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After all these years, Dad hasn’t changed one bit. He prides himself on being an early bird, the kind of person who wakes at 5:00 a.m., and has done more in the first two hours than I could achieve in one whole day.
When we were kids, he would blast music through the house at 6:00 a.m. forcing us all up.
Today’s no different.
Mom used to complain, being a night owl like me. Yet, years of being married—to the most stubborn man ever—has her changing her ways. She hates to admit it, but she told me she gets more writing done first thing in the morning than she does at any other time of day.
I have to admit I’ve changed over the years, finding myself waking up early to get in a run or hang out at the local coffee shop before the swarms of paparazzi find me.
Great when you’re on the West Coast.
The East Coast time difference totally kicks my butt.
I love Bon Jovi. I aced Livin’ on a Prayer singing karaoke at pub crawls back in the college years. However, I don’t enjoy it when I’m nursing the biggest hangover, ever.
Turning my body sideways, I snuggle on my side glancing at the pile of clothes I left on my bathroom floor.
Wet clothes.
From the lake.
The lake where Logan...
Don’t say it!
You’ve forgotten all about it.
Okay, I’m calling bullshit on myself. You haven’t forgotten about it. You slept. You slept because you cried yourself to sleep due to life being so fucked up and you have no clue what the hell happened last night.
Wesley Rich cheated on your gullible ass—that’s what happened.
And, you hate yourself for enjoying what Logan gave you.
The soft pillow is perfect to bury my face into and try to block out the images that haunt me as last night replays over in my mind.
I’m angry—livid. To the point where nothing makes sense.
One could assume that my state of mind is bordering insanity, and I’m one step away from swatting the imaginary flies away from my face.
Thinking about the moment I saw that image of Wesley and how terribly sick to the stomach I felt, and how all I could think about was every promise we made to each other and how easily he’d forgotten them.
I bite on the pillow and let out a frustrated scream, knowing no one in the house can hear me with the loud music playing. The second I do, I regret it instantly as sharp pain ricochets straight through my temple causing me to wince and let out a muffled cry.
I begin to open my eyes again—forced to face reality.
My cell sits on top of my nightstand, dead and unable to turn on. Your own fault.
Leaning over the side of the bed with great difficulty, I remove my iPad from my bag. Dragging it up and onto my lap, I shuffle into a sitting position and tap on my inbox to start reading an email.
Emerson,
I know you’re angry and not taking any calls. You know I don’t like to take sides, I work for both you and Wesley.
But, he’s an idiot.
I’ve negotiated a deal with a photographer, and have our lawyers drawing up contracts now. 2 mill and he’s gone. It’s our only way out of this.
Talk when you’re back home.
