Heartless (45 page)

Saige rolls her eyes. Hard. And makes a gagging noise in the back of her throat. “You’re killing me here.
Killing
me. You don’t get it.
At all
.”

“You’re forcing this on me,” I say, arms crossed.

Her jaw hangs. “Just last week you were complaining about how you wasted your twenties on bad sex with Nathan, were you not?”

I nod. It’s true. I said those things.

Married fresh out of college at twenty-two and a mother at twenty-three and again at twenty-seven, my twenties were exhausting and exhilarating. When my sex life didn’t consist of missionary-in-the-dark-and-under-the-covers, it was basically non-existent.

“
And
you’ve been busting your ass at the gym for the last six months,” Saige adds, “because you said looking good was the best revenge.”

“It is.”

“But I guess all of that means nothing now.”

I know what she’s doing. She’s using a reverse psychology guilt trip cocktail on me. And it’s kind of working.

“We’re
baaaack
.” Gia places a tray of tequila shots and lime wedges and salt shakers in the center of our table. “Let’s do this, ladies.”

“Y’all, I’m getting real, real sick of listening to these two bickering like a couple of old bitties,” Marissa says, grabbing a salt shaker.

“Agreed.” Gia glances at me, winking. “You two need to agree to disagree. Maren doesn’t want to screw the hot guy. It’s her loss. She’s okay with it. Right, Maren?”

“Right.” I grab a tequila shot and elbow Saige, handing it off to her. She knows I still love her, and I know she’s extremely frustrated with me right now.

“Besides, he’s gone now,” Tiffin points toward the bar, toward the empty seat once occupied by one of the dreamiest men I’ve ever laid eyes on.

Saige’s shoulders fall and she yanks a salt shaker from Marissa, a silent symbol of defeat, and we all queue up our shots. The tequila goes down smooth and finishes with a slight burn, and as it settles in my blood, I’m enveloped in warmth and relaxation.

Taking my seat at the table, I settle in for an evening with my girls. My best friends. The ones who’ve been by my side through hell and back. Over the course of the hour that follows, we shove our faces with cake, exchange motherhood war stories, and complain about our husbands – current and ex.

Exhaustion sinks into my bones after a bit, a product of staying up late with Beck last night I’m sure, and I check the time on my phone during a lull in conversation.

“I don’t want to be the first but . . .” I slip my purse over my shoulder. “It’s getting late, you guys.”

Marissa checks her watch. “Oh, wow. It’s almost eleven. I told my husband I’d be home by ten. Whoops.”

Saige swats us. “You guys are super lame, just so you know.”

“Call me tomorrow, okay?” I slide off my chair and wrap my arms around my best friend, kissing her cheek. “Thanks again for the party. I had fun, I swear.”

I tell the rest of the girls goodbye and head out, checking to see if the rain has died down yet, and I see that it’s beginning to dwindle. A row of cabs line the street, all proactively waiting to collect bar patrons and safely deliver them to their homes.

I waste no time hailing a ride home. Rattling off my address to the driver, I climb in and lean my cheek against the cool, rain-slicked glass of the rear passenger window. The chiseled, shadowed face of the suit at the bar comes to mind as we head to suburbia, and I can’t help but wonder how tonight would’ve gone had I listened to Saige and not given a damn.

But it doesn’t matter now because I’ll never know.

***

I kick off my heels and let my sore feet sink into the plush carpet of my living room. The house is eerily calm tonight. Nathan and I separated six months ago and share fifty-fifty custody, but going from a loud, wild household to pure, deafening silence hasn’t been an easy transition for me. At least not yet. I miss those boys so hard when they’re not here, but I know they look forward to their time with their father. I’d never take that from them, despite the fact that he’s a cheating liar of the douche bag variety. Plus I couldn’t if I tried. Nathan’s blue-blooded, old-moneyed family pushed a pre-nup on me shortly after our engagement, and me, being young, naïve, and woefully in love, signed on the dotted line. Our fifty-fifty custody arrangement was in place before the first Greene baby was even conceived.

I take the phone from my purse and leave my bag and keys on the foyer table, the clink of metal on marble echoing through the first floor.

Climbing the stairs to the second floor, I work the buttons of my blouse and unzip my pencil skirt, letting everything fall into a pile at my feet before swooping them up and folding them neatly over the back of an arm chair when I make it to the corner of my bedroom.

A personalized notepad with my monogram rests on top of my pristinely organized dresser, between a gold wristwatch and a pair of rose quartz earrings laid side by side. My eyes are tired, but I click on a lamp and read tomorrow’s To Do list.

1. Personal trainer – 8 am.

2. Call Gerald to fix the broken back step. Cedar?

3. Fill out paperwork for temp agency – due Monday!

4. Make hair appointment. Wax too???

5. Call Aunt Margaret – birthday. 59? Ask Mom.

6. Return sweater to Neiman’s. Find receipt!

Sliding the top drawer of my dresser, I retrieve a pair of matching satin pajamas, white with navy polka dots, and I head to the bathroom to wash up for bed. I mentally run through tomorrow’s to do list one more time, nodding to my reflection and agreeing with myself that I’m much too busy for reckless sex with hot twenty-somethings anyway.

I finish up, click off the lamp on the dresser, grab my phone, and return to my bed, occupying the left side the way I have for years and leaving the right side perfectly made. Firing off a text to Saige, I thank her again and tell her not to stay out too late.

She replies with a devil-horned emoji.

Laughing in the dark, I don’t have the time or energy to decipher the code, so I darken my screen and slide my phone across my nightstand.

Buzz, buzz.

“Saige,” I groan. Yawning, I roll over and tuck my face into a pillow. If I ignore her, she’ll stop texting me after a bit.

Buzz, buzz.

“Oh, for the love of God.” I yank the phone back, eyes squinting at the brightness as I place it in front of my face and prepare to inform her I’m trying to get my beauty rest. I’ll also tell her she’d be wise to do the same seeing how she wants to tag along to my personal training session in the morning.

Only it isn’t Saige this time.

Two text messages fill my screen, attached to a Seattle area code and a number I’ve never seen before.

The first message reads, HI, MAREN. I’M DANTE.

The second, ARE YOU UP?

Heart racing, I sit up in my bed.

WHO ARE YOU? HOW DID YOU GET MY NUMBER? I fire back. I’m ninety-nine-point-nine percent sure Saige has something to do with this, but I’m not sure how. If this is the guy from the bar, he was long gone by the time I left.

I’m so confused.

Three dots bounce across the screen. If I was tired earlier, I’m wide awake now.

His message flashes across the screen: CAN I CALL YOU?

W
all Street Journal and
#1 Amazon bestselling author Winter Renshaw is a bona fide daydream believer. She lives somewhere in the middle of the USA and can rarely be seen without her trusty Mead notebook and ultra portable laptop. When she’s not writing, she’s living the American Dream with her husband, three kids, and the laziest puggle this side of the Mississippi.

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