Love at first sight.
It’s so romantic how you just knew she was the one.
Some of the people wishing them the best are Owen’s and my mutual friends. None of them questions the timing of the proposal or wonders about me. Actually, that isn’t true. Stephanie does via private message, but her mouth is bigger than the state of Texas. She’s fishing for something to gossip about.
I start to text Georgia with shaky fingers, then realize it’s too early in Europe. She’s probably asleep. Otherwise, she would’ve already texted me. She hate-stalks the people on her shit list, Owen included. Apparently, every time something bad happens to one of them, it reaffirms her belief that life isn’t too awful because karma is still alive and well.
I leave the gym at four, which is a first. I make it a habit to stay until five because those are my hours. But nobody seems to notice. Then again, most people in the back office pack up by four on Fridays. Jack doesn’t care because we don’t sell memberships. We’re just overhead.
I stop by the grocery store and pick up a few cases of cheap wine coolers. Nicholas told me I should text Cody for anything I need so he can have the staff restock it, but this isn’t the kind of thing you can tell your fake boyfriend’s assistant to handle.
Hi, I need some stuff to make myself feel better. Oh no, I’m fine. It’s just that my shitty ex proposed to another girl within a week of dumping me. You know how that is, right? No? Well, I guess it’s never happened to you. Haha. Lucky you. Hope it stays that way.
Back at the mansion, I place my coolers in front of the sofa and bring out a tub of chocolate ice cream from the freezer. Then I click around on the remote until I get a streaming service and start watching one of my favorite K-dramas. It’s that or eat my ice cream in silence. And I don’t think I can do silence right now, not when it will just amplify all the doubts and deficiencies in my head. Hopefully, the TV will drown out the cruel thoughts.
I dig into the ice cream and wash it down with the wine coolers, praying the sugar, fat and alcohol will make me feel better, even as part of me says they’re not the solution I need.
But if I can’t let go on a day like this, I don’t know when I can.
Chapter Twenty
Nicholas
For the first time in a while, I leave work at six o’clock. I feel terrible about having neglected Molly recently, but my agenda for the week has been packed tight, none of it pleasant. There’s something particularly depressing and uncomfortable about having to let go of staff, but our newly acquired company had people whose duties not even the workers themselves could explain. The previous CEO apparently had a fetish for gift-employing people related to him or his friends.
I exhale and roll the muscles in my neck and shoulders. Hopefully the flowers cheered Molly up. I select each bouquet and have it in her room every night so she can see it when she walks in.
I’ve finished all my tasks, including those allocated for Saturday, to devote the weekend to her. There’s a romance book signing in Vegas tomorrow, and I want to take her there tonight and return late Sunday. A surprise trip to an event that’s going to have some of Molly’s favorite authors, ones whose entire backlist she owns in paperback. She constantly gushes about them on her book account, too.
She’s going to be so happy. I’ll hand her my credit card and tell her to buy everything she wants. And there won’t be any ridiculous hundred-dollar limit on her book money like before I was her boyfriend.
Her fake boyfriend.
Whatever. The key word is “boyfriend,” not “fake.” Besides, faking it is the first step. Fake it till you make it, and all that.
Molly’s car is parked in the driveway. It’s a cheap sedan that’s probably seven or eight years old. I wish I could upgrade it to something nicer and safer. Maybe a Mercedes. That’d be modest enough that she wouldn’t feel too uncomfortable accepting it, provided I work up to it gradually. I still can’t believe she offered to “chip in” to help pay for some of the expenses.
Owen must’ve charged her. Since she didn’t get to live at his place for the full thirty days this month, she should claw a prorated portion back for unjust enrichment. Maybe I’ll call my lawyer and see what options are available.
I park the Spectre in the garage and get out, happily anticipating Molly’s smile when she hears about the surprise getaway.
But the anticipation dies as soon as I step inside the house.
The TV’s blaring, male voices shouting in a language I don’t understand. Loud sobs accompany the noise, but they don’t sound like they’re coming from the TV.
I stride into the living room. Molly’s sitting on the sofa, legs crossed yoga style. Her face is buried in her hands, and a spoon is held loosely between her fingers. A half-eaten carton of mostly melted ice cream sweats forlornly on the table. At least ten wine cooler bottles sit empty, making a protective half-circle around the ice cream. I wince. If she wanted to drink, I have something better thanwine coolers.
I glance at the TV. Three men are arguing about something, but Molly still has her face buried and is making the saddest sound in her throat.
Is she one of those people who cries when they get drunk? Or is she crying because something sad is happening on the foreign drama she’s watching?
Georgia cries when she watches dramas, saying it’s “cathartic” even though ninety percent of her face is covered with tears and snot. I’ll never understand it. But my understanding isn’t important here.
My sympathy is.
I sit next to Molly and put a hand on her back.
“Hey. It’s okay.” It’s the most neutral and empathetic thing I can think of, given my lack of information about the situation.
