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“He gave up on me.”
“Henley is”—he exhales heavily—“complicated.”
Suddenly I want all the information I can get from Blake. “How so?”
“It’s not for me to elaborate on . . . but just”—he shrugs—“give it some time.”
“Is there someone else?” I ask.
“God no.” He screws up his face. “It’s nothing like that.” He kisses my cheek. “Call me if you need anything.”
“Okay, thanks.” I watch as Blake crosses the cul-de-sac and gets into his new silver Porsche. It purrs like a kitten as he starts the engine. He waves happily as he drives off into the distance, and my mind wanders over his insight.
Don’t give up on him.
I wish it were that easy.
At 5:00 p.m., a text bounces through. It’s from Rebecca.
Can we go out for dinner and drinks.
I need to vent.
Shit. It must not have gone well. I reply.
Sounds good, I’ll book and call Chloe.
Seven ok?
Margaritas are on the menu.
I watch as her dots bounce.
Sounds great.
7:00 p.m.
I walk into the restaurant and see Chloe and Rebecca already at the table with margaritas in their hands. I did a four-hour shift at the retirement home this afternoon to cover for someone and am running late. They have started without me.
“Hey.” I smile as I take a seat.
“Welcome to the Man Haters Anonymous table.” Chloe holds her margarita up to me in a toast. “All men are fuckers,” she slurs.
I giggle and pick up the margarita that is waiting for me on the table. “How long have you two been here?”
“Long enough to establish that we hate men,” Chloe says in a way-too-loud voice.
Rebecca holds her glass up too. “Hear, hear.”
I giggle. “Well, just so happens I am the president of man hating, so I’m glad to be in good company.”
We clink our glasses in a toast.
“So . . .” I widen my eyes. “What happened?”
Rebecca rolls her lips. “He cheated because I wouldn’t give him anal.”
“What?”
