He was right. They were all right, but how was I supposed to move on, knowing that the same thing might happen if I dared to start a relationship again? I refused to cause someone else’s pain and heartache.
“I need you standingwithme. Planning the bachelor party and talking me down when Megan insists on a fourteen-layer tiered cake or some shit.”
I snorted at the thought of a cake that big, at the same time wondering how I could prove to Rob I’d take the responsibility as his best man seriously, while not compromising the way I wanted to handle my love life.
“And I will. I promise. But right now, I need a drink,” I said, standing and rolling my shoulders to relieve the tension. It didn’t work, and I winced, bending to retrieve my hat that had somehow ended up by my feet.
“I need several.”
“Good call.” I clapped him on the shoulder as he turned the lights off in the shop and locked the doors.
“You know I’ll be glad to sell you that bumper if it means that much to you, right?” Rob said before grabbing his battered backpack and slipping it over his left shoulder. “But trying to restore the same car you drove when you got into the accident with Autumn is just morbid as fuck.”
I thought about accepting his offer and spending the next few months getting the Mustang in working order, but he was right. Punishing myself by restoring that car was not the way to keep her memory alive. All it did was keep me stagnant.
“No. Hang onto it for me, would you?”
I whistled, and Malibu followed me to the truck, sniffing the front tires before jumping onto the passenger seat.
“You got it,” he said, clapping me on the shoulder. “Now, let’s get that drink.”
Chapter 9
Good riddance tothis nightmare of a day.
My shirt landed beside the hamper in my closet, and one shoe hit the side of the bed while I kicked the other off andinto the hallway. The over-constricting bra came next, and I twisted the under wire and threw it onto the carpet, not caring if I’d ruined the cheap thing.
What was the point of caring?
Nada. Nothing. No good could come from giving a damn.
My lawyer said a court date to handle the inheritance with my ex was inevitable and would let me know when she received confirmation. That on its own sucked, but at least I’d mentally prepared for it. This morning, when I woke up to an ungodly amount of pink sparkles, glittering ribbons, and well wishes on social media, I had not been ready to face that nonsense.
Talk about being a glutton for punishment. I spent ten minutes this morning trollingherprofile and scowling at the ridiculous number of picturesthey’dposted. My divorce was final, the name-change paperwork filed. I should have beendonewith anything related to Trey—but no. His new life had to be splashed across my news feed, and I was lucky enough to obsess over the commentsourfriends had left.
After the tenth message ofcongratulations, you deserve so much happiness—and my personal favoriteyou’re so lucky you found someone who shares your hopes and dreams—I snapped, throwing my phone across the dining room and groaning in relief as it landed undamaged on the plush carpet of the hallway.
Reading those pathetic-sounding words put my mood somewhere south of the Arctic Circle, and after struggling through eight hours of work, the only acceptable course of action was a long shower, bad television, and an early bedtime. I grabbed my silk robe from the back of my bedroom door and wrapped it around myself before walking the short distance down the hall and shutting myself into the bathroom.
I exhaled as a harsh laugh escaped my lips, imagining myself sitting at the dining room table and emailing some randomonline version of the oldDear Abbycolumn in the hopes it could ease my mind and provide the advice I craved.
Dear Pretentious Internet Blogger Who Believes They Know Better Than Most,
What is the proper etiquette for a (jaded) Clinical Trial Specialist to follow when engaging with her cheating scumbag of an ex and his oblivious flavor of the month? Suppose social obligations force me to accept a dinner invitation in order to deal with the unpleasantness of our lawsuit. Would it be better first to butter a slice of warm, sourdough bread and then use said knife to stab myself in the thigh, thus excusing me from any additional conversation? Or would niceties have to be observed, requiring me to wait until the entrée course and choosing the much more painful steak knife to relieve me of my self-induced misery? Is death by carb consumption more or less of a faux pas if completed before the dessert course is served? What about parking validation? Is it worth paying the higher parking price to eliminate the pitiful void of inadequacies left over from my marriage?
With Thanks and Regards,
Catastrophe in Charleston
I shook my head at where my train of thought had landed before groaning and focusing on the peeling wallpaper in the small upstairs bathroom. Guilt bubbled in my stomach like bad sushi, and I winced, wondering how long it had been since I took a long, hard look at Dad’s living situation.
He maintained the cleaning, cooking, and basic tasks like replacing the smoke detector batteries and ensuring the floorsstayed polished, but he left the truly relevant and important things unattended.
Cleaning the dryer lint.
Replacing the shower valve.
Upgrading the refrigerator that was long past retirement.
