@QweenPandora:
Looks like I called it.
Apparently #NewGirl wasn’t feeling #KingMidas’s unprovoked trip down memory lane (aka her screwed up childhood), so she opted out of staying at the royal palace.
Word on the street is that she’s been seen coming and going from her brother, Hunter’s, apartment, more affectionately known as #PrisonBae.
Guess #KingMidas really screwed things up this time.
Here’s hoping you kids work it out, but if you don’t, this little rift has provided some GREAT content and much needed entertainment. Thanks for that at least…
Later, peeps :)
—P
Chapter Sixteen
Blue
My eyes are fixed on my wedding ring where it rests on the side of the sink near the soap dispenser. Suds rinse down the drain as I place the last dish on the drying rack, then slip the ring back onto my finger. The wave of sadness that comes with it makes my chest tighten, but I force it down.
Deep.
I’m still pissed, but… shit. I miss him. Miss how easy things used to be.
The timer over the stove beeps, and I’m hit with a flashback as I search my brother’s chaotic maze of a kitchen for an oven mitt. It’s a memory from senior year of high school, when West and his brothers saved Scar’s birthday party from being a total disaster. She didn’t have a ton of friends, and I didn’t have much money, which meant buying her something special was completely out of the question.
Then, in walked the Golden boys.
They brought food, balloons, gifts. And it was on that night, standing in the kitchen of my family’s home on the southside, West asked me on our first official date. Granted, we’d already fallen for one another and were inseparable by that point, but that was the night everything became… real.
That feeling—knowing without a doubt that we were unbreakable—I want it back. Desperately. But that version of us feels so very far away.
I’m violently ripped from the memory by frustration as I open another drawer, still in search of a mitt. When I pass the window to my left, I catch a glimpse of two black SUVs parked near the curb. They’ve been there since last night. Right after Pandora’s post gave away my location to my husband who—despite our nasty argument—is still incredibly protective. Apparently, sincehecan’t be here with me, he’s at least made sure my security detail is on the premises. But if I know him as well as I think I do, he’ll only be able to stay away for so long.
I let out a relieved sigh when I finally find what I’m guessing is Hunter’s singular oven mitt. Mere seconds before my pizza becomes too crispy to eat, I pull it out of the oven and place the pan on the stove, knowing I’ll likely spend the next ten minutes hunting down a pizza cutter.
This place is a true bachelor pad, a reflection of the long hours Hunter’s worked since his training began. He’s pulling another twenty-four-hour shift, and at this point I’m sure the fire station probably feels more like his home than this apartment does. The work he’s chosen to take on isn’t easy, but I’m so,soproud of him. He’s taken very little help because he’s determined to rebuild on his own, and I can only respect how far he’s come. Growing up without him was tough. Our parents failed us in every way imaginable, but seeing how all three of us have beat the odds and landed on our feet, I guess Hunter isn’t the only one I’m proud of.
I rifle through another utensil drawer, and I’m hit with a memory of how Dad used to stumble in at all hours of the night, smelling like he drank every ounce of liquor in the bar. Then, Ithink of West coming home last night in almost the same state. My hands go still, and I force my eyes closed, needing to stop my thoughts in their tracks as I compare the love of my life to the man who hurt me more than anyone or anything.
Ever.
Yes, my father has done a complete one-eighty, but it doesn’t change the fact that, back in the day, during my formative years when I needed him most, he was a raging drunk with a temper that rivaled the devil’s.
I hate this.
Hate that I can’t shake that image of West, but it’s stuck in my brain.
Maybe forever.
I was at that appointment, seated right beside him, so I know the news was devastating. I don’t fault him for feeling hopeless and broken, but if alcohol is how he intends to numb the pain, I can’t handle that.
Not again.
My body’s moving on autopilot as I search another drawer, this time finding the pizza cutter right away, but before I get a chance to use it, a sharp knock at the door startles me.
My steps are perfectly quiet as I creep over to the small foyer and peek through the peephole.
