Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 81401 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 407(@200wpm)___ 326(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81401 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 407(@200wpm)___ 326(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
“Can we talk?” Van says when I’m halfway to my car. In front of me, Levi and his daughter are handing out pieces of paper, which I’m assuming contain their address. Levi looks over and smiles, but it quickly fades. No doubt because of the look on my face that has nothing to do with him and everything to do with Van.
“No, we have nothing to talk about.” I step to move around him, but he blocks me.
“At least let me explain, Z. You owe me that.”
I raise my glasses so he can see my eyes. Unfortunately for me, tears that I have held back all day decide this is the time to make their appearance. “I owe you? I didn’t do anything to warrant you cheating on me, Van,” I grit out, trying to keep my voice low. “Get out of my way and out of my life.” For emphasis, I jab him in the chest with my finger.
“I’m done playing around Zara. I’m heading over now so we can talk about this shit.”
“I won’t be home.”
“Yeah you will,” he says as he heads toward his car. I hate that he’s right, that he knows me so well to know that I will be home because I’m afraid to go anywhere else. I could go to Darian’s, but Van would go there next.
I glance back at the crowd around Levi and Stormy and catch him looking again. This time when he smiles, I return the gesture and head toward him.
“So hey, I don’t usually invite myself to other people’s parties—”
“Oh! My! God! You want to come to my house?” Stormy says, interrupting me. The people around her seem thrilled, but I can’t grasp whether it’s fake or not.
“I thought that maybe. . . you guys seem cool,” I say to the group of them. By now they’ve all pasted on their phony smiles and are happily agreeing.
“Here’s our address,” Levi says, handing me a piece of paper. “This is very low-key and last minute.”
“Thanks.” I hold the piece of paper up like I’m reaffirming an appointment. The only thing that is keeping me from going is the fact that I don’t know these people and they will likely have their cell phones out. The last thing I want is to have my picture plastered all over social media or have to explain myself to Laura, not that we’re on speaking terms. Although going to their house seems like a better option than sitting home and having Van show up with the paparazzi lingering around out front.
As odd as it sounds, being at the Austin's house where everything is normal seems to be my best option right now. I feel awkward standing there with Levi looking at me and my hand suspended in the air, and before I can make a bigger fool out of myself, I pocket the slip of paper and head toward my car. The quicker I can get out of there, the better.
But because I’m a glutton for punishment, I figure I’ll stop at the store, so I don’t show up empty-handed, and while I sit in my car I place a ridiculous order and pay for rush delivery. . . out in the parking lot. I use the time that I’m sitting there to contemplate my life.
I’m thirty-two years old and separated. My soon-to-be ex-husband can’t grasp the idea that I want a divorce. No, want isn’t a strong enough word. I need, or I’m adamant that it happens. He also needs to stay away from me because my body still desires his, even though the sight of him makes me ill. I will never get the images of him and that assistant going at it on the desk out of my mind. She touched what I deemed mine a long time ago, and no amount of groveling from him will ever be able to change my mind.
It’s an hour or longer until the delivery boy drives his car from one end of the parking lot to the other, where I’m parked under a couple of palm trees.
“Ms. Phillips?”
“Yes.” I push the button to open the back hatch and watch through my rearview mirror as he loads an obscene amount of food into the back of my car. My excuse for doing this is because I want the Austin’s to have an enjoyable party and because I can. Maybe this is my way of saying thank you, although I don’t know what for. He’s the one who burned my hand, yet if he hadn’t, I wouldn’t be on my way to his house to hang out with the dance crew from my video.
“Something is really wrong with me,” I say to my reflection.
After the last bit is loaded, the boy appears at my window again and hands me a slip of paper to sign. I leave him a ridiculously stupid tip and thank him. With the Austin’s address in my navigation system, I head in their direction, quickly realizing that they live in a nicer part of town not far from Bel Air.