I sitin the front seat of the car outside of the church, blinking furiously. As much as I hate that McCarthy has weaseled his way into the drama of my life just so he can scrounge for ammunition to lob at me, at least it is a distraction from the fact that Brock is dead. He was my first love, the man I wanted to be buried next to and raise a family with. He also completely broke my heart and ruined my life, and now he’s just… gone.
And I amsadabout it. Seriously. How pathetic is it I’m here about to cry at my shitty ex’s funeral?
Maybe that was why Nathan was so cold with me. Maybe I’m not as in love with him as I had been with Brock.
“I’m a terrible girlfriend.” A sob escapes me.
“Agreed. Dragging your fiancé to your college sweetheart’s funeral isn’t a good look.” McCarthy opens the door, scooping up Truman, who twists because he wanted to get down andattack that leaf!
I twist the cool crystal charms on my Stanley cup, my heels unsteady on the cracked asphalt as McCarthy continues in that casually condescending tone.
“I’m curious to see this famous doting fiancé number three. Will the third time be the charm? Is it true love? Or just a stop on the train ride to loner cat lady?”
The tears spill out. “He’s not coming.” I whimper then slam the car door.
“What was that?” McCarthy holds a hand up to his ear. “I’m in weapons R and D. My hearing’s shot from all those taxpayer-funded bombs. Speak up.”
Moving that massive body, he stops me from walking past him. I shrink as he stares at my disheveled appearance and teary face.
“Nathan can’t come. He has to work.” I try to rush past him to the funeral home.
“He has to work,” McCarthy says, slamming a hand on the car, trapping me. “Is he a surgeon? A teacher? An EMT?”
“He’s in finance.”
“Finance, huh?” McCarthy makes a big show of crossing his arms and tapping his chin. “And he has to work.”
“He’s very busy earning a living to support us and our future family.” I sniffle and am finally able to rush past him.
“Cupcake.” Long legs close the distance between us. “The markets close at four o’clock p.m. Eastern Standard Time. He ain’t working. If I—one of the world’s richest, most powerful men; let’s just be honest here—can attend this funeral, Nathan can too.”
McCarthy turns to match my steps. After a moment, he nudges me with his shoulder.
“Stop it.” I’m trying to mop up my face without smearing my makeup too much.
“You know why he’s not here?”
“Go wait in the car if you can’t behave.”
“Guess why your beloved fiancé’s not here.” McCarthy has that shit-eating grin on his face that makes me want to punch him.
“Why?” I force out the word.
“Because…” McCarthy’s bottom lip catches on sharp teeth. “He’s banging a coworker. Right now. He’s balls deep in—”
I knock the heavy bottom of the Stanley cup into his rock-hard abs, sending all the charms jangling.
“Nathan is not cheating on me. He loves me. He would never. And how dare you say otherwise.”
“Hm.” McCarthy gives me a look of patronizing pity. “Do you think there will be food at this funeral?”
“I don’t care. I just need a drink.”
Inside the funeral home, which is located in a restored Victorian building, the lights are dim, and the atmosphere is subdued. A photo of Brock, the action shot that he used on his YouTube channel banner and in all his branding, is displayed prominently.
McCarthy ignores the greeters and Brock’s grieving mother and heads to the table laden with wine, a cheese platter, and cookies.
I’m too sick to even think about food. Wringing my hands, I slowly approach Brock’s mother.
