I grasp for understanding, for a theory that makes sense. “Did you do this? Is this a joke?”

He points to himself. “Have you ever known me to make a joke? On purpose?”

He’s right. Pranks aren’t his style.

Brent, on the other hand . . . This is right up his alley.

I spring out of my desk chair and stomp into Brent and Sofia’s office.

“Is this supposed to be fuckin’ funny?” I accuse, harsh and desperate.

He plucks the card from my fingers. “I don’t know why it would be. Ivory isn’t a particularly funny color.”

And then he reads it. “Whoa.” He glances up to my face warily, then back down to the invitation. And again mutters, “Whoa!”

Sofia stands from her desk. “What? Why are we whoa-ing?”

Brent flashes her the invitation. Comprehension dawns in her eyes.

“Wh— Shit.”

Sweat breaks out on my forehead and my chest squeezes like I’m having a panic attack. I grab the card, and with Brent and Sofia right behind me, trudge back to my office—needing to fucking yell at someone.

And I know just the someone.

I punch the familiar numbers into the phone. But I’m brought up short by the voice that answers.

“Presley?”

“Hey, Daddy.”

“Why aren’t you in school?” It’s an hour earlier in Mississippi, but she should still be in school.

“We got the day off—teacher trainin’.”

“Where’s your mother?”

“She’s gettin’ ready for work.”

“Put her on the phone.”

There’s a rustle, muffled talking and then my daughter’s back on the line. “Momma says she’s late for work, she’ll call you back.”

I don’t think so.

“Presley,” I hiss, “tell your momma I said to get on the goddamn phone right fuckin’ now.”

There’s a shocked pause. Then a hushed whisper. “You want me to say that?”

“Say exactly that,” I urge. “You won’t get in trouble.”

With a little too much enthusiasm, she yells, “Momma! Daddy said get on the goddamn phone right fuckin’ now!”

I can practically hear Jenny stomping to the phone. “Have you lost your mind?” she screeches seconds later. “Tellin’ my daughter to cuss at me? I will cut you!”

“You’ve already cut me!” I unleash. “What the hell am I lookin’ at right now, Jenn?”

Obviously she can’t see what I’m looking at—not my best opener—but it’s hard to be logical when you’ve been kicked in the nuts.

“I don’t know, Stanton, what the hell are you lookin’ at?”

“Well it looks like a fuckin’ wedding invitation!”

She sucks in a mouthful of shocked air. “Oh my lord.” Then in a growl not directed at me, “Momma!” An inaudible argument ensues with sharp tones and angry pitches. Then she comes back to me. “Stanton?”

My grip on the phone tightens. “I’m here.”

Jenny swallows with a gulp. “That news I was gonna tell you about this weekend? I’m gettin’ married, Stanton.”

It’s like she’s speaking another language—I hear the words but they make no sense.

“Sonofabitch!”

“I was gonna tell you . . .” she rushes out.

“When? When the golden anniversary rolled around?”

She tries to soothe me. “I know you’re angry . . .”

But I’m gone. “I passed angry so far fuckin’ back it’s scary!” I look over the card again. “Who in the holy hell is James Dean? And what kinda name is James Dean anyway?”

Brent chooses this moment to comment softly. “The same as one of our finest American actors. Rebel Without a Cause, Giant with Elizabeth Taylor . . .”

“Elizabeth Taylor,” Jake pipes up. “She was hot when she was young.”

I ignore the idiot ramblings and focus on what Jenny is saying.

“We’ve been seein’ each other for a few months now. He asked me three weeks ago.”

An unsettling thought occurs to me and goes straight out my mouth.

“Are you pregnant?”

Offense rings clear in Jenny’s tone. “Why would you ask that? You think bein’ pregnant is the only way I could get a man to marry me?”

“No, but between you and your sister—”

“Don’t you talk about my sister!” Now she’s yelling too. “Not when you got a brother livin’ in a trailer sellin’ marijuana to high school kids!”

I kick my desk. “I don’t want to talk about fuckin’ Carter or Ruby! I want to talk about this ridiculous notion that’s runnin’ in your head.” Then another, worse thought flashes through my brain. “Has he . . . been around Presley?”

She breathes slowly, whispers guiltily, “She’s met him, yes. He comes to the park with us sometimes.”

“He’s a dead man!”

Dead. Gone. Done. I think of every perfect murder scenario that’s ever been suggested simultaneously, and plan to inflict each one on James fucking Dean.

“Stop yellin’ at me!” she screeches.

“Then stop bein’ stupid!” I rail.

I pull the phone away from my ear, as Jenny’s volume threatens to rupture my eardrum.

“Fine! You wanna yell? Let’s both yell real loud, Stanton, ’cause that’ll solve everything!”