If Banks were not purring in my lap over the twenty-six-year-old face of Paul Rudd fromClueless, I would havetrekked down the hall to the entry table to retrieve my phone. But my favorite nonhuman is nestled onto my favorite blanket. It’s a downy, delightful collage of Pauls from various movies that my mom gave me two Christmases ago.
The other thing keeping me firmly in my plush seat is Aaron’s words from last night. The memory of him steering me into the clubhouse with a too-tight hand on my elbow feels burned into my brain.
“I wanted a quiet wife who stays at home, someone who follows directions, not”—his hand does a generalized sweep of my body—“this.”
My mouth pops open, agape for a few seconds. “Wait. So I can’t come to your games…ever?”
Aaron crosses his arms over his pristine jersey. “I thought you understood that.”
“What…” I try to focus over the ringing in my ears and the looming sensation of vertigo. “What if we have children? Are you going to forbid your kids from watching you?”
The impatience in Aaron’s expression sears a hole through my lungs. “They can watch me on TV.”
I don’t respond. I can’t. Who wouldn’t want their family supporting them?
“Give me the ring back, Kenzie.” He holds out his palm. “This obviously isn’t going to work.”
Banks paws at my lap, yanking me back to the present so hard that I gasp like I’ve just woken from anightmare.
Except, it’s real.
All of it.
Last night, after Aaron asked for the ring back, it’d taken two shaky breaths for me to realize that he was serious. We were over. My trembling fingers set the ring in his outstretched hand before I was swept into a waiting SUV. I was through the front door to Trevor’s house with my pinging phone discarded on the entry table before the shock wore off. Then I’d sunk to the floor, sobbing so hard that even Banks was wary of approaching me.
Afterward, like any good accountant in the middle of the busiest time in her profession, I scrubbed off my makeup, popped a Benadryl, and slept like the dead in preparation for another busy day. It’s April 3rd, making Tax Day less than two weeks away. Fortunately, most of my clients’ taxes are already filed except for DJ Rivera’s. Since he loves doing his own, I’m only giving his filing a cursory review.
I sigh, shifting in my seat. I really should call the centerfielder and let him know about the small error I found yesterday afternoon, especially after taking the morning off to make Trevor’sThank youcake.
My roommate’s groans of delight over my chocolatey confection and his words of appreciation were just what my bruised ego needed. Aaron might not deem me worthy, but at least I could bake. Trevor even took an oversized slice in a reusable container for the plane ride to Charlotte.
Then he insisted I relax with a comfort movie. I almost never take time for myself when there’s work to be done, but now that I’m a jilted bride, I’m giving myself a pass for the first time in, well, ever.
Still…I need to call DJ. And after that, I should go through the list of pro bono cases in my email. Cameron, a fellow CPA who I met in school, collects names of people who wouldn’t otherwise be able to pay for their tax preparation, and a group of us work through them after we’ve finished our client loads. It gets a bit hectic, but I love helping a single mom or a fellow small business owner take yet another worry off their ever-expanding list.
Sitting up, I click off the movie halfway through one of the best action sequences. At least I’ll have Paul Rudd’s witty dialogue awaiting me when I’m done working. I know he’s happily married and three decades older than me, but celebrity crushes exist in a time-space loophole, right?
“Come on, Banksy.” I wrap both of us in the blanket and shuffle down the hall.
What I don’t expect when I reach the entry is Mallory in an adorable orange dress, standing just beyond Trevor’s front door with her phone to her ear. The heavy wood door is framed by slim glass panes, which would be problematic for privacy except for the large tree-laden front yard and gate keeping everyone without the code away.
“There you are!” Mallory almost shouts at me before speaking into the phone in a much quieter tone. “Yeah. I got her. Don’t worry.”
When she tosses her phone into her designer purse with an award-winning smile, I burst into tears again. Apparently, that’s going to happen a lot today.
Before I can unlock the front door, I see a ripped piece of legal paper on top of my phone. Trevor’s tiny handwriting slants across the light-blue lines.
Seriously, K. Don’t Google. It’ll only make things worse. -T
My feet halt again, staring at his tidy print. It always seemed so strange to me that such a large man had such small handwriting. When we fill out the grocery list in the kitchen, his letters fit perfectly while my looping script takes up two, sometimes three lines. It’s the only part of me that’s slightly rebellious—well, that and my bright-red hair.
“Kenzie?”
“Sorry,” I call, jolting back into action.
“I brought sushi,” Mallory tells me, holding up three takeout bags.
I lean past her, looking for who else is going to eat all this sushi, but she’s alone.
