After Ever Happy (After #4) (31 page)

“I know you’re right, Kim. I just don’t know how to stop. I’m just so mad all the time.” I ball my fists, and she nods. “Or sad. There’s a lot of sad, and pain. I don’t know how to separate it, and now it’s eating away at me, taking over my mind.”

“Well, it’s not as easy as I just tried to make it sound, but, first of all, you need to get excited. You are moving to New York, girl! Act like it. If you go around moping up the streets of New York City, you’ll never make any friends.” She smiles, softening her words.

“And what if I can’t? Like, what if I just always feel this way?”

“Then you’ll always feel that way. That’s that, but you can’t think that way right now. I’ve learned in my years”—she grins—“not
too
many years, mind you, but I’ve learned that shit happens and you move on. It sucks, and trust me, I know this is about Hardin. It’s always about Hardin, but you need to accept the fact that he won’t give you what you want and need, and try your best to pretend you are moving on. If you can fool him and everyone else, you will eventually believe it, too, and it’ll become real.”

“Do you think I could? You know, ever really get over him?” I twist my fingers in my lap.

“I’ll go ahead and lie to you because it’s what you need to hear right now.” Kimberly walks over to the cabinet and pulls out two wineglasses. “You need to hear a lot of bullshit and praise at this point. There is always time to face the truth later, but for now . . .” She rummages through the drawer just below the sink and pulls out a corkscrew. “Now, we drink wine and I’ll tell you all kinds of breakup stories that will make yours seem like child’s play.”

“The horror movie?” I ask, knowing she meant the opposite of that creepy redheaded doll.

“No, smart-ass.” She smacks my thigh. “I’m talking I know women who were married for years and their husbands banged their sisters. That kind of crazy shit will make you realize you don’t have it that bad.”

A glass full of white wine is placed in front of me, and just as I am about to object, Kimberly raises it and presses it to my lips.

A bottle and a half later, I am laughing and leaning on the counter for support. Kimberly has gone through an amazing array of crazy relationships, and I’ve finally stopped checking my phone every ten seconds. Hardin doesn’t have my phone number anyway, I keep reminding myself. Of course, this is Hardin we are talking about; if he wants the number, he will find a way to get it.

Some of the stories Kimberly has told in the last hour seem too crazy to be true. I’m convinced that the wine has made her embellish each one just to make them worse.

The woman who came home to find her husband naked in bed with the neighbor . . . and her husband.

The too-detailed story about the woman who tried to put a hit on her husband but gave the wrong picture to the hired gun so he tried to kill her brother. Her husband ended up with a much better life than her.

Then there was the man who left his wife of twenty years for a woman half his age only to find out she was his great-niece. Yuck. (Yes, they stayed together.)

A girl was sleeping with her college professor and bragged about it to her manicurist, who (surprise) was the professor’s wife. The girl failed that term.

The man who married the sexy French girl who he met at the grocery store only to find out she wasn’t French. She was from Detroit and was a pretty convincing con artist.

The one about the woman who, for over a year, was cheating on her husband with a man she met online. When she finally met the man, she was surprised when he turned out to be her husband.

There is no way a woman caught her husband sleeping with her sister, then her mother, then her divorce attorney. There is no possible way that she then chased him around the law office, hurling her heels at his head while he ran, pantless, through the halls.

I’m laughing, really laughing now, and Kimberly is holding her stomach, claiming that she saw the man a few days later, with the imprint of his soon-to-be-ex-wife’s heel glowing in the middle of his forehead.

“I’m not even joking! It was a mess! The best part of this entire story is that they are remarried now!” She smacks her hand against the counter, and I shake my head at the volume of her voice now that she’s drunk. I’m happy to see that Smith has gone upstairs and left the loud, wine-drinking women alone so I don’t have to feel bad about confusing him with our laughter at other people’s misery.

“Men are assholes. Every single one of them.” Kimberly raises her freshly refilled glass to my empty one. “But truth be told, women are assholes, too, so the only way for it to work is if you find an asshole you can deal with. One that makes you a little less of an asshole.”

