Page 1 of Total Jane Wreck

Chapter One

I was termed naughty and tiresome, sullen and sneaking, from morning to noon, and from noon to night.

“Do you believe in fate, Jackson?”

My conventionally handsome fiancé scrunches up his lips. “What kind of question is that?” He smiles, teeth gleaming. “Relax, Jane. Stop trying to figure out the meaning of life and just enjoy our engagement party, okay?”

“Sure.” My tone is perky, but inside me, something deflates. Because how did I arrive here, at this moment? It’s not like I ever chose this path. Then again, making choices is messy and unpredictable. Since I tend to be messy and unpredictable myself, I should just let fate do its thing.

Besides, today, all the neighbors plus lots of old friends—just not my old friends—have gathered to give Jackson and me their heartiest congratulations. Which means downing mint juleps and bourbon-spiked sweet tea and occasionally soaking up the alcohol with Hot Browns or Pimento cheese sandwiches.

Pasting on a grin, I stand on my tiptoes (even though I’m wearing strappy heels to go with my out-of-character, lacy pink dress) and kiss his cheek. Then, I straighten Jackson’s pastel-colored plaid tie, though it’s already immaculate. Everything about Jackson is immaculate. “Think I’ll make the rounds, do some mingling.”

“Good idea.” Jackson runs his fingers through his perfectly tousled dark blond hair. “I was about to join the fellas outside for cigars.”

“Have fun.”

“Thanks.” He winks and heads out to meet his old frat brothers on our back porch.

I wish I had some buddies at this shindig, but the only one I’d invite is my ride or die, Brontë. And she just started a new job in Atlanta. So, I grip my bourbon and Coke and scan the room, hoping to find someone who can tell me why, despite my best efforts, the prospect of marrying Jackson doesn’t make me giddy with excitement.

Mom’s poring over our collection of photo albums, her two best girlfriends next to her. My older brother Reed sips a bourbon on ice, loosening his belt buckle so his belly can expand. His wife, Melissa, with her injected lips, fake boobs, and botoxed forehead, gives him the side-eye.

For some reason, that grinds my gears.

Dad is talking business with Carlton Floyd, my future father-in-law and owner of Kentucky’s fourth-largest horse breeder, Floyd Farms.

Okay, no luck. I try to slink past toward the den, but Aunt Sandy waves her lacquered nails like flags at half-mast. She’s three Manhattans deep and a bit wobbly.

“Jane!” she calls. “Come tell these lovely people about that time you puked at state finals.”

That story is a classic. I was fifteen, invincible, and the odds-on favorite to win. Instead, after forcing myself to use a riding crop, I pulled over mid-race. Sure that I’d hurt my horse, I puked right there on the track, for God and the entire world (including social media) to see.

“I don’t remember much,” I lie. “But the video is still everywhere on Instagram. Even after ten years.”

The room titters. A man I don’t recognize, with a neck the color of boiled ham, chortles and leans in, close enough for me to smell his gravy breath. “So, do you still race? A pipsqueak like you must have opportunities.”

“Nope,” I quip. “I’m not cut out for it.”

“Your parents must be so disappointed.” The neck-man takes on a paternal tone. “Bet your mama wishes you’d follow in her footsteps.”

“Yes,” I reply. “But we can’t help who we are.”

My mother, a driven, competitive, horse-obsessed woman, gave up on her jockey aspirations at twenty-one, when she got pregnant with Reed. “You’ll achieve what I never could,” she told me several times throughout my teen years.

She never asked if I wanted to be a jockey.

“Oh, darling . . .” Neck-Man pats my shoulder. “Don’t feel bad. You’re marrying into the Floyd family. That makes up for your past failures.”

“Thank you,” I say through gritted teeth. “Excuse me.”

After successfully making it to the den, I grab a worn copy of one of my favorite books, Escape from the Springs, and head out to the barn.

I’ve had enough of humans. Give me the company of a horse, any day of the week.

My steps are unsteady as I walk toward Betty’s stall. I’m unaccustomed to wearing these delicate heels instead of my stable boots.

“Hey, girl. Did you know that you’re my heart-horse?”