“You’re not looking to date, so you keep saying,” Belinda sighs. “Which is crap, like I keep telling you. Look, Colm is gone, sweetie. And any man who walks out on you doesn’t deserve you anyways.”
“I left, Belinda. And could we please keep Colm out of th—”
“Hey, if he can’t handle you at your worst, he doesn’t deserve you at your best,” she snaps.
I roll my eyes and grind my teeth. And I decide if she quotes one more piece of faux-philosophical Pinterest poetry at me, I’m going to throw my phone out the window.
And besides that, there’s another part to my whole situation that sets it apart from Belinda’s story, though she doesn’t know it. Aside from Colm not being an abusive douchebag like her ex, there’s one other teeny little detail I haven’t figured out how to tell her.
I’m not actually divorced.
I blew up at Colm, I walked out, and then he disappeared. Six months later, I don’t really know what you’d call us, but I don’t have to be a lawyer to know it’s not “divorced.”
And so no, I’m not looking to date. I’m not looking to hook up. I’m not even thinking about other men. Because I can’t. I can’t even when I’ve tried. Even after a few glasses of wine, when I’m alone in bed in my new apartment and my fingers start to explore, I can’t even let my fantasies stray. Because try as I might, all I ever end up thinking about as I tease myself and cry out into the empty darkness, is Colm.
He’s the only man who ever got to me like that, and as much as I hate him for it now that he’s gone, I know he’s the only man who ever will.
“Look, go on the date, have fun, and if you still want to be mad at me later, you—”
“I’m still going to be mad at you later,” I mutter, pinching the bridge of my nose with my fingers. “When is this Brett guy supposed to come, anyways?”
“Eight.”
My eyes snap to the clock above the stove, and my jaw drops.
“Fuck! Belinda, that’s in five fucking minutes!”
“So throw something cute on and get ready! Girl, you’re gorgeous and you know it. You’ll be fine!”
I groan, shoving my fingers through my hair and pissed that now it’s going to be my job to tell this Brett character that he’s been had, that it wasn’t me he was talking to, and to please forget my address and have a good night. It also means I have to put pants on, which arguably makes me even more ticked off.
“Belinda—”
There’s a knock at my door, and I swear.
“Goddamnit, he’s here.”
Belinda squeals. “Ooo, I’m so excited.”
“I’m not even dressed,” I mutter, whirling, looking for sweatpants or something.
My friend giggles over the phone. “Well, maybe you don’t need serious commitment. Maybe just answer the door and jump his bones?”
I close my eyes, my mouth tightening and my gut clenching. Even the thought of being with another man like that, no matter how things ended with Colm, makes me sick. The knock comes again.
“I have to go.”
“Better call me later and tell me all the gory detail—”
“If I ever talk to you again, please feel lucky.”
Belinda snorts a laugh as I hang up on her, just as the fist pounds on the door a third time, even more aggressively.
“Give me a second!” I bark. “Jesus.” My eyes are narrowed in a scowl as I head for my bedroom to find pants. The fist pounds once more, and I lose it.
“You know what, Brett!?” I bark at the door. “Please fuck off. I’m not interested, okay?!”
There’s silence, and I cross my arms over my chest, arching a brow, waiting for… something. An apology, maybe, or even a “well fuck you too.” But I get nothing. There’s a small sound from the other side of my door, and I’m frowning, trying to figure out what the heck Brett is up to, when suddenly the entire door explodes into the apartment.
I scream, scurrying backwards and tumbling to the floor as the door smashes into the entryway in a hail of splinters. A dark shape shoves his way in, and the scream lodges in my throat as I kick across the floor away from the man. I whirl, reaching up and yanking the metal bowl that holds my keys in it from the entryway table, brandishing it high as the man kicks away the last splinters of my door and steps inside.
My heart seizes in my throat.
That’s not Brett.
He’s huge, hulking, and evil-looking, dressed in a black suit with a black shirt open at the collar, gold chains across his hairy chest.
“Abby Jennings?”
I swallow, my face going white, my pulse racing through me like fire. The man grins wickedly as he reaches into his jacket, and slowly pulls out a gun.