Or both.
A laugh punches out of me, wild and furious and a little hysterical.
Oh, he wants to play?
Fine.
I stop long enough to throw water on my face and glare at my reflection in the vanity mirror before I storm back towards the bar barefoot, feet slapping the pavement, pulse roaring in my ears.
I hate that stress and anger drive up my appetite, but it’s been a thing I’ve never been able to help. So yes, I’ll wait him out at the bar on a full fucking stomach, thank you very much. Then I’ll introduce the new me to my soon-to-be-ex-husband.
One street from the bar I left less than an hour ago, my feet freeze. Again.
Because the shack that’s not supposed to open for another four hours isn’t closed.
It’s open.
I can’t see any customers, but I hear music drifting out and a few voices rising and falling like a perfectly normal, infuriating morning.
What the actual…
I enter through the back once again, peek in, and my eyebrows rise when I spot Marcel behind the bar wearing his best shirt.
Flirty Guy from yesterday is back, drinking a green hippy smoothie type healthy drink we’ve never made before.
The beaded curtain separating the customer area from the back tinkles when I shove it aside and step inside, fury barely contained.
Marcel startles when he sees me. “Lucy—” He cuts himself off, eyes flicking nervously around. “Uh. You okay?”
I drop my purse in the office and return, grabbing for a dishcloth like nothing in the world has changed. “I’m peachy. Didn’t realise working hours have changed. I’ll get started. Hope you plan to pay me for the extra hours.”
Marcel gently—but firmly—takes the dishcloth from my hand. “You can’t do that no more, sugar,” he says quietly.
I look up at him, incredulous, as Flirty Guy stands and slowly saunters out.
“Why the hell not?”
His mouth tightens, regret flashing across his face. “You know why.”
And I do.
And God help me, that makes it worse.
After eighteen months of disappearing into a life so small and quiet I could almost forget who I was, this is how it ends?
Not with dignity.
With sides taken and with intimidation.
“I thought we were friends,” I snap.
Marcel exhales slowly. “We are. That’s why I respected your privacy. Until that privacy showed up on my beach wearing Italian tailoring and murder in his eyes.”
My anger deflates, just for a heartbeat.
Then it re-inflates, redirected, sharper, cleaner.
My fucking husband. “Where is he?” My voice is a husky croak of fury and humiliation.
