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MIA: You release a video of you having sex with someone and claim it’s me and I shouldn’t be mad?
ASSHOLE: That wasn’t me.
MIA: *eye roll emoji* You’re a horrible liar.
ASSHOLE: We should talk about it though. I think we should announce we’re getting back together.
MIA: Have you been sniffing paint? You can’t be serious.
ASSHOLE: Why not? You’ve got to admit we’re good together.
MIA: Aside from the fact that this video is with another woman when we were supposedly together?
ASSHOLE: We were on a break.
MIA: Good to know.
ASSHOLE: Come on, baby. Give me another chance.
MIA: That ship has sailed. I told you before. I’m done.
ASSHOLE: Fine. You want to go it alone?
ASSHOLE: Good luck
What the hell is that supposed to mean? The stress and frustration of the last few weeks starts to close in, and the sting of tears burns my eyes. Swiping at the unwelcome moisture, I take a deep breath.
“What are you going to do, Mi?”
“I have no—wait! I know what I need to do.”
My phone is seeing more of a workout today than it has over the last several weeks.
Clicking on the number, I bring the phone up to my ear. Ring after ring echoes, and I’m resigned to being relegated to voicemail again when the ringing stops.
“Hello?”
Chapter Two
GARRETT
I’m such a fucking pushover. I nearly held back. I nearly let the call go to voicemail. But my conscience—masquerading as Mom’s voice—intruded with a well-timed lecture.
“Garrett?” The waver of her voice when she says my name is not something I’m used to hearing when I answer the phone. Not from her. And I answer the phone plenty.
“Hi, Ames.” Old habits are hard to break.
She may be Mia Maddox to the rest of the world. But to me she’s always been Ames.
“I wasn’t sure you were going to answer.” The relief in her voice is palpable.
Doesn’t she know by now that I always answer?
“I barely caught it,” I lie. I’d been staring at the phone since I pulled it out of my pocket at the first buzz. I couldn’t bring myself to ignore the call outright, so I’d stood there staring at it like a dope. “What’s up?”
“Did you—did you get my text?”
I knew she’d broken up with Tucker the Fucker. It had been the same whenever she’d broken up with whichever actor she’d been linked to—even all her on-again, off-again attempts with the Fucker.
