Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76517 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76517 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Her voice tapers, and she sucks in a startled breath.
“Oh my God.” Clenching her hand across her chest, she rises from the bed and paces the space in front of my dresser.
“What?”
All the color has drained from her face. Her eyes are wide, and her mouth is agape, as if she wants to speak but the words aren’t coming.
“What is it?” I ask again.
“Do you think . . . do you think he proposed to me so quickly because he wanted to use my money to renovate this house?” she asks. “Do you think he was going to string me along until he could sell the house and make off with the profits?”
That’s exactly the kind of thing his opportunistic ass would’ve done. He was always looking for easy money, never hesitating to take advantage of some poor trusting soul. I saw him do it to his own friends back in high school. The asshole was always so charming no one questioned him—until it was too late. And then he’d just gaslight the hell out of them until they let it go.
“You want my honest opinion?” I ask.
She nods, one hand clenched at her stomach.
“Knowing my brother,” I say, “that’s absolutely what he was doing.”
“I’m going to be sick,” she says before darting out the door. It swings behind her, slamming against the wall. Her trampling footsteps are followed a second later by the slam of the bathroom door.
Hunched over, I pinch the bridge of my nose as my head pounds.
Donovan royally and epically screwed her over.
If I burn this house down, I’m no better than him.
I’m the last person who should be comforting anyone, but right now I’m all she’s got. I get up and knock on her bathroom door.
“You okay in there?” I call out.
The toilet flushes, and the faucet twists on with a creak.
“Yeah,” she says, her voice haggard. She emerges a minute later with bloodshot eyes, breath smelling like toothpaste. “I hate him.”
Join the club . . .
Tearing past me, she heads downstairs.
“Where are you going?” I follow.
“On a walk. I need some air.” Perched on the bottom step, she laces up a pair of tennis shoes like a woman on a mission.
“A little late for a walk, don’t you think? You want some company?”
“Yeah, sure, if you want.” It’s not exactly a bona fide invitation, and she hardly waits for me to get my shoes on before she’s out the door, but I tag along anyway. She shouldn’t be alone in her state of mind.
The full moon glows above, reflecting off the gray-white sidewalk ahead. Bullfrogs croak and crickets chirp. The humidity from earlier today has faded into something more tepid and agreeable. Funny how it can be simultaneously a beautiful night and a shitty one.
I trot ahead, catching up with Donovan’s runaway former fiancée. And for the hour that follows, I tread beside her in silence: an inobtrusive show of support.
Maybe one of these days I’ll tell her what the bastard did to me.
But tonight isn’t about me.
It’s about her.
FIFTEEN
ANNELIESE
quatervois (n.) a crossroads; a critical decision or turning point in one’s life
Lachlan stayed all weekend.
He stayed last night too.
I guess he’s here to stay—at least until the house is finished.
I’m on my way to meet Berlin for coffee Monday night. I’m maybe three miles into my trip, and I’ve already changed the radio station at least a dozen times. I yank on my seat belt, unable to get comfortable. For the past couple of days, I’ve been listless and unsettled, obsessing over the web of lies Donovan wove. At first, I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt, but the lies keep stacking, piling one on top of the other. At night, I’ve tossed and turned, replayed every conversation, every memory, at least a hundred times, picking them apart until there was nothing left to analyze.
I was always raised to trust people until they give you a reason not to.
But there were never any signs or red flags.
He showered me with love from the start, treated me kindly, and said all the right things.
He had me eating out of the palm of his hand.
While there’s a tiny part of me stuck in denial, refusing to believe the entire thing was a sham, I realize now that the Donovan I knew and loved was nothing more than a facade. The real Donovan is a stranger: a beautiful, wicked stranger who will never have to suffer for his sins.
I pull into the coffee shop parking lot, close my eyes, and take a deep breath. I can’t go into this like a fidgety hot mess. I check my hair in the rearview, finger combing a strand behind my ear, and I slick on a coat of pale-pink ChapStick.
Heading in, I spot Berlin in a corner booth. Smiling from ear to ear, she flags me down with a wide wave, one so big I couldn’t possibly miss it. I wave back and get in line to order a decaf cappuccino. Lord knows I don’t need another reason to be up all night.