“Umm, there’s more.” I say softly.
“There is?” He questions, placing his hands on the table.
“I don’t want to hurt you, but being with Roxy stirred feelings in me for her. It was more than just performing for the calendar for me. I felt a connection to her—desire. But it doesn’t change how I feel about you. I love you Ezra, with all my heart. Roxy… my attraction to her was unexpected.”
A silence settles between us, thick with unspoken words. My mind races, questioning whether I shared too much, whether honesty had been the right choice.
Just as I’m about to speak, he stands up, collecting our empty plates from the table.
"Okay, thanks for sharing that with me," he says, his voice cold, void of emotion. "We should get to moving those boxes."
He places the dishes in the sink before turning and leaving the kitchen, leaving me sitting at the table alone, and scared.
Chapter 17
Felicity
Thirty.
That’s the number of unread messages I have from Roxy.
Zero.
That’s how many I’ve had from Ezra since he left yesterday. I called and got his voicemail. Straight to it, to be exact, so I know he ignored my call. My messages to him are still unread. He’s pissed, and it’s all because of me. This stupid calendar was supposed to make me some money, not tear us apart. With each passing day, I feel Ezra slipping away more and more. God, how I regret doing that thing.
Why did I say yes? Even give it a second thought or mention it to Ezra in the first place?
I should have said hell fucking no.
But that’s the thing about regret. You wouldn’t have it if you did the right thing, would you?
My phone vibrates on the coffee table, and I nearly fall off the couch, reaching for it. Heart racing, I snatch it and fall back onto the cushion. I take a moment and breathe, calming my nerves while secretly praying that it’s Ezra finally reaching out to me.
But hope deflates just as quickly as it inflated.
Mom. Not Ezra.
I open her message and groan when I see what it’s about.
Mom: Just a reminder about dinner tonight. 6 sharp. Dress nicely please. Here’s the address just in case you need it again.
Mom: 5492 West Crestmont. You’ll need this code for the gate 56293.
Gate? Code? Am I going to the fucking White House?
Me: I’ll be there with bells on.
I drop my phone to the floor, not even caring that I may have cracked the screen.
My eyes drift over to the wall to check the time on the clock. It’s one of those large round ones that has slots to place pictures at every quarter of the hour. Currently, the short arm is on four and the long one is pointed directly at a very toothless baby picture of me firmly planted in the nine slot.
I let out a grunt as I roll off the side of the couch, my knees landing hard on the wood floor. A sharp pain rattles my body as I grimace. Mom wouldn’t care if I was injured and couldn’t walk; she’d come carry me to that dinner herself.
Letting out a sigh, I place my hand on the coffee table and stand up. I need to shower and dress and get on the road. If I’m a minute late, I know my mom will have a conniption. This is our first family dinner. Family. It’s so hard to think of it as that. I only met Calvin once, and it was in passing. He was picking Mom up and I was heading out the door.
Heading to my bedroom, I’m trying to think of what I can wear that would be approved by my mom. I packed the majority of the stuff in my room yesterday, so I only have a few things left out.
I open the door to the nearly empty closet and the bare contents still inside it. There’s just a few worn hangers scraping along the rod as I push them back and forth in frustration. The sound is grating—plastic on metal, hollow and repetitive—as I slide the clothes with increasing speed and anxiety. Each piece I touch feels wrong: too casual, too tight. Nothing in this sad, dwindling collection seems even remotely appropriate for a family dinner that’s sure to be more judgment than joy. The pressure builds with every second, and I feel it pulsing behind my eyes. A migraine forming before the night has even begun.
