overnight, something she will do on the weekends I work a wedding or another late night event.
“Mom? Everything okay?” I answer.
My mom’s voice is weak and scratchy. “I hate to do this, but I need to drop Presley off. Maybe she can hang out in your office or something. I’ve got some sort of stomach bug.”
“Oh no,” I murmur, my eyes frantically searching the room as if that will bring me some sort of answer to this new predicament. “Are you sure you can drive?”
“I’m not sure, but I’ll be careful. I’ll text you when we leave.”
I frown as we say our goodbyes.
The winery is about thirty minutes outside of town, and I don’t want my mom to be sick and trying to drive. My other babysitter is out of town this weekend, and everyone I would trust with Pres is here. Megan must catch my worried gaze from across the room, flitting to my side.
“What’s wrong?” she asks, rubbing a hand up my arm.
“My mom called. She’s got a stomach bug and can’t watch Presley anymore. I don’t want her to drive, but Imight not have a choice. I can’t leave, and anyone I trust is here.” I gesture at her and then to Isaac across the room now in a small circle of guys, drinking a glass of wine.
“Let me check with Josie,” Megan says, gesturing to the bride. Megan is one of Josie’s bridesmaids and sings her praises. I’ve met Josie a few times, and even though she’s the nicest woman, I’d feel bad about imposing. “I can meet your mom halfway or go pick her up. I still have her booster seat in my car.”
“No, I can’t ask you to do that. What if they need you?” I bite my fingernails, glancing down at the clipboard. In all honesty, there really isn’t much left on the schedule tonight. The rehearsal is finished, and now dinner is being prepped, so everyone is mingling.
“They don’t. Unless you need me here for something, I’ll go get her. I’ll call your mom.” Without giving me another chance to fight her on it—not that I have much of a reason to—Megan gets Josie’s attention, waving her over. Josie smiles, rushing to our side.
“What’s up?” she asks. Her red hair is curled loosely, hanging in waves around her round face.
“Fallon’s mom is sick, and she’s watching her daughter. Do you mind if I run into town to pick her up, and she hangs out here tonight, and probably tomorrow?” Megan asks.
Fuck, I didn’t even think about tomorrow. I’ll have to be here from dawn till almost midnight. Between set up, the ceremony, and the reception it was going to be a long day anyway, and now, I have to throw Presley into the mix.
“I’m so sorry,” I interject.
