Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 107630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
I can’t tell him. But knowing how badly Hope is hurting, I push every limit I can.
“I love her, man. I need to apologize to her and explain something.” I don’t add—and make sure she’ll keep my secret.
He whistles, clearly hearing my first words and knowing how much I mean them. “Well, it sucks to be you, then.”
“Yeah, no shit.”
I can almost hear his grin when he says, “No, it sucks to be you because she’s at Joy’s, and Joy’s gonna kill you long before you get the chance to talk to Hope. I’ll send you the address, but, uh, it was nice knowing you.”
Chapter 26
HOPE
One call to Joy, one sobbed plea consisting of nothing more than her name, and she’s in full-blown sister-defense mode. “Go to my place. I’ll meet you there.”
She’s at work today but is hightailing it out of there in an instant for me. That’s what friends do. That’s what family does. Not the mean, cold, hurtful thing Sean did.
I hate him.
Mostly because he ruined everything. I was happy in my stupidity, thinking Ben and I had something special. Fast, yes, but I’ve developed real, deep, strong feelings for him, and I thought he had done the same. But no. It was all some sort of vile, devious game I didn’t know I was playing.
Joy beats me to her apartment, probably because she broke every speed limit and ran every red light, but I can’t scold her for it when she opens the door holding a glass of red wine and a piece of dark chocolate candy.
“It’s not even noon,” I say, but I’m hardcore eyeing the wine.
“It’s five o’clock somewhere,” she singsongs, pushing both offerings into my hands. “Besides, red wine and chocolate are good for your heart.”
“I think that’s for heart disease,” I argue weakly, carrying them with me as I curl up in the corner of her couch, sniffling and blinking my scratchy, raw eyes as I try to make myself as small as possible to hold all my brokenness together.
Joy waves a hand around dismissively as she sits on the other end of the couch. “Heart disease, heartache, heartbreak, high blood pressure . . . whatever. What happened? And if those tears are about Roy the Pretty Boy, I’m going to slap you, so tread carefully.”
I snort a humorless laugh, which echoes in my wineglass, because yeah, I’m drinking it. Just like she knew I would. Roy? I haven’t thought of him in ages, it seems. He’s a distant memory in the face of losing Ben. “Ben lied.”
Her eyes narrow as she studies my tear-soaked face. “About what? We talking he’s married, he’s the prince of a country we’ve never heard of, or he’s got crotch rot?”
My sister is strange. She watches cheesy Hallmark movies but spends too much time with immature sports guys, so those are the extremes her mind goes to.
“He’s not a business consultant, that’s for sure,” I huff as I shove a piece of candy into my mouth. Okay, she might’ve been right about the wine-chocolate combo. It’s not helping, but it’s not hurting either.
“Okaaay, are we talking pilot, porn star, IRS agent, podcast dude, politician, or serial killer?” She rattles off that list like the spectrum of bad to worse was already in her mind. “Gimme something to work with here, woman.”
“Why’re pilots bad?” I ask, not immediately seeing the downside to free vacation flights anywhere I want to go. That’s what I should’ve done after Roy. Just left Maple Creek and gone somewhere where no one knew me and I didn’t know anyone. Maybe I’ll do that now?
“Hookups in every city, clueless spouse at home.” She snaps her fingers, focusing me. “So he’s a pilot?”
I shake my head. “No, he’s—”
I freeze, the truth on the tip of my tongue. I can’t tell her. I don’t know why.
I should. She’d be as mad as I am about Ben’s lies. But I choke on saying the words, He’s the lead singer of a band, wears a whole-ass costume onstage, and scream-sings like a demon’s possessed him while the audience basically worships him like a god.
Finally, I manage to say, “I can’t tell you exactly what he is.”
She tilts her head, studying me. “Straight to the serial killer, then,” she says flatly. She must not really believe that’s true, though, because she keeps rolling. “Mr. Not a Business Consultant is something else. Something secret. CIA agent?” she guesses with a side eye to gauge my reaction.
I give her a look of annoyance, and to mollify me, she throws another piece of candy at me, the way you’d toss a steak toward a dog to keep it from attacking you. It hits me in the shoulder and bounces to the couch. When I pick it up, effectively accepting her nonapology, she says, “Fine. I’ll quit guessing because you’re gonna tell me eventually. For now, does whatever it is change things for you?”