“Stop stressing over the asshole.” Cassie doesn’t take her eyes off the hunk of meat holding up one end of the couch.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine,” she argues and rolls her eyes. “You caught your boyfriend in bed with your cousin.”
Man Meat’s eyes grow wide, and he almost drops the couch as his gaze meets mine. His eyes filled with a combination of surprise and sympathy.
Awesome.
“Sorry,” Cassie whispers, taking a sip of her wine. “But it’s true. You’re not fine.”
She walks toward the wall, popcorn still in hand, and begins removing the snapshots of Theo and I when we were happy.
When I thought we were happy.
“Garbage,” I say before she can ask if I want to wallow with them or burn them. “Just… garbage.”
She nods once with her lips tight. A silent 'got it, boss,’that I can totally hear in her voice.
Cassie has me eating junk food on my bed after the couch is gone and the crime scene is cleaned up. The same bed I shared with Theo up until a few hours ago.
I sigh and look at my closet, noticing the empty suitcases on the floor.
How have I not even packed yet?
I’m excited for this trip to Milan. I’m excited to say that I sang at the Olympic closing ceremony.
“Let me guess… you haven’t packed anything but your worry stone.”
This bitch can read my mind.
“No, I can’t read your mind. I just know you.”
"How did you—"
She jumps off the bed, heading toward my walk-in closet like she knows exactly what I need to wear. She starts pulling outfits from hangers, draping them over her arm. “Ya know, for you being able to plan around having this double life and everything…”
I look around like the walls just heard Cassie blab my secret.
“You sure waited until the last second to pack for one of the biggest trips of your career.”
Singing at the Olympic closing ceremony is a huge deal. I mean, they only happen, what, once every four years? And only one person will sing the National Anthem for the United States.
A flutter hits my lower belly, and I can’t tell if it’s nerves or the wine, but I’m blaming the wine.
“I’m not doing a fashion show,” I say as Cassie walks out of my closet holding a few dresses.
“But you have to,” she whines as though this is the highlight of her day.
“How about this?” I sit up from hanging over the side of the bed. “You do the fashion show and convince me why I need to wear your choices.”
Her eyes go wide, loving the idea of playing dress-up, and I almost feel bad for manipulating her to get my way. As she’s rifling through the choices in my closet, I begin thinking out loud.
“Should I downgrade my hotel to a four-star instead of a five-star?”
Her head pops out, and she lifts an eyebrow. “Why would you do that?”
I lean on my hand while tipping the wine bottle to my lips and taking a large gulp of the perfectly unsweetened drink.
