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)
“Bet you’re looking forward to that.”
“A lot.” He kisses my neck, softer than usual. “You’d like them.”
I hear what’s unsaid—I want you to meet them.
And I’d like that too.
As I’m getting dressed, Hayes waggles his phone at me, looking Machiavellian. “See how much I pretended you never told me about the socks and sandals?”
Intrigued, I tug up the zipper on my pants and peer at the screen. It’s a text thread between Hayes and his granddads. My heart squeezes as he scrolls past a handful of prior messages about stars and constellations, about what Hayes can see in the San Francisco sky from his rooftop, about how beautifully inky black the night is. It’s like he’s showing me a piece of himself without having to say as much, and I appreciate the subtle gesture.
He slows the pace of his scroll, stopping at the most recent messages, including a photo of, as promised, a nattily dressed older man and a super-casual one, standing on a beach.
Hayes: That picture hurts my eyes. Why are you wearing socks with sandals?
Ryan: You’re saying I can’t wear them? That’s info that would have been helpful before our vacation!
Bryan: I’ve been telling you for years. You don’t listen to me.
Ryan: Sorry, did you say something?
Hayes: Dudes, I just heard on social that this trend is now officially over. Just wanted you to know.
Ryan: YOU SIT ON A THRONE OF LIES. See you at lunch.
“You tried, at least,” I say, patting his shoulder. “Since he saw through it, maybe at least get him some cute socks. Like, with drawings of llamas on them. That’s better than plain white ones.”
He snaps his fingers. “Yes! That’s perfect.”
A little later, with Roxy by my side, I head to the door, having been thoroughly fucked by two men, when my phone pings with a text from Simone.
Oooh. What if she’s canceling the meeting? I kind of hope she is. But I also don’t want her to cancel it, since I need to cover her wedding. I slide the message open, a little apprehensive, then read her note.
I curl my lips. “Ugh. She’s bringing Xander.”
Hayes takes a sip of his coffee, then looks me up and down approvingly. “And you’re walking into that meeting having been fucked so much better than he could ever do.”
Stefan sets a now washed-and-dried blender back on the counter with a satisfied grin. “Fucking well is the best revenge.”
He’s not wrong, especially when Hayes sets down his mug and comes to the door. “By the way, when you’re at this meeting, I’m going to jerk off to those pictures of you. So…feel free to picture that.”
I drop off Roxy at home, then head to the meeting, certain I’ll have a hard time thinking of anything else.
32
THE EX AMBUSH
Ivy
October in San Francisco is one of the hottest months of the year, so here I go, in this sleeveless top. It’s the opposite of Simone’s retro rockabilly style. I’m very now, and I need this fashion armor as I meet her and my ex in a boba shop.
I’d rather not see either one of them, but I’m trying to approach this meeting as a reporter. She’s simply someone I’m covering, and so is he. I grab the door handle and prepare to meet the woman who used to be my mentor.
How did I miss all the signs that I couldn’t trust her? Or…the man by her side at the pristine white table in the corner of the shop?
Xander’s dressed in plaid pants and suspenders and wearing a fake-ass smile to go with his equally fake horn-rimmed glasses.
I stride over to their table, plastering on a faker smile. “Hi, Simone. Hello, Xander.”
“Hey, girl!” she says cheerily, waving her bejeweled hand at me, the engagement diamond sparkling like fire. It matches the silvery shade of her headband, holding back all those blond locks. He’s the Ken to her Barbie. Well, he’s a hipster Ken.
Xander clears his throat. “Hi, Ivy. You’re looking very professional.”
Can you say underhanded dig?
“Thanks,” I say evenly as my gaze strays to a…jar on the table that appears to be full of yeast and stuff. “You brought…your sourdough starter?”
He clutches the glass lovingly. “Salinger,” he says with obvious pride. There must be a warp in the time-space continuum. Did he actually name that thing he was growing when I was with him?
Xander confirms what I didn’t ask. “He needed a name.”
And a gender? “The sourdough starter is a he? And you carry him around?” I can’t not ask.
“It’s safer that way for Salinger,” Xander says, gripping the jar more tightly. “Simone’s cat likes to knock things over.”
My stomach twists. What did I ever see in him? I can never date for real again until I diagnose the problem with my taste. I put that on my mental to-do list as I go to the counter to order a brown sugar milk tea. Once Simone and Xander’s drinks are ready, too, we sit back down, and I open up a notebook and uncap a pen.