Fist over mouth, I chuckled.
Guffawed.
Laughed my ass off as though my mind was lost, tempted to stop and pinch myself because none of it seemed real.
None. Of. It.
Including the blog post I’d read earlier that morning.
Valentina stumbled in, huffing and puffing, apologizing to her half-naked boss for the intrusion. “Señorita”—she set the tray of food onto a side table beside the sliding doors—“I tried to make him wait outside.”
Like a Mirandized criminal, Harper remained silent as she scooped up her bikini top, evidently too frazzled to put it back on without a struggle. My eyes glazed over the screwed-up face of the woman I was dumb enough to propose to, disgust streaming through the blood pumping oxygen to my brain. Harper Kingston turned out to be a cheating slut, with a team rival, herfather’srival, no less.
Given the timely circumstances, that let-her-down-easy breakup spiel I’d practiced during the forty-minute drive over from my parents’ house seemed needless, out of context, and plain stupid.
Instead, I went for a less-is-more approach, deciding three succinct words would more than suffice.
“We’re fucking done.”
8
Hey, I’m home. Can we talk?
Mr. Evasive’s text message lit up my cell shortly after 8 p.m., right as my head hit the pillow. Anytime before midnight would have normally been considered too early of a bedtime for me. After-dark hours were dedicated to online coursework, and since I had a sociology paper due, my ass should have been sitting at our kitchen table, energy drink and carb-filled snacks at the ready. Given the day’s events, however, sleep beckoned with a demand for me to squeeze my eyes shut and dream the world’s biggest shitstorm day away. Besides, in order to complete online assignments, I needed my stupid laptop, and that dirty little accomplice to bloggergate had yet to be found.
Grimacing, I eyed his tardy text, contemplating whether or not to ignore it, just as I’d ignored the patter of his footsteps meandering past my bedroom door when he arrived home twenty minutes earlier.
To be honest, I’d grown downright irritated with Lucas Stone. I mean, what kind of a best friend allowed twelve hours to saunter by before he finally responded to a text with some breezy, non-fucking-chalant “Hey, I’m home. Can we talk?”bullshit?
Blood simmering, I fired off a quick reply.
Me:No.
Good one, right? One-hundred percent straight and to the point.
Text bubbles bounced on the screen, my heart thumping in anticipation.
Lucas:Why not?
Seriously, dude?
Thumbs pounding the cracked screen, I keyed in my response.
Me: Because you’re a duck.
Seconds later, Lucas deployed an army of duck emojis to my phone.
Ugh. I swear, autocorrect had a personal vendetta against me.
Me:DUCK! I meant to type, you’re a duck!
This time my smart-ass roombestie replied with a Donald Duck GIF. There was no use trying to quell the snicker that slipped free; shit was hilarious.
Beats skedaddled by before another message came through.
Lucas:Hey,I’m sorry. I should’ve replied to your text earlier, should’ve had the decency not to leave you hanging.
Tears pricked my eyes, a fury of the day’s emotional roller coaster coursing through me. He was trying to butter me up and, dammit, I hated how easily it worked.
