by Elicia Hyder
Britches Get Stitches
IN STORES NOW
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Britches Get Stitches
Chapter 1
The whole house smelled like eggs.
Not the best way to start off girls’ night. I pushed open the window letting the cold Nashville night air rush into the house. Sure, the gas heat was going right out into the neighborhood, but did I care? Nope. No longer my bill. No longer my problem. I threw open the sliding-glass door too.
Heavy paws thudded down the hallway as the sliding wheels of the patio door announced canine freedom throughout the house. Bodhi bounded past me, water dripping from his golden snout. He’d probably been drinking from the half-bath toilet again, his preferred water bowl over the expensive filtered fountain I’d had installed in the laundry room.
As I drank the last drop of the 2013 Chateau St. Jean Cinq Cépages we’d been saving for a special occasion, I watched Bodhi romp unbridled through our backyard. Well, Clay’s backyard. Err… Make that Clay and Ginny’s backyard.
Dr. Virginia “Ginny” Allen, MD—or as my friends and I had taken to calling her, “Dr. Vagina”—was the cardiologist, quite obviously, now occupying my bed. Lab coats and mall-bought dresses hung in my closet, and a PhDiva mug sat by the coffeemaker.
Bitch. I hoped she was a diva.
In hindsight, I should’ve seen the affair coming. But to my embarrassment, I’d sexistly assumed “Dr. Allen” was a man for the first few months my husband rattled on about her.
“Grace, you would love Dr. Allen in the new TennStar office.”
“Dr. Allen told me the funniest story about a patient today.”
And, oh let’s not forget: “Grace, you and Dr. Allen would really hit it off. You’ve got so much in common.”
Yes. The same shitty taste in men, apparently.
I tried to drink from the glass again, but alas, empty. I leaned on the doorway for support. Emotional and vertical.
Bodhi lifted his leg on the corner of Clay’s toolshed. I appreciated the canine solidarity.
The backyard had always been my favorite part of the house. With the vintage lights strung between the ancient oak trees and the vine-draped pergola built by my father’s own hands, it could have been a fairy’s paradise. Ripped straight from the pages of A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
Our first year in the house, Clay and I had spent the warm summer evenings snuggling on the wicker chaise lounge under the pergola. Me sprawled against his side, my head on his chest as he read to me.
The Martyr’s Wife by C. E. Frost had been our favorite. That wine-soaked memory now so acute I could almost feel the warmth of his breath against my blonde hair as he’d read aloud. “This moment in time is ours, completely ours. Even if for but a moment, I will hold you as though the light of the sun may not burn tomorrow.”
We’d made love right there without bothering to go inside.
Only happy meant-for-each-other couples do that sort of thing, right?
I wonder if I can strap the pergola to the roof of my car?
Except for the victorious holes it would leave in the sod, Clay wouldn’t mind, even if the pergola hadn’t been listed among my assets in the divorce. The happy couple would probably need the room for a swing set or a sandbox anyway. For the baby.
Their baby.
I could steal bungee cords out of the garage.
I needed more wine.
Pushing back from the door casing, I stumbled a half step. Maybe more wine wasn’t the best idea. I had practice the next day, and the team had a strict policy about sobriety on the track. Which, in all honesty, was probably the only thing that saved me from going full-blown Amy Winehouse during my divorce.
Thank God for roller derby.
I also couldn’t afford to be sloppy. Not this night. My very last night in the house I’d worked so hard to make a home. The house where I was now a guest, only allowed in to gather the last of my things.
Seven years, gone.
“Bodhi!” I whistled, and the dog froze on the grass, letting the tennis ball he’d found drop from his mouth. His big head flopped to the side as he stared at me. “Come on. Let’s go inside!”
He picked up the ball again, slung it sideways across the yard, then fetched it.
“Come on, boy!” I slapped the side of my leg, and he ignored me.
The doorbell rang.
Bodhi jerked to attention, then charged, nearly knocking me out of the doorway like a bowling pin. He barked all the way to the door. I followed, depositing my empty glass on the marble countertop with a scraping clink as I passed. The bell rang again.
“I’m coming!” I grabbed Bodhi’s collar with one hand and pulled open the heavy wood-and-iron door with the other. It was a vintage piece we’d found in Franklin during the house’s remodel.
A party horn sounded in my face, followed by the flash of a Polaroid camera. Then my friends began to sing off-key. “Ding! Dong! The jerk is gone! Ding! Dong! The jerk is gone!”
“Oh my god!” I was laughing as they carried in fuchsia and black balloons, champagne, and a cake. I released Bodhi, letting him sniff and tail-whip my friends who were all in matching black T-shirts with different sayings scrawled in pink.
