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“Well, I could have said dirty fun but one step at a time, honey.”
“Thanks, Vicky, but I just want to head home and—”
“And what? Wallow in self-pity and cry yourself to sleep?”
“No,” I
lie. “I’m exhausted. Maybe next weekend?”
She raises her eyebrows at me. “Okay, next weekend, but call me if you change your mind.”
With only an hour left, I speed-read through some work, and the second it turns to five, I’m packed up and ready to go home. It has been a long time since I have felt so drained, and boy does it take me back to my early twenties when I would party all night.
I enter the already-cramped elevator and squish myself against the wall. Just when it’s apparent we’ve maxed the people in it, another body mashes against mine. I look up to be met by the Jerk’s reflection. Ignoring him wouldn’t be difficult, but the more people who enter the elevator, the more appropriate he feels it is to practically rub his body against mine.
Act cool, pretend you’re not bothered one bit, and totally ignore how good he smells. So what if every woman in the office think’s he is hot? I didn’t understand why I am the only one who loathes him.
Check, check, and fucking check!
It may seem silly, but holding my breath helps, even though I look like a complete idiot. Thankfully, I find myself distracted by the buzz of my phone. It’s a message from my hairdresser, Chantelle.
Chantelle: Pres, what’s going on? I saw Jason today at a restaurant.
There is an attachment, and I open it to be met with a photograph of Jase locking lips with another woman. I stare in disbelief. This cannot be him, and to try and prove myself wrong, I zoom in on the picture
It’s him, all right.
My hands start to shake, and the confined space in the elevator starts to claw at me. Suddenly, I feel like I’m suffocating, my body overheating as a result of the jealousy boiling up inside me. If I cried, here, now, everyone would see how pathetic I am.
“Nice picture. You stalking other couples?”
“It’s my fiancé,” I say without thinking.
I quickly put the phone back into my bag, praying for the elevator to hit the ground floor. Staring at the numbers, the second the door opens, I am out of there so fast I give myself whiplash, desperately trying to escape the sound of my name being called behind me.
The tight grip on my arm startles me, and on first instinct, I wrestle my arm out of his grip.
“Hey. Jesus, Malone, would you just stop for a second?”
I turn to face him, and surprisingly, he looks concerned.
“What, Haden? You want to point out how funny that picture is? Or how I mustn’t be any good at sex which is why he strayed?”
“Calm down, will you?”
“I’m sorry. Someone sent me a photo of my fiancé practically fucking another woman a week after we broke up. Excuse me for thinking that the word calm does not belong in my vocabulary right now.”
“Ex, Presley. Ex-fiancé. Plus, he wasn’t fucking her. Woman, you need a reality check. Men don’t huddle with their pals eating bowls of ice cream as they watch The Notebook. They go find some new pussy and fuck it like a jackrabbit.”
He said what?
A thousand shades of red are flashing before me, and for a split second, I wonder what it’s like to do time in jail for murdering someone with your bare hands. The nerve of the guy. The worst part is, I’m scared there is some truth to it, and the ass is me, living in a world of denial. Stop telling yourself Jason is, was, the perfect guy.
“Wouldn’t hurt you to follow in his footsteps,” the Jerk chides.
I lift my hand to strike him, but he catches me just in time, strengthening his grip on my wrist. “Don’t even think about it.”
“I tell you what, you leave me the fuck alone, and I promise I won’t smash that pretty-boy face of yours,” I fire back.
