Playing at Love (23 page)

“Why?” I asked, knowing that Molly was excellent at steering me from tab rags with bad press or pictures that made me look fat. “Is there something new?”

“No,” she said immediately. “Well, yes and no. It’s not
new
, per se.” I was already on my feet in front of the rack, scanning the covers for what she was warning me about.

Then I saw it.

It wasn’t
my
face on the cover that time, but it might as well have been.

“Are you talking about
Recognise
?” I tore the magazine from its stack, then stared at the picture on the cover. “Huh. I haven’t seen his face in almost a year.”

Molly huffed. “Your ex is a moron,” she uttered flatly. “Why is it the more symmetrical the face and perfect the abs, the more idiotic the personality? Look at the title of the cover story.”

I read it aloud: “‘Miles Carlisle’s Tortured Heart.’” Now
this
was a laugh. “Still tortured after almost a year? Maybe he needs to write a song about cheating on his girlfriend then swear it isn’t autobiographical. That used to make him happy.”

“He needs to be castrated,” Molly stated. “Don’t call him.”

“Like I would.” I sat down, crossed my legs, and opened the magazine. “I’m on dating ice, anyway. Until I find a combination of Clark Kent and a young Paul McCartney, I’m out of the game.”

“You’ll be single for a while, chica.”

I chuckled my agreement, mindlessly flipping through the magazine. That’s when I noticed something else: The large, ice-blue eyes of the girl on page five stared back as though I was gazing into a mirror. I remembered this photo shoot. It was five years ago, right at the beginning of my new life. Against my better judgment, I flipped to the center.

There she was again.

I leaned forward. “I’m in it, too.”

“I know,” Molly said. “The article is total crap, though. Taking that idiot Miles’s side. Horrid cow of a writer.”

I rubbed a fist into my forehead, massaging away a new headache. “Ya know, a year ago, Christian would have bought up every copy in the store and hid them in the trunk of his car.”

“I know.” I heard a sad smile in Molly’s voice. I was smiling, too. “I never knew what he did with all those,” she said. “But I’m sure he recycled.”

I started to laugh but choked instead, as reality resurfaced:
Christian isn’t here now. He’ll never be here again.
I felt the magazine shaking between my trembling hands.

“Grab the stack,” Molly ordered, almost as if she’d heard my thoughts. “Grab them, Abby.” I walked toward the magazine rack, quickly looked around me (no one was close by, of course), and snagged the few mags that were left. “Drop them on the floor.” I did this next. “Now kick the lot of them under the rack.” I paused for a moment, then obeyed.

As I stepped back, I wiped my hands on my jeans as if I’d just been touching something dirty.

About the Author

Ophelia London was born and raised among the redwood trees in beautiful Northern California. Once she was fully educated, she decided to settle in Florida, but her car broke down in Texas and she’s lived in Dallas ever since. A cupcake and treadmill aficionado (obviously those things are connected), she spends her time watching art-house movies and impossibly trashy TV, while living vicariously through the characters in the books she writes. Don’t call when
The Vampire Diaries
is on. Ophelia is also the author of 
Abby Road,
her first full-length novel. Visit her at 
http://ophelia-london.blogspot.com
.

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