Monica’s shirt: I NEVER LIKED HIM ANYWAY.
Zoey’s shirt: SHE’S FREE AT LAST.
Lucy’s shirt: GOODBYE, MR. WRONG!
Olivia’s shirt: SHE GOT THE RING. HE GOT THE FINGER.
Tears spilled down my cheeks. “You guys!”
“Wait, we have one for you too!” Monica thrust a bright fuchsia shirt toward me.
I held it out as everyone read it aloud. “We now pronounce you single and fun!” I pulled it to my chest. “I love you guys.”
They all gathered around me for a group hug, Bodhi tangling himself in the middle of our legs. “We love you too,” they echoed back.
After a second, Olivia sniffed over my shoulder. “Grace, why does it smell like eggs in this house?”
I wiped my eyes as we all stepped back. “It’s a long story.”
“And I’m sure it’s a great one.” Monica held up a bottle. “But first, champagne!”
Lucy grabbed my arm. “No, first, Grace has to put on her shirt.”
“Yeah, we all changed in the driveway,” Olivia agreed.
“OK, OK.” I unzipped the Music City Rollers hoodie I was wearing and slipped the T-shirt over my camisole.
Monica twisted off the cork’s metal cage and handed me the champagne. “Grace, you do the honors.”
“Smile for the camera!” Lucy said, holding up the Polaroid again.
I smiled, and she snapped the picture, then grabbed it when the camera spat it out. Gripping the bottle by its neck, I put both thumbs on the cork and pushed.
Pow!
The cork zoomed across the living room, catching a lampshade and knocking the three-hundred-dollar mouth-blown glass lamp off the end table. It shattered on the floor.
The girls gasped. Bodhi barked and ran a lap around the kitchen island.
Laughing, I handed the bottle back to Monica and grabbed Bodhi’s collar as he passed so he wouldn’t run through the shards. “Clay got that in the divorce. Oops.” They all cackled behind me. “Who’s thirsty?”
I let Bodhi back outside, and Olivia helped me sweep up the glass while Monica poured the champagne. When we were finished, Monica held her flute high into the air. “A toast, shall we?”
I smiled and raised my glass with the others.
Monica, my best friend, smiled gently. “To Grace, may this be the beginning of the very best years of your life. I love you.”
I mouthed the words “I love you” back to her as everyone shouted, “Cheers!”
Without pause, I drained the champagne, then punctuated the moment with a tiny burp. The girls laughed.
The best years of my life…who knew I’d be in my thirties before those would roll around?
* * *
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Also by Elicia Hyder
Be brave. Be strong. Be badass.
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Roll into the exciting world of women’s flat track roller derby, where the women are the heroes, and the men will make you weak in the kneepads.
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A brand new romantic comedy series from Author Elicia Hyder.
Also by Elicia Hyder
The Bed She Made
2015 Watty Award Winner for Best New Adult Romance
Journey Durant's father warned her that someday she’d have to lie in the bed she made. But she didn’t believe him until her ex is released from prison and he threatens to bring her troubled past home with him.
To Be Her First
The Young Adult Prequel to The Bed She Made
At sixteen, Journey Durant hasn’t yet experienced her first anything. No first boyfriend. No first date. No first kiss. But that’s all about to change. Two boys at West Emerson High are vying for her attention: the MVP quarterback and the school’s reigning bad boy.
About the Author
In the dawning age of scrunchies and 'Hammer Pants', a small-town musician with big-city talent found out she was expecting her third child a staggering eleven years after her last one. From that moment on, Susie Waldrop referred to her daughter Elicia as a 'blessing' which is loosely translated as an accident, albeit a pleasant one.
In true youngest-sibling fashion, Elicia lived up to the birth order standard by being fun-loving, outgoing, self-centered, and rebellious throughout her formative years. She excelled academically–a feat her sister attributes to her being the only child who was breastfed–but abandoned her studies to live in a tent in the national forest with her dogs: a Rottweiler named Bodhisattva and a Pit Bull named Sativa. The ensuing months were very hazy.
In the late 90's, during a stint in rehab, Elicia was approached by a prophet who said, "Someday you will write a book."
She was right.
Now a firm believer in the prophetic word, Elicia Hyder is a full-time writer and freelance editor living in middle Tennessee with her husband and five children. Eventually she did make it to college, and she studied literature and creative writing at the American Military University.
Her debut novel, The Bed She Made, is very loosely based on the stranger-than-fiction events of her life.
www.eliciahyder.com
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