Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 75397 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75397 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
It’s not like she was at the gyno’s office or a goddamned funeral.
“I must’ve caught her on a bad day,” Rossi says. Her voice is light but her eyes are heavy with disappointment—a look I grew to know far too often in my earlier days, when I didn’t appreciate the importance of taking three seconds out of my day to give someone a once-in-a-lifetime photo op.
Glancing back at the blonde, I catch her texting on her phone. It’s not like she’s interacting with her kid. She isn’t even watching him for crying out loud.
I push Lucia in the swing, keeping my attention trained on the fake, pseudo-celebrity by the slide, hotness bubbling inside of me with every passing second. It takes all the strength I have to stay planted, to refrain from marching over there and giving her a quick lesson in being a public figure.
“It’s going to be dark soon,” Rossi says after a few more minutes. “We should head back.”
I slide my sunglasses off my face and fold them into my collar as she hoists Lucia from the swing and buckles her back into the stroller. We’re halfway down the block, heading back, when the unmistakable sound of sneakers scuffing against sidewalk grows louder behind me.
“Excuse me,” a woman’s voice calls out.
I keep walking, focusing on Rossi and Lucia.
“Hey, sir, excuse me,” she calls louder.
Rossi glances back from the corner of her eyes. “Oh, shoot. It’s her …”
Turning around, I’m faced with the blonde in the preppy sweater, her face all smiles as she fixes her hair.
“Oh my god.” She jumps, clasping her hands over her perky chest. “It’s you. It’s actually you.” Taking a few steps closer, she adds, “I am such a huge fan. You have no idea. I was actually at the Rosemont Open last week—third row. I swear we made eye contact at one point …”
“Doubtful.”
Her smile fades, as if she’s confused for a fraction of a second.
But still, she prattles on.
“Anyway, I hate to bother you, but would you mind if I got a selfie with you?” Sliding her phone from her skintight pocket, she pulls up her camera, readying it.
“Yes, actually. I would mind.” Placing my palm out before she can step any closer, I say, “Can’t you see that I’m busy?”
She tries to respond, but apparently the cat’s got her tongue.
“Fabian,” Rossi whispers.
The woman looks to me—then to Rossi, before stepping backwards and nearly tripping on a crack on the sidewalk.
“Oh,” she says when she makes the connection. If karma’s a bitch, then I’m her faithful sidekick. “I, uh … I should get … sorry to bother you …”
She points back toward the playground.
“Yes, go watch your kid before he hurts himself,” I add.
“Fabian,” Rossi says again, sterner this time.
Turning, the blonde trots away. I can only hope the sting of humiliation haunts her the rest of the night—and I pray the next time one of her loyal fans approaches her, she’ll indulge them with a photo and a few kind words.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Rossi says as we head to her home.
“Yes,” I say. “I did.”
The mother of my child deserves the utmost respect.
Chapter 13
Rossi
* * *
I toss and turn in bed Friday night, listening to the sounds coming from the guest room across the hall and wondering what the hell Fabian’s doing in there. He’s probably still on LA time. And maybe he’s unpacking. I swear I heard drawers sliding open and close. I think he made a phone call at one point, too. And he gets texts all the time—all those random dings.
Sitting up, I switch on my bedside lamp and grab a book from my nightstand in hopes it’ll relax—and distract—me. But first, I pluck my phone off the charger, log into IG, and unfollow Melanie Saint James before I forget. Only first, I scan through her photos for old times’ sake.
I realize social media is fake. It’s all filters and posed photo ops and sponsored ads masquerading as sung praise. But I thought Melanie was different. She reminded me so much of myself. Failed marriage. Mid-thirties. Ambitious and hard-working. Family oriented. Natural, motherly instincts. She made the impossible look like a cakewalk, and she wrote a book about it, too.
In the seconds before I hit the unfollow button, I laugh under my nose thinking about the gobsmacked look on her face when Fabian rejected her request for a selfie and fed her her own lines.
I only hope she’s kinder to the next person who approaches her.
Flipping my book open to a bookmarked chapter, I read until my eyelids turn to paperweights—and the next thing I know, I wake to the smell of ink on paper and the book splayed out across my face.
Sitting up, I return the book to my nightstand and check the clock … three AM.