AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Chloe, this is Adele.”
No offense, but I hate you, Adele.
“I didn’t mean for this to happen…” he says.
I stand there, stunned and numb as Leo tells me he met Adele his first night in London and their attraction was undeniable andblah,blah,blah.
“I hope we can stay friends,” he concludes sometime later. I think it’s only been a minute, but I can’t be sure.
I hope your penis breaks in half.
“What?”
Oops. Guess I said that out loud. “I hope you have a happy life,” I amend, keeping my expression neutral. No way am I giving them the satisfaction of knowing my insides feel like they’ve been fed through a weed whacker. Then I turn and walk out the door.
Refusing to show people your heartache means when you get to your car and you’re alone inside the old, but trusty two doors, you cry like a baby.
I cry until the betrayal is leached from my bones. So, ten, fifteen minutes. I mean it’s not like I haven’t suffered this unfairness before. I have.Fourother times.
See, I’m cursed as a good luck charm—for my exes. Long story short (because I’m already down, I don’t need to be kicked any harder), every boyfriend I’ve had has found his one true love while dating me. Yes,while. Not after.During.It’s ironic, really. Cue the Alanis Morissette song. Because as my dad likes to say,Those boys weren’t meant for you. But it doesn’t make it any easier to get dumped. My boyfriend before Leo? We were at a restaurant eating dinner when two women, a mom and daughter I’d come to find out, sat down at the table next to us. I excused myself to use the bathroom and when I returned Tyler and the daughter were talking and laughing—the mom nowhere to be seen. “I’ve never been drawn to someone so quickly or strongly. I’m sorry,” Tyler said to me.
I’d said, “What the fuck?” More to the universe than to Tyler, before I hurried out of the restaurant.
This time, though, is the worst. I wasn’t ready to marry any of the other guys. My head falls back against the car seat. “Why?” I say aloud. Why am I the gatekeeper to others’ happily ever after? Why does ‘I love you’ mean I-like-you-until-someone-better-comes-along. It’s uncanny, really. Date me and your dream girl will present herself. And never the two shall mix.
I turn the key in the ignition and drive home blurry-eyed. The tears continue to fall, my heart hurting like Leo’s poisoned each chamber and the organ is slowly shutting down. Good. Because this is the last time I’m liking, letting alone falling in love with someone. I love my dad. I love my friends. I love my work. That’s enough.
The sun is behind the mountains and streetlights flicker on. Twilight is usually my favorite time of day, but right now it sucks. I’m also, I realize, driving the wrong way. I wipe at my eyes, swallow the string of lumps in my throat.
The car beside me honks when I accidentally cut them off to move into the left lane to make a U-turn at the stoplight. I wave in apology and mouth “sorry.” The light turns green. There are no cars coming from the other direction so I make my U-turn. And crash into another car making a right turn. Shit! Isn’t this just the cherry on top of a sucktastic day.
Fortunately, neither of us was driving fast. I put it in reverse since I’m the one kissing the shiny white Porsche SUV’s side fender then follow the car into the corner parking lot of a fast-food restaurant to check out the damage and make sure the driver is okay.
I get out of the car on shaky legs. The breakup with Leo, and now this, has wreaked havoc on my stability. I see an entire one-pound bag of almond M&M’s and some television in my future.
But first I need to deal with this situation. I had a green light, thus the right of way. Meaning despite what it looks like, it’s not my fault we collided. (Confession: I had a minor fender bender a few months ago and my insurance went up. I can barely afford the coverage so I can’t have another claim against me.)
The first thing I notice about the other driver is his long, muscular, jean-clad legs as they exit the vehicle. Next is his hard-bodied torso and a sling on his arm. Last, but definitely not least, are his surreal blue eyes, brown hair longer on top than the sides, and scruff around his full lips and along his chiseled jawline.
Unbelievable. As if my day cannot get any worse, I’ve hit Finn Auprince. Major League Baseball’s golden boy. He’s arguably one of the best center fielders ever. His stats are unreal. On top of that he’s American royalty, a “prince” in the media, his family one of the wealthiest and most influential in the world with their hotel empire. His popularity on and off the field is talked about weekly. Which is probably the reason he thinks he’s God’s gift to all women.
Except this one.
The minute he called my dad a “blind sack of shit” and proceeded to show him up in front of the fans by drawing a line in the dirt with his bat to illustrate the path of the ball off the plate in game three of the World Series, he was removed from my list of favorite players, never to earn a spot back. I was sitting behind home plate. The pitch was clearly strike three. To my dad’s credit he didn’t throw Finn out of the game, choosing as he usually does to tolerate a player’s aggravation and not take it personally.
“Hello,” I say.
“Hi.” He looks at me funny and for a beat we take each other in. Does he recognize me? I’ve sat in the stands dozens of times but he rarely looks at the crowd.Except that once.When our eyes connected and I stopped breathing. “Uh, are you okay?” he asks breaking the charged silence.
“No.” See this gaping hole in my chest? It’s where my heart used to be. Oh, wait. He means am I okay from the accident. “I mean, yes. Sorry. You?”
He smiles, flashing his straight white teeth. Smiles like his make birds sing and flowers bloom. And hearts pitter-patter. Good thing mine is dead. I study him. He thinks I’m flustered because of him. Ha! I will not give him the satisfaction of knowing I know who he is. Or being in any way, shape, or form affected by his good looks.
“I’m fine. My car, however…”
I follow his gaze. There’s a big ol’ dent above the front tire. I turn my attention to my car. The paint is scratched, but otherwise my nine-year-old convertible Toyota Solara—a sixteenth birthday present from my dad—appears undamaged.
“I had a green light,” I say, not sure if Finn is implying this is my fault.
