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I toss my bag on the couch—right where that ugly Home, Sweet Home pillow used to rest—then I shuffle through the mail.
Bill. Credit card offer. Rolling Stone.
Thick, square envelope. Handwritten address. Familiar stamped return address.
I peel the envelope open.
It’s there, in curvy silver letters.
You are cordially invited to the wedding of Penelope Winters and Francis Hobbs.
My stomach drops.
My throat tightens.
The air gets heavy. Hot. Suffocating.
This isn’t fucking happening.
There’s no way my ex-girlfriend is getting married in six short weeks.
There’s no way she’s walking down the aisle with the guy I caught her fucking in our bed.
There’s no way she’s inviting me to watch this train wreck.
For three days, I shove Penny’s wedding to the back of my mind.
I focus on my routine.
I perfect every link of ink. I run. I spar. I cook dinner, for myself or for Leighton. I drown myself in tattoo mock-ups, at my desk, alone, or on my best friend’s couch.
My illusion of normalcy shatters the second my phone sings with Maneater.
Penny’s ringtone.
She’s calling me to—
I don’t know. Or care. I don’t want to hear her excuses. Or her apology.
I’m sorry, but I don’t love you anymore.
It echoes through my brain. She was right there. In our bed. Only the sheets were pink.
My eyelids flutter closed. I can see her, hugging the Egyptian cotton to her chest. Pushing her dark hair behind her ear. Staring at the ground to hide the shame in her honey eyes.
Or was it the lack of shame?
She never apologized for hurting me
. For fucking him behind my back. For lacking the guts to leave.
Only for falling out of love with me.
The air gets hot again. It’s ridiculous—I’m naked, freshly showered and sopping wet, and the air conditioning is set to high. The room is freezing. Freezing enough my dick is shrinking.
And my dick—
It’s a been a year since I’ve fucked anyone. I get hard at the drop of a hat now. Especially around Leighton.