Christian chooses this moment to enter the kitchen. “All this talk about assholes is traveling down the hallway.” I’d basically forgotten he was around at all. It takes me a moment to realize that he’s in a wheelchair. I hear myself gasp and Kimberly looks at me, a small smile playing on her lips.

“He will be fine,” she assures me.

He smiles at his fiancée and she squirms in the way she always does when he looks at her like that. I’m surprised by this. I knew she was forgiving him; I just didn’t know it was such a done deal or that she could look so happy doing it.

“Sorry.” She smiles down at him and he reaches for her hips, pulling her onto his lap. He winces when her thigh touches his injured leg, and she quickly adjusts herself on the opposite leg.

“It looks worse than it is,” he tells me when he notices me staring back and forth between the metal chair and the burned flesh on his leg.

“It’s true. He’s really milking this whole thing,” Kimberly teases, poking the dimple on his left cheek.

I look away.

“You’re here alone?” Vance asks, ignoring the glare Kimberly sends him when he bites at her finger. I can’t stop watching them even though I know I won’t be in their position anytime soon, if ever.

“Yeah. Hardin is back at his”—I stop to correct myself—“at Ken’s.”

Christian looks disappointed, and Kimberly has stopped her glaring, but I feel like the hole inside me that has been covered for the last hour is starting to show itself at the mention of Hardin’s name.

“How is he? I really wish he would answer my calls, the little asshole,” Christian mutters.

I blame the wine, but I snap at him, “He has a lot going on right now.” The bite in my tone is evident and I instantly feel like a jerk. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it to sound that way. I just know he is going through a lot right now. I don’t mean to be rude.”

I choose to ignore the smirk covering Kimberly’s face as I defend Hardin.

Christian shakes his head and laughs. “It’s fine. I deserve it all. I know he is. I just want to talk to him, but I know he will come around when he’s ready. I’ll leave you ladies to it; I just wanted to see what all the laughing and screeching was about. Make sure it wasn’t too much at my expense.”

With that, he kisses Kimberly, swiftly but tenderly, and he wheels himself out of the room. I hold my glass out, asking for a another refill.

“Wait, so that means you won’t be working with me anymore?” Kimberly asks. “You can’t leave me with all those bitchy women! You’re the only one I can stand, aside from Trevor’s new girlfriend.”

“Trevor has a girlfriend?” I sip the cool wine. Kimberly was right; the wine and laughter are helping. I can feel myself peering out of this shell, trying to come back to life; with each joke and absurd story, I’m finding it a little easier.

“Yes! The redhead! You know, the one who runs our social media?”

I try to place the woman but I can’t see past the wine dancing in my mind. “I don’t know her. How long have they been dating?”

“Only a few weeks. Get this, though.” Kimberly’s eyes light up at her favorite thing: office gossip. “Christian heard them together.”

I take another drink of wine, waiting for her to explain.

“As in
together
together. As in, they were banging in his office! And what’s even crazier is that the things he heard . . .” She stops to laugh. “They were kinky. I’m talking, Trevor is a total badass in bed. There was spanking, some kinky name-calling, all of that stuff.”

I burst into laughter like a giddy schoolgirl. A schoolgirl who has consumed too much wine. “No way!”

I can’t imagine sweet Trevor spanking anyone. The image alone makes me laugh harder, and I shake my head trying not to think too much into it. Trevor is handsome, very handsome, but he’s just so well mannered and sweet.

“I swear! Christian was convinced he had her like tied to the desk or something, because when he saw him next, he was detaching something from its corners!” Kimberly waves her hands through the air, and a burst of cold wine shoots up and out my nose.

After this glass, I’m cutting myself off. Where is Hardin, the alcohol authority, when I need him?

Hardin.

My heart begins to race, and my laughter is quickly derailed until Kimberly adds another dirty detail to the story.

“I’ve heard he keeps a crop in his office.”

“Crop?” I ask, lowering my voice.

“Riding crop. Google it.” She laughs.

“I can’t believe it. He’s so sweet and gentle. He couldn’t
possibly
tie a woman to his desk and have his way with her!” I just can’t picture it. My traitorous and wine-controlled mind starts imagining Hardin and desks and ties and spanking.

“Who has sex in their office, anyway? My god, those walls are paper thin.”

