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Relatively Happy
-- “Relatively Happy hit my happy spot. This story is not only funny, but it will tug at your heartstrings. Whitney Dineen has another winner on her hands. Bravo!” -Jennifer Peel, Amazon bestselling author of My Not So Wicked Boss “Relatively Happy touches on love, life, dreams, and wishes. Dineen brings a new perspective which ends this series with a laugh-out-loud, cry-your-heart-out tale. Life is more like a roller coaster rather than a merry-go-round. I loved it!” – 5 Stars, AJ Book Remarks “Another delightful, yet deep page turner by the talented Ms. Dineen! I laughed, I cried, I swooned, and I pouted that I have to wait for more from one of America’s most fabulous romcom voices.” -Melanie Summers, author of the bestselling Crown Jewel Series “So many emotions in this book! I laughed out loud and I cried. I loved every second of this fantastic read!” – Becky Monson, author of Just a Name -- EXCERPT:
I try to regain control of the class and reiterate, “Time to thank our breasts.” “Out loud?” Emily gasps. “Totally, out loud. We’re here in a healing sisterhood. There shouldn’t be anything we’re afraid to say in front of each other. Why don’t I start?” I take a deep breath before stating, “I want to thank my breasts for being strong and healthy and pretty darn cute, if I do say so myself.” Nan pipes in. “Girls, I want to thank you for hiding my belly from me. It’s nice of you to block that little pooch from my view.” The other gals add their two cents, before Emily says, “Um, thanks for helping me look better in swimming suits?” Nothing from Dorcas. I nudge, “Your turn, Mrs. A. How have your breasts served you?” “Well, I guess they fed my babies. So, thanks for that.” Then she adds, “I’m guessing you don’t want me to thank them for the infected milk ducts, all the backaches, and the years of leering men.” I ignore the unexpected sarcasm and ask, “Anyone else?” There are no takers, so I jump up and announce, “It’s time to encourage our lymph nodes to open up and drain!” “How are we gonna do that?” Nan demands. “Follow me.” I keep my promise and help Nan to her feet before lending a hand to the minister’s wife. Sarah takes care of helping the other ladies. When we’re all ready, I start to skip around the field in zigzagging lines. I feel the warm sun on my face and the soft dandelions underfoot, then I start to wave my arms around like I’m an exotic bird about to take flight. It’s a deliriously freeing sensation. When I look behind me to see if the others are following my lead, I find my regulars are doing their part, but Nan’s laughing her head off, and Dorcas and Emily look borderline appalled. “Girl, if Dorcas does that, she’s gonna have black eyes for a month,” Nan declares before doubling over with renewed hilarity. Dorcas smacks her friend’s arm and snaps, “Don’t be nasty, Bridget. I don’t see you out there flapping around like a lunatic.” That’s all the encouragement Nan needs to take off like a slightly wounded, elderly, bird of prey. She starts slow, but eventually catches her rhythm and starts to hoot like an owl before she begins clucking like a chicken. “Sarah, this is the most fun I’ve had in ages!” I hear Emily giggle and mumble, “What the heck?” before she joins in. Dorcas is totally immobile until Nan runs up behind her and pinches the back of her leg while yelling, “Dorcas, you got a bee up your shirt, gal.” That’s all that is needed to set her in motion. “Thank your breasts,” I yell. “Tell them how much you love them.” Nan starts to sing out at the top of her lungs, “Do your boobs hang low, do they wiggle to and fro? Can you tie ’em in a knot? Can you tie ’em in a bow? Can you throw them over your shoulder like a continental soldier? Do your boobs hang low?” I don’t know how long we skip around the field with our breasts flapping in the wind, but it was a good long while—we probably could have gone a lot longer—but I hear Nan call out, “Hendrix Greer, is that you, boy? As I live and breathe, come over here and give me some sugar!” Hendrix Greer? Nan’s got to be hallucinating. Rix Greer hasn’t set foot in Gelson since his grandfather’s funeral six years ago. I turn around to tell Nan to quit playing games when I come face-to-face with an image that filled many of my adolescent fantasies. I stop dead in my tracks with my mouth hanging open like a hungry baby bird. The Adonis standing in front of us is no mirage, it really is Hendrix Greer, the biggest football star to ever call Gelson home. The biggest star of any kind, actually. He played for Notre Dame before turning pro. Rix was four years older than me, so we were never in the same school at the same time. But man, his legend reigned supreme over our whole town. It still does. It’s just that he’s never here to feed local gossip. Don’t get me wrong, we still talk about him, but not with firsthand knowledge anymore. Whenever Rix shows up in the tabloids with a new woman on his arm, it’s all over the Wash-n-Curl like turkey vultures to a fresh kill. And here he is, standing right in front of me. I don’t say anything and yet I can’t seem to close my mouth.
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