After being handed my coffee, I took a long sip of it as I pulled away from the drive-through and made my way down quiet side streets toward my office. I’d shower and change there and then try to figure out who the hell was trying to frame me, and my fucking company. Anything to avoid thinking about where I’d just spent the night.
“I’m not an expert,” Mike said, still ranting in my ear, “believe me. I just know you’ve stayed away from her for a long time. Why the fuck change that now?”
“It’s out of my control. My life is a fucking mess, and she’s the only one who can make it right. I’m thirty-fucking-five years old. It’s time I made myself happy. I’ve been chasing someone else’s wishes and dreams for way too long. End of story.”
It was the truth. Bexley would make it all right. In the meantime, I ended the call before Mike could argue with me.
Bexley
Two weeks had passed since I’d first seen the news, and I still hadn’t recovered. From what, I didn’t know. Constant exposure to Aston? He was everywhere. The newspaper ran a daily exposé on him. The local television station was featuring him morning and night.
After a few days, I couldn’t bring myself to read or watch any more of it. For the last ten days, I’d become a hermit, stuck in my house, staring at a growing pile of unread newspapers and dark television screens, and I didn’t dare download the digital version of the newspaper.
My life had become an extended version of the never-ending cycle of trying to block out Aston Prescott.
He’s nothing to me—a fling, an obsession, someone who happened to be a part of my life a very long time ago.At least, that’s what I told myself.
Yet, every time I glanced at the headlines, I got sick to my stomach. I couldn’t stop myself from staring an extra beat or two at his picture. Those eyes, they killed me. Then I’d quickly turn the page before tossing the paper into the recycling bin.Rinse and repeat.
Like now, I’d given in to the urge. My finger traced his picture, an expensive dark tie knotted at his neck, a tailored suit jacket snug on his shoulders. He’d aged some, with tiny crinkles at the corners of his eyes and a few laugh lines around his mouth. For a moment, I hoped this meant he was laughing some, and then I wished he wasn’t.
I’d wanted all his laughs. They should have been mine to enjoy.
This was how I spent most of my time when I wasn’t at work or with the kids—lamenting over what had become of Aston Prescott. What could have been between us, should have been with us.
Get over yourself, Bexley.
The picture was a year or two old, a company headshot I’d seen before during one of my rare Google searches. His smile was similar to the one he wore when he shook hands—half smirk, completely confident, inviting and beckoning. Despite the few wrinkles, he still had thick hair and deep soulful eyes that would sear right through you.
Did he do what they’re saying he did?
I couldn’t help it, but I didn’t believe the accusations. All the way down to my bones, I knew he couldn’t, and never would be, capable of what they were saying he’d done. Aston was a lot of shitty things, but a criminal wasn’t one of them. He didn’t peddle drugs. That wasn’t him.
Thankfully, the kids were busy with back-to-school and activities, or I would have been a basket case. I didn’t have the strength to do 24/7 with them. Piper was consumed with trying out for seventh-grade soccer, and Tyler was busy convincing me to buy him a drum set and get him lessons. As for me, I was staying afloat of my emotions, working at the women’s health clinic three days a week, counseling young women about their choices.
As if I had a freaking clue how to make good choices.
Normally, I was packing healthy lunches, doing laundry, and carpooling every other free minute, but recently anything that wasn’t completely necessary fell off the radar.
Typically, I dreaded the one weekend per month my ex graced the kids with his company, but not this weekend. Most divorced couples fought over custody, but not Seth and me. He was happy to give up his time with the kids ninety-five percent of the time.
He had his reasons, and I had mine. Either way, it worked in my favor.
But this Friday, I needed the weekend to get my head right.
A man who I’d carried a torch for—for almost fourteen years—is accused of drug trafficking.
I couldn’t wrap my head around that. The very same man I’d dreamed about, night after night. The one I’d convinced myself would eventually come back to me.
In my mind, Aston was nothing short of the most amazing man. If I closed my eyes hard enough, I could picture his large hands cupping my cheek and skimming over my shoulders, caressing my skin before pulling me in for a kiss.
Like he did that first night on the golf course.
I needed to read the articles in the newspapers, the ones stacked up in the garage, and scour the internet for information. I needed to convince myself he wasn’t good for me.
Forget the fact he was married, or maybe not. I didn’t know. He was probably looking at a conviction, and whether I cared to admit it or not, the idea hurt. It ripped through my heart, my soul, my entire being, like a fire through a dry forest. For other reasons, reasons I absolutely never, ever thought about. I’d buried the real reason for it hurting me way deep in my mind, locked it up, and tossed away the key.
Tonight, though, when Seth sent his mom to pick up the kids after school and I had two days to myself, I dealt in the only way I could. I raced to the liquor store at three o’clock on a Friday.
