“You’re always judging me, making me feel like I’m nothing.”
“You make yourself feel like nothing. Ma…Kenya, you need help.”
She winced as if I’d smacked her. “Preston…babe? You can’t do this. You have to understand—I’m not myself.”
“You’re definitely yourself.” I pulled out my wallet and handed her two hundred dollars. “For groceries. I noticed you didn’t have anything in the refrigerator.” I walked out of her bedroom.
“Preston!” she shouted, following after me, grabbing my arms to keep me there. I kept going, all the way to the front door. “Please.” I paused, my hand on the doorknob. “I’m sorry.” She was crying now, but I didn’t turn to look at her. Because I knew what would come next. The begging, the promises to stay sober. “Forgive me.”
It felt like my heart had cracked open. The pain was so consuming, I couldn’t catch my breath. For once, though, I was going to put myself first, even if I had to walk away from my own mother. Lowering my head, I sucked in a deep breath and left.
* * *
Dallas
“Who isthe hottie in the picture? #SendMeOneOfThem #Dayum”Scroll.
“Yasmin needs to whoop that ass for effing wit’ her man. Kimball + Yasmin FOREVA!”Scroll.
“Sources say Kimball is divorcing Yasmin? Does she have something to do with that?”Scroll.
“That Bitch! She’s a homewrecker!”Report.
“Who cares! This isn’t news.”Like.
“Kimball Payne is a punk with his little whining ass self. Maybe he should try scoring a touchdown. Dallas is better off without him. Go girl.”Love.
“She’s beautiful. I’m down for a threesome.”Block.
Annoyed, I closed my Facebook and opened Twitter. I probably shouldn’t have been checking social media right now—or ever again. I should’ve been working or drinking. Anything other than reading the comments about me and Kimball, me and my homewrecker status, me and mystery guy, me and anything that didn’t matter.
After a quick scroll down my timeline, I blocked several people and posted a GIF of a woman looking bored, along with the caption #unbothered. The good news was I wasn’t trending anymore. The bad news was I had a ton of mentions because one of the paparazzi had managed to snap a pic of Preston and I leaving Real Seafood Company after our dessert. Fortunately, it was an innocent photo, but it still made the rounds.
The interest in my love life was astounding. I wasn’t a celebrity. I hadn’t published any viral articles like Blake. I wasn’t a celebrity chef like Duke. I didn’t traipse all over the world giving seminars to couples and parents. And I definitely hadn’t introduced a line of sex toys. I was just me, plain old Dallas. I loved my under-the-radar life, which was why I’d been very careful about who I associated myself with. I’d only dated two professional athletes in my life, and one of them was Kimball. The other was… I was just ready to get back to normal.
My phone buzzed, alerting me to a new message—from Kimball.
Dumb Ass:Hey beautiful.
More proof that he was a dingaling. No originality, no sense. I almost didn’t respond. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d ignored his ass. He’d been texting me nonstop for the past few days, right around the time those pics of me with Preston hit the web. I had time today, though. My response was brief:Fuck you, Muthafucka.
I set my phone down on the table, but picked it up again when my watch beeped. Smiling, I accepted the video chat request. Burrowing into the sofa, I grinned. “When are you coming to save me, Skye?”
“Girl, delete that damn tweet. The last thing you need is more mentions.” Skye Palmer-Starks owned Skye Light PR. She was one of the best in the business, but more importantly, she was one of the best people I knew.
Although we weren’t related by blood, she was family. The enduring relationship we had with the Starks had sustained us through good and bad times. Jax Starks and his wife, Ana, were the official godparents for all eight of us. Uncle Jax and my father had grown up together and remained closer than brothers. Together with the Starkses and Reids, we’d gone on vacations, celebrated milestones, mourned losses, and had even lived in the same Brentwood, Los Angeles neighborhood for a time. We’d spent more time with them than we had with our actual relatives. Our lives were so intertwined that I’d had many of my firsts with them—from my first kiss to my first drink.
“Did you delete it yet?” she asked.
“No.”
“Do it now. I guarantee you someone got a screenshot, but at least it’ll be gone.”
I reopened the app and deleted the tweet. “Done.”
“Good.” Skye was walking briskly through what appeared to be an airport.
I tucked my feet under my butt and sipped my glass of wine. “Where are you going?”
