Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91504 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91504 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Another glass of wine.
Leaning back in the recliner you loved so much—the right bend to your knees, you said, to let your sore back relax—I think about a dozen threads that could unravel in a second if Gabriel realized I’ve followed him, that I have my own personal notebook of his comings and goings, that I’ve stalked his family’s grave site, that I’m your wife. Your widow.
Another random thought hits, and I suddenly bolt upright. What if Jake didn’t do as I asked and my name was included with the check he sent?
I grab my phone, move my fingers along the surface, pressing to go from screen to screen until I reach my destination, until a distant ringing comes through the speaker.
“Hello?” A man’s weary voice greets me.
“Jake, I need to ask you something.”
“Mer? Are you okay?” He coughs. “Jesus, it’s one in the morning. What’s wrong?”
I pause hearing how late it is, remembering that I finished most of that bottle of sweet wine on my own. And now I’m calling my brother in the middle of the night, likely waking his wife, his family…
“I asked you to make sure my name wasn’t on the check. Or any of the paperwork.”
Jake doesn’t respond. Likely he’s confused.
“The check, Jake! For the family Connor killed.”
“Jesus, Mer. You woke me up for this? I told you I’d take care of it. Your name wasn’t on anything. Everything came from the Estate of Connor Fitzgerald.”
“You’re sure?” My voice comes out too high, too desperate. Even I can hear it.
“I did what you told me. Now tell me what’s going on. What’s happened?”
“Sorry. I’m sorry.” I want to let the phone fall from my hand. Want to curl up in a ball and sleep and pretend today never happened. Pretend the last two years never happened. But Jake will only call back. He might even show up at my door. “I’m okay. I promise. I’m sorry I woke you. I just—I can’t sleep. My mind started circling.”
“I’m concerned. You don’t sound like you can’t sleep. You sound frantic.”
“I’m fine. Really. I’ll text you tomorrow, okay?” I don’t wait for him to reply. Instead, I hang up, stare at the phone, and start making a mental to-do list. At the top of it: Tell Gabriel our time is over. I agreed to a few more weeks. That’s come and gone. I’ll do it first thing Monday. I have to.
But for now, I need a distraction. Anything will do. So I go back to my phone, opening one app at a time—the weather app (rain tomorrow), my email (ugh, deal with it Monday), social media (too many happy wives and smiling children; don’t they care at all about how it makes people like me feel?), and last, the dating app. Because I have nothing to lose.
The new messages waiting are from men looking for a sugar mama. Men who think posing with cans of beer is attractive. Men who actually mention their ex-wives in their profiles. One red flag after another.
Why can’t I meet someone normal?
Then I remember, I have. The doctor. Robert.
I’ll need more wine for this. I wander into the kitchen, almost fall on my face stumbling over my own two feet, and arrive at the empty bottle I’ve consumed. I’ve forgotten I poured the last drops only ten minutes ago. I won’t feel well tomorrow, but if I already know I won’t feel well, why stop?
I find a tiny bottle of prosecco hidden in the back of the fridge and untwist the top, let the cork pop out, and sip at the bubbles as they spill over and onto my hand. I lean over the sink, keeping the wine from making a sticky mess on the counter.
And I can’t help but think of you. How you’d stumbled around the kitchen in search of whatever alcohol you could get your hands on near the end.
I push that thought from my mind in favor of downing my bottle of prosecco. After it’s empty, I decide it’s a good idea to send Robert a text.
Meredith: Don’t you owe me a second date?
I completely ignore the previous messages—the one where I told him I’d check my schedule and get back to him, the several that followed where he checks in, but I never responded. I ghosted him, just like the story he shared with me about his first date back in the dating game.
Seconds tick by, then a minute. Somewhere in there, my eyes focus on the time—1:32 a.m. Jesus. I forgot it was so late. Again. I’m about to toss my phone down, let myself slump over on the couch and pass out.
But it chimes, a new message comes in. I straighten and read it.
Robert: Is this a ghost?
It takes me a second to get what he means—he’s giving me a hard time. For ghosting him. I smile and write back.