Wish - Page 4

New life? That’s a weird slipup.

“Thanks!” I say, though I don’t believe in luck. It’s going to take hard work to make these things into something beautiful that people want to buy.

I leave the shop, lugging my bags to my truck. I carefully place everything on the passenger side floor.

Huh. That’s odd. The colorful bottle, which is sitting at the top, looks like it might have something inside. I pick it up and give it a quick shake.

What is that? I shrug. Guess I’ll find out when I get home.

I secure the bottle with the rest of my finds in the bag so it doesn’t roll out during the drive home.

A few moments later, I’m pulling into the back alley behind the store and notice a black Mercedes with tinted windows behind me. I can’t see who’s driving, but when I turn right, so does the car. After a few blocks, it’s gone, but my mind keeps flashing back to the guy in the suit from the garage sale. The one who took the bottle I now found again. He drove that exact same car.

The fine hairs on the back of my neck stand up. It’s just a coincidence. Right?

Chapter Three

“What! What do you mean you can’t come into Manhattan tonight?” Olivia gripes through the phone. She lives in the city and has been my best friend since the glorious eighth grade, a time when we both had metal-encrusted teeth, honked rather than laughed, and showed our butt cracks way too often. Ultra-low-rise jeans, baby. Yeah.

But aside from that, we had something else in common that definitely shaped our lives: deadbeat dads. Though, I think it was harder on Olivia, because her dad left when she was ten. I never knew mine. He was just some guy my mom dated and fell in love with who bailed when she got pregnant. She once told me it didn’t matter, though. She wanted me even before they met, and “at least I got something incredible out of it.”

Now there’s a strong, independent woman for ya.

“I’m so, so sorry, Vi,” I say to Olivia, “but there’s no way I can be your plus one at the party. I finally have real orders, and I need the money.” I have to work until they’re done. Perfect and done.

“Why do you torture yourself like this? I can loan you money,” she argues. But to Vi, “loan” means “give,” and I can’t accept charity. I mean, yeah, if I needed a kidney to survive or if she wanted to give me her old glassware, I’d be all over that.

But straight up charity?

No thanks.

My mom raised me to be a self-sufficient woman for obvious reasons: You never know when the person you love most will leave, a lesson she learned with my dad and a lesson I learned with Greg.

Now I see why sticking to your principles is important. One moment of weakness and you’re Gregged. What a total con man.

“Thanks,” I say, “but I got myself into this mess. I’m either going to figure it out, or I’m not.”

“Uh…no. Back that shit up, sister.” She exhales sharply. “Douchey Greg got you into this mess when he banged the real estate agent who sold you guys your house.”

Yeah, and he also borrowed my savings so he could follow his dream while he kept on banging her. “I don’t need a reminder.”

“Really now? Because I just heard you blame yourself, and last time I checked, you weren’t the one cheating and lying.”

I know. I fucking know already. But this goes far beyond a bad breakup. Greg pushed me to start my own business and promised to be there every step of the way. We were going to get married, have kids once finances allowed, and eventually buy a bigger home. In the meantime, we’d keep things simple and separate—finances, investments, the deed to the house. He said it would protect me, but now I wonder if he planned to flee all along, free and clear. No strings. I was merely a stepping-stone to the next level: “Hi! I’m Greg! Dependable. Living in a nice, middle-class neighborhood with great schools. I drive a BMW. I don’t have commitment issues. Note my awesome businesswoman girlfriend. She makes art. She’s smart. That means I am too. Please list your house with me?”

“Fine.” I groan. “I get your point, but I’m the one who chose to move to Albany. Me. I ignored the flaming red flags. I let him fuck me over because I wanted to believe good things happen to good people if they’re just brave enough to take a risk.”

Wrong. So wrong. But I can’t change the past, and it doesn’t matter if I bawl my eyes out or want to throw up every time I think about what he did to me. Even now, my stomach is knotting up. Nausea is imminent.

Tags: Mimi Jean Pamfiloff Romance
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