The second most unrealistic is that I find a message from him on socials. As nice as it would be for him to be the one to reach out, I doubt he even remembers my name.
As much as it hurts, I was nothing but a willing woman for him to get his kicks with.
As the week progresses, I try to put on a positive face. I want to say it’s easy. But under the surface, I’m beginning to spin out of control. Sienna can see it. I’ve caught her studying me closely a few times, but she’s kept her questions to a simple “are you okay?” to which I obviously answer yes.
I’m on borrowed time, though, because while Sienna might allow me to be quiet and figure my shit out, she’ll only give me so long.
She knows life has been hard recently, that I made some less-than-ideal choices regarding the business and money, although she doesn’t know the full extent of it. She knows I’m stressed, that I got close to losing everything I’ve worked so hard for. She also doesn’t know that I’ve had a whole load of new stress piled on top of that.
Thankfully, the salon is crazy busy, which stops her from getting too many opportunities to probe. But as the clock rolls around to our hockey date, I know my time is up.
“Oh shit,” I gasp when my buzzer rings twenty minutes early.
With my sneakers in my hand, I rush over to answer it.
“Hello?”
“It’s meeee,” Sienna sings.
Shit.
I look around my apartment. I can’t let her up here.
“I thought we were meeting at the bar,” I say, cringing.
“I know but I was early, so I thought I’d come and pick you up. Get our night started.”
I lean forward and rest my forehead on the wall beside the intercom.
This is going to be a disaster.
“I’m just putting my shoes on. I’ll be right down.”
“B-but?—”
“Two minutes,” I say before releasing the button and cutting her off.
I can picture her standing out there on the street with her famous pout on her lips, hands on her hips.
In a rush, I slip my feet into my sneakers, grab my zip-up from the side, and throw my purse over my shoulder.
I don’t bother looking in the mirror as I rush out of the apartment for fear one of my neighbors will recognize her and let her into the building.
They don’t, and two minutes later, I find her standing on the sidewalk, exactly as I imagined.
“What the hell?” she asks, her brows pinching.
“My apartment is a mess.” It’s not a lie. It’s a fucking disaster, but I don’t want to tell her why. Doing so would mean confessing that my fuck-up still lives on, dictating my life. Much like with that positive test, I’ve lived in denial for as long as I can, it’s time to face the music, even if I don’t like the tune.
“I don’t care about that. I brought shots,” she says, holding up the bag swinging from her fingers.
My stomach knots, acid racing up my throat.
“What’s wrong?” She gasps, racing forward. “You’ve just gone as white as a ghost. Is it your migraines? Do you have another one?”
I shake my head. “No, I’m fine. Just hungry.”
She accepts my words but doesn’t look entirely convinced as she pulls out her cell and orders a rideshare to the bar she’s chosen to start the night in.
