Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 105679 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105679 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
He recoils. “Why is your boss blowing your ex?”
“That’s a very good question.” I’m shaking with…is this shock? Rage? Betrayal? Actually, it’s all of the above.
“Well, at least it’s a mock BJ,” Aubrey points out. The photo is clearly staged. My ex—also a fashion influencer, The (self-proclaimed) Dapper Man—is decked out in a pastel blue ruffled suit and posing against a redwood tree as he gets his knob polished. The woman in the punk rock bridal dress, kneeling on the mossy floor, is the same one I’m meeting for breakfast tomorrow morning.
The same one who consoled me and took me out for mojitos the night Xander broke it off. He’d told me he’d fallen for someone who was more popular online, thus better future-wife material.
I guess better future wives suck dick in the forest.
Fine, Xander’s dick isn’t technically in Simone’s mouth in this shot. You can’t even see his schlong, since he’s wearing pastel blue briefs with that pastel tux jacket. But—and I can’t believe I have to say this, even in my head—faux fellatio is hardly better than real fellatio.
I grip the phone until my thumb cramps, reading the caption. Xander Arlo and Simone Vega have been blown away with a whirlwind courtship and will be tying the knot in two months. Hold the date—our wedding is going to be a blowout bash.
I nearly blow a fuse. “My ex cheated on me with…” I stop, take a deep breath, then hiss, “my boss, and he’s marrying her.”
“So when he infamously told you he was upgrading,” Aubrey spits out, “he meant to the woman who signs your paychecks.”
I nod, slow-mo, then turn to Jackson. “Simone always updates her look books on Sunday night. Can you drive me to the office?”
“Say less.”
We’re out of there in seconds.
I fume as I thrust framed photos of my family into the standard I’m quitting box, then stuff in my collection of Kindly Fuck Off and Eat a Bag of Dicks mugs I won at book club. Finally, I drop my hot pink New Day planner on top. This planner is too good to have even visited this office. I add my favorite pens with a loud huff.
Oblivious to my ire, Simone sings under her breath at her nearby desk. Pretty sure that tune is Tiffany’s “I Think We’re Alone Now,” and what used to be quirky and fun to me—Simone’s love of eighties tunes—is beyond cloying in this moment.
“Hey, girl,” she calls out. She’s one of those hey girl people. Every woman beneath her is a hey girl. “Can you grab those samples from Charlotte Everly? I want to do a whole vid on retro meets chic.”
“Oh, so sorry. I’m fresh out of fucks,” I say dryly as I jam a succulent in the box.
Missing the sarcasm, she says, “Okey-dokey. I’ll do it myself.”
What the hell is wrong with her? Does she think it’s okay to diddle my ex-boyfriend while telling me what a social-climbing jackass he was for leaving me on account of his “girlfriend upgrade?” What happened to the sister solidarity she espoused? The we girls have to stick together mantra she spewed when Xander said he wouldn’t settle for me?
I stuff another plant in the box then scan my workspace. There’s nothing left to pack, so I march to Simone’s desk, where she’s twirling a strand of her bright blonde hair that’s held back in a Rosie the Riveter-style bandana.
“Hey, girl,” I say, faux upbeat.
She looks up with a grin, still clueless to my mood, and wiggles her fingers at me. “Hey, girl to you too.”
She is too much. They both are too much. A blowout bash? Please.
But when her big, Barbie-blue eyes linger on me, I see her put two and two together. Her smile falters and she points to the box. “What’s going on?”
I don’t have a job, don’t have a plan, and don’t have a parachute. But I still have one thing—my pride. “I have exciting news, and it’s all thanks to you.”
“It is?”
“Absolutely. You’ve been such a great mentor. I’ve looked up to you so much and truly relished the chance to write for your social channels,” I say, winging it. “And since you were always so encouraging of my work, I finally decided to start my own channel and newsletter.”
I mean, technically I’m rage-quitting, but I don’t need to spell out everything for her.
“Oh, is it fashion for average girls?” she asks, like that’s not fucking insulting. She’s five ten to my…well, not five ten at all.
“It’s everything,” I say. I have no clue what my schtick will be, but I know this—regular girls rock.
“And you’re doing it so soon?” She sounds devastated.
“Well, the timing seemed…fortuitous,” I say, swallowing all the how could yous that I want to unleash.
But I won’t. My deadbeat father was wrong about most things, but he imparted one useful life lesson—don’t let anyone know they hurt you. If I tell Simone why I’m really leaving, she’ll think I’m a wounded little bird. She doesn’t get to enjoy that privilege.