“Oh, I don’t know. I may have to work late, since I’ll be out for the funeral.”
He’s not listening. “All right… Yeah, I’m coming…”
The line goes dead.
Leaning back in the plush seat, I pick at the rest of my cupcake, dejected and wondering if Nathan would be opposed to moving the wedding date up just so I can feel like I’ve accomplished something in my life.
McCarthy is the worst client in the history of PR. Even worse than sex-dungeon Rex. It’s like he doesn’t even care about his reputation. He’s willing to burn it all down just to get one over on me. He’s decided he hates me, that I’m the enemy, even though I’m trying to help him. And now I’ve lost him, and I am going to have to fess up to his brother. I’ll be fired by tomorrow morning, if not tonight.
I delete several more messages from my ex-slash-non-stalker, feeling like a complete failure.
“You’re not a loser,” I say, pep-talking myself. “You have Nathan. He loves you, and you two are going to build a beautiful life together. Hopefully soon. Very, very soon.”
Even though Nathan just rolled away from me late last night and didn’t even kiss me when I finally got home because traffic was terrible and the bus broke down and I so wished I had my own driver or, hell, even my own car.
McCarthy is right. I need to find another job.
The panic rises. I need a lifeline.
Hannah doesn’t pick up when I try to call her, tears leaking down my nose.
Truman nuzzles my hand.
“This is a horrible day,” I sob to Truman, who gives me one more lick then goes back to happily sticking his head out the window to receive pats from delighted passersby as I fish for a tissue.
Nathan is right. I need to grow up. Stop crying over every little thing. I’m going to be a mom soon. I hope.
If I survive McCarthy.
I stuff down the replay of McCarthy yesterday in his office, the glints of light from the diamond engagement ring bouncing off his face as he asks me with that mocking smile when the last time Nathan and I had done it was.
The reality?
It has been a while.
Granny Mavis’s version of sex education was to tell me that men were horndogs and you’d have to beat them off with a stick because if you didn’t, you’d be having sex round the clock. But also, you better at least let them have it in the morning and evening. Otherwise, they would wander. Mymom’s sex education was your soulmate was out there and you just had to try, try again to find them. Make sure you go all in, give your heart to him, just in case he’s the one, and one day, true love would be yours. No, that’s not real sex education, and yes, that’s probably why she had me so young with a guy that—surprise, surprise—was not, in fact, her soulmate and was barely my dad.
There will be no begrudging sex or unplanned babies for me, not with Nathan. Our evenings consist of him complaining about the dinner I make, him playing video games, then him ignoring my hints when I say I want to help him relax or take care of him. He hasn’t touched me in three months.
How did McCarthy know?
“God, McCarthy is theworst! Why do I attract the wors—”
The only warning I have that he is incoming consists of two quick barks from Truman, then McCarthy is being slammed into the windshield by two huge armed goons.
I scream, trying to reach for Truman, who thinks he’s a Doberman and has struggled out of the window to join the fight.
The dachshund sinks his teeth into the hand of the goon who’s about to break McCarthy’s nose.
The goon roars and blindly swings his fist.
McCarthy has one of them in a headlock and kicks the other thick-necked man in the ribs.
I finally get the car to move, and it surges forward, sending the three men and one dog flying.
McCarthy tumbles off the hood, does a roll, and hits the pavement then sprints around to the side of the car, Truman tucked under his arm like a football.
Screaming, I put the car in reverse and roll over a goon’s foot. The other is clutching his ribs, doubled over.
