I take a beat before glancing over my shoulder to where he was looking only a second ago. All I can see is a woman with glossy red hair in a pair of heels I’d kill to get my hands on. Literally, because there is no way I would ever be able to afford them otherwise.
“Don’t look!” he snaps, snatching my wrist and tugging me closer.
August has always seemed a little nuts, but this is weird, even for him. “What’s wrong?”
He darts a look over my shoulder, then curses again. “Alice is here.”
Alice? I know I’ve heard that name before but?—
Holy shit.
“Alice, Alice? As in, Elliott’s ex-girlfriend Alice?”
August looks at me as if I’m the one who’s nuts. “Ex-girlfriend? You mean his ex-wife.”
Yeah, okay. This is one of August’s jokes. This guy really needs to give it a break. Elliott doesn’t have an ex-wife. He would’ve told me if he did.
Wouldn’t he?
From the way my boyfriend continues to chat casually with his mother, he clearly has yet to notice the newcomer.
As if Elliott knows I’m silently begging him for some sort of explanation, his head lifts, gaze catching mine. At first, he smiles, but that smile quickly fades as his eyes shift to August. My companion tilts his chin toward the driveway. I watch Elliot’s brow furrow. Then I watch him turn and his shoulders go stiff when he seesher.
Ex-girlfriend, ex-wife, there really shouldn’t be a difference because both are past tense, but thereisa difference.
That woman shared not only his heart and his bed, but also his last freaking name.
What’s worse, she could be Rebecca’s twin. I bet she’s nice too, which makes me hate her even more. And here Elliott assured me Rebecca “wasn’t his type.” I knew he was lying, didn’t I? Clearly Rebecca isexactlyhis type.
He told me this family reunion was a casual affair, so why the heck does she look like she just glided off a runway? At least if I’d worn something with a heel, I wouldn’t feel so dowdy, standing here in my sundress like a child on Easter Sunday.
Elliott whips back around and starts for me.
I can’t talk to him in front of all these people. This is his family, and I’m the outsider. When I make a scene in front of them, they’ll never forgive me. Because a scene is about to be made. I head off toward Elliott’s truck. At least in the parking lot, we may be afforded some privacy. These tears aren’t going to stay put for long.
“Loren, wait,” he calls.
Yeah, okay. Like I’m going to listen to him.
“Loren, please.”
Oh, look. There are those southern manners. Maybe his mother should’ve taught him about the importance of telling the freaking truth.
I can see the truck. It’s right there, parked up against a massive wall of rhododendrons.
Two more steps.
One more step.
I reach for the handle like a lifeline only to find it locked.
I’m going to breathe through this, swallow my tears, and drive away like the composed, mature woman I am. “Give me the keys, Elliott.”
His hand flies to his pocket, as if I’m about to dig around in there and find them myself. “No.”
“I would like to leave.”
“I didn’t know she was coming.”