I feel my mouth fall open. Real images, memories of Hardin bending me over my desk, flash through my mind, and my already-heated skin flushes and burns.

Kimberly shoots me a knowing smile and tilts her head back. “I guess the same people who have sex in people’s home gyms,” she accuses with a giggle.

I ignore her despite the burning embarrassment I feel. “Back to Trevor,” I say, hiding as much of my face behind my glass as I can manage.

“I knew he would be a freak. Men who wear suits every day are always freaks.”

“Only in those smutty novels,” I counter, thinking of a book I’ve been planning to read but haven’t gotten around to yet.

“Those stories have to come from somewhere, don’t they?” She winks at me. “I keep walking by Trevor’s office hoping to hear him nailing her, but no such luck . . . yet.”

The ridiculousness of this entire night has made me feel light in a way I haven’t felt in so long. I try to grasp this feeling and hold it as tightly to my chest as I can—I don’t want it to slip away.

“Who knew Trevor was such a freak, yeah?” She wiggles her eyebrows, and I shake my head.

“Fucking Trevor,” I say, and wait in silence as Kimberly bursts into loud laughter.

“Fucking
Trevor!” she screeches, and I join her, thinking of the source of the nickname as we take turns repeating it in our best impressions of its creator.

T
his day has been long. Too damn long, and I’m ready to sleep. After the heart-to-heart with Ken, I’m worn-out. That, followed by Sarah, Sonya, S’whocares—whatever the hell her name is—and Landon eye-fucking her across the dinner table, has bored me to death.

Even though I wish Tessa hadn’t left without telling me, I can’t say that out loud because she doesn’t owe me any type of explanation.

I played nice, the way I promised Tessa I could, and ate my dinner in silence as Karen and my dad, or whoever he is, watched me with caution, waiting for me to explode or ruin their dinner somehow.

But I didn’t. I stayed quiet and chewed each bite. I even kept my elbows off the ugly-ass table-cover thing that Karen thinks adds a nice pastel spring touch or some shit, but it doesn’t. It’s hideous, and someone should burn it when she’s not looking.

I felt a little better—awkward as fuck—but a little better after talking with my dad. I find it amusing that I keep defaulting to calling Ken my dad now whereas when I was a teen I could barely speak his name without scowling or wishing he hadn’t left just so I could punch him. Now that I understand—well, somewhat understand—how he felt and why he did what he did, some of the anger I held inside me for so long has sort of fizzled.

It was weird, though, feeling that slip from my body. I’ve heard it explained in novels—forgiveness, they call it—but I’ve never felt it until tonight. I’m not quite convinced that I like the feeling, but I’ll admit it helps distract me from the constant ache of missing Tessa. Sort of.

I feel better . . . happier? I don’t know, but I can’t stop thinking of the future now. A future where Tessa and I shop for carpet and shelves, or whatever married people do. The only married people I know who can tolerate each other are Ken and Karen, and I have no clue what they do together. Aside from making babies in their forties. I immaturely cringe at the thought and pretend that I wasn’t just thinking about their sex life.

Truth be told, thinking of the future is much more fun than I ever imagined. I never expected anything from the future, or the present, before. I always knew I would be alone, so I didn’t bother entertaining stupid plans or wishes. Up until eight months ago, I didn’t know there could be someone like Tessa. I had no clue that this obnoxious blonde was walking around waiting to turn my entire life upside down by driving me absolutely insane and making me love her more than I love breathing.

Hell, if I had known she was out there, I wouldn’t have wasted my time fucking every chick that I could. I wasn’t running on anything before; no driving force with blue-gray eyes was helping me, guiding me through my fucked-up life, so I made too many mistakes, and now I have to work harder than most at trying to right those wrongs.

If I could take it back, I wouldn’t have touched another girl. Not one. And if I had known just how good touching Tessa would be, I would have been preparing myself, counting down the days until she barged into my room at that frat house, touching all my books and things after I explicitly told her not to.

The only thing that’s keeping me remotely in control of myself is the hope that she will come around eventually. She will see that this time I’m not going to take my words back. I will marry her ass, even if I have to drag her down the aisle.