VERITY: Weren’t the three of you close?
ME: Sorta.
Guess they were closer.
VERITY: They’re engaged… bachelorette party tonight.
The snack I’m eating turns sour on my tongue, and I’m suddenly regretting getting out of bed.
ME: You’re serious?
VERITY: Dead.
My jaw tenses. Ronnie and Lilah, engaged, and they’re celebrating at String Theory. I can’t tell what I’m more upset by. The engagement, or the blatant way they’re flaunting it at the club. The one place Ronnie refused to step foot in. I can’t even remember the number of times we argued about it, too. She wanted me to quit, to work for her as one of her office secretaries, and I wanted her to stop being so judgmental about dancing. Quitting the job I love because someone else couldn’t accept me for what I do wasn’t what I wanted in a relationship. It was a hard pill to swallow when she broke it off, but I did it with my head held high. The crashout came a couple days later.
VERITY: I’m sorry, babes.
I set my phone down and clutch the kitchen counter, staring at the picture. With each steady breath I take, I feel myself getting calmer. Past my anger, I can see that they’re actually really cute together. Lilah is grinning, and Ronnie is looking at her the way she used to look at me. They’re in love, and that’s okay, right? I take a deep breath.
I wasn’t ready, I remind myself.I didn’t want to leave the club yet. I like dancing too much to give it up to be a ‘suburban wife.’
A couple more messages come through from Verity, but I don’t want to look at them. I can’t. I close out of the messages andlet the feeling sink in. Back when I was in counseling, I would have to talk myself through all the positives of our breakup. Even if they were negative. I try to do that again and remind myself that what matters is our happiness. Ronnie got what she wanted; I got what I wanted. She gets the picket fence marriage she’s always dreamed of having, and I still get to twirl around a pole in my panties.
“Well, well,” a voice says, “if it isn’t my new favorite snack.”
Startled, I look up from the counter, promptly dropping my phone to the ground as my hand goes limp. A pale man with mussed dark hair stands in the frame of my kitchen doorway, taking up the entire space with his height. Long lashes frame two perfect dark brown eyes. They narrow playfully. “Why the sour face,sister?”
I can’t move.
Hell, I can’t even get my voice to work. I'm cornered in my own kitchen by a man wearing one of my club shirts and a pair of too tight sweats. It should be comical, in all honesty, given that my shirt is like a crop top on him. I’m too horrified to laugh, though.Did I fuck a stranger last night? Why don’t I remember that?Dread settles in my gut.
His brows pull together, the humor sapped from his face. “Are you—”
Finally, my voice catches up to my shock. “What the fuck!”
“What the fuck!” I scream again, scrambling for the dirty pan on the stovetop. I white-knuckle the handle and hold it close, ready to swing if he comes for me.
But the man in my kitchen doesn’t even flinch. In fact, he’s calm and collected, as if I’m not brandishing iron. “Do you intend to hit me with that?”
He must be out of his mind.
“I’ll do more than that if you don’t tell me who the hell you are and what the fuck you’re doing in my house!” I back against the wall as he clears the entrance. He’s tall. But then again, I’m a whopping 5’3” with an extra inch or two in my heels. Everyone is tall compared to me.
I brace myself, ready to swing.
“I’m hurt,” he says with a roll of his eyes, which aren’t brown, I realize. I couldn’t see it at first, but they’re strikingly crimson. There’s a brightness to them that moves in the light, revealing the true nature of the color in them.
He goes for the coffeepot, which is full of freshly brewed coffee. My memory comes up blank as I try to remember fillingit and setting an alarm. The man takes my silence in stride and picks up the mug I leave on the counter for myself and fills it. The fucking audacity. No one drinks from my cup, ever. I should hit him for that alone, but I still can’t make myself move.
“You don’t remember me?” he asks, a teasing smile pulling at his pale lips. They’re just a shade darker than his actual complexion, which is a shade off from being peachy. He leans against the counter as he brings the mug to his lips, pinning me with his questioning gaze.
“Should I?”
He steps closer, and I raise the pan higher.
“Your cuts have healed.” He ignores me and, avoiding the pan altogether, reaches a hand out for my forehead. I shut my eyes and swing.
Where there should have been some kind of solidthwackfrom iron breaking bone, I’m met instead with resistance. The shock shoots into my hands and up my arms, vibrating my already sore muscles with a fresh sting. I yelp, and the pan falls to the floor between my feet, narrowly missing my toes. I bring my hands to my chest and cradle them there, swearing at myself for being so weak.
