by K. A. Berg
“Isn’t there a refund policy for a woman who was deceived by her dumbass fiancé?” I ask the customer service rep in exasperation when she finally returns to the line to tell me that I can’t get my money back for the tickets to St. Lucia.
She sounds empathetic but still repeats the same information, “I’m sorry, ma’am. The best I can do is give you a credit, minus the applicable fees, for future travel.”
“Okay, thank you,” I sigh. “I have until tomorrow to request the credit, correct?”
I’m starting to wonder if I should just take the trip to St. Lucia with my sister or Mercy.
“Yes, Miss Jacobs.”
My phone clatters against the counter as I drop it down.
All I want to do is scream at the top of my lungs. I was the one humiliated and embarrassed, and now, I have to try and clean up the mess Scott left.
My phone lights up with my parents’ number.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Danielle.” He sounds sad.
“Hi, Daddy.”
“How are you doing?”
“The best I can.”
His voice is dry, rough, and filled with so much emotion for me. “You’re our baby girl, Sweet Pea. If you need anything, you just let me know.”
“I know, Daddy,” I reassure him. “I’m doing okay. I’m working on cleaning up this whole mess. I’m going through the list of places and calling to see if anything is refundable.”
“I already spoke to the hotel manager yesterday, but there is no getting any money back for the reception. I also paid the photographer because we had to, according to the contract we signed.”
So much of my savings and my parents’ savings are wiped out for my dream wedding that ended in a nightmare.
“I’m sorry, Daddy.”
“It’s not your fault, baby. We love you. Call if you need us.”
“I will.”
My stomach growls as I hang up. I instinctively open my empty fridge, finding the same contents I did earlier.
Amelia and Mercy placed an order with Santini’s last night at about ten, just after I finished crying my heart out, insisting that I needed more than the zeppoles in my stomach if I didn’t want to wake up with the worst hangover ever. Wine, sugar, and crying have never led to good mornings. But looking at the pizza now just makes my stomach turn.
Amelia and Mercy left around midnight after I told them I just wanted to go to bed. I practically had to shove them out the door since I was fairly certain they would’ve slept on the couch if I hadn’t. I was grateful for them being there, but at that point, I just wanted to go to sleep.
My phone rings again and my mom’s photo pops on the screen.
“Hello?”
“Hi, sweetie.” I can hear the sniffle and inflection in her voice. “Are you doing all right?”
“I’m doing the best I can, just like I told Daddy.” There’s no doubt in my mind my father told her as much but knowing my mother she needed to call.
“Have you eaten? Do you need me to get you groceries? I know your refrigerator probably has no food.”
She sounds as if it was her world that was torn apart or she’s worried I’ll wither away or become the crazy cat lady less than a full day after calling off my wedding.
“I’m fine, Mom,” I reassure her. “I’ll get takeout today and grab some groceries tomorrow.”
“What are you going to do about a place to live?” She carries on as if I’m not a grown woman who can handle it on her own, but I cut her some slack because she’s a little neurotic and worried about me. “You can always come back home.”
That’ll never happen. I love my parents, but I could never live with them again after being on my own. “I will either be staying here or moving to another apartment in the building. I’m taking care of it, Mom. Don’t worry.”
“Helena,” I hear my father call for her in the background. “Leave the girl alone. I told you, I already spoke with her and she’s okay.”
“She’s my daughter too, Arthur,” she calls back. “I can check on her as well.”
“You’re trying to get her to move back home,” he counters. “That’s smothering, not mothering.”
I chuckle. My dad is the best sometimes. They argue back and forth before my dad comes on the line. “I’m going to hide her phone. Go do what you need to, Sweet Pea. She means well but she’ll ask another hundred questions and won’t stop until she thinks she’s convinced you to come home.”
Grandma, my Aunt Carol, my cousin Jenny, and a bunch of other people I hardly speak to are next on the list. So many calls and texts to return. But that’s what happens when you bail on your own wedding.
My phone lights up again, and I’m about to pull my hair out thinking about having to talk to one more person today until I see Armando’s name flash on the screen.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Dani. It’s Armando. You can start unpacking. The new tenants just finished looking at the open unit on four and are good with it.”
My first smile of the day appears on my lips. “That’s fantastic, Armando. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.”
“It’s no issue at all. I’m happy to have you stay, just sorry it’s under these circumstances.”
He might claim it’s no issue, but real estate in this area of the city doesn’t come by this easy, so it’s a godsend for me.
Unpacking and reorganizing my things in my apartment is the perfect thing to keep my focus off the disaster of my life. It only takes me a little over two hours to put everything back into its’ place in the kitchen. The coffee pot first, of course. A sense of calm washes over me as I feel good having one room done and looking back to the way it did before.
My stomach growls again, demanding something other than pizza before I dive into any more boxes. I pull up the Grubhub app on my phone and order a pint of sesame chicken and some dumplings.
As I order, I notice the time and I’m surprised my sister and Mercy haven’t shown up at my door yet. It’s almost dinnertime, and I was positive that my texts of I’m okay weren’t going to be enough to keep them at bay.
With my dinner ordered, I head for the boxes containing my clothes. This morning, the only clothes I had available were from my honeymoon suitcase. My only underwear option was the racy lingerie I packed to wear for Scott. Shocker: it’s not making me feel sexy the way it usually does.
Scott used to look at me with such desire when I wore the pretty sets. But now, I just keep wondering how many times he looked at Mandy the way he looked at me.
Damn it, Danielle. Stop thinking about that asshole. He isn’t worth another moment of your life.
Just as I start shifting the boxes around my room, a knock at the door pulls me away.
My stomach makes its hunger known again as if it can smell the food through the door. Hunger instantly turns to nausea as I open the door to find Scott standing there. The smorgasbord of feelings I’ve gone through in the last twenty-four hours parade through me like it’s Thanksgiving morning with anger leading the festivities.
I will be strong. I will not let him hurt me again.
I straighten my spine. “You need to leave.”
He reaches out a hand. Repulsed, I step back. “Please, let’s talk, baby.”
He can’t be serious.
“There’s nothing to talk about, Scott. You cheated on me! On our wedding day!”
“Danielle, baby, please,” he begs pathetically. He looks run-down in his jeans and wrinkled dress shirt. “I know I was stupid. I don’t know why I did it honestly because I love you. So much. More than I can tell you. I just made a bad decision.”
Does he think I’ll actually believe that?
“A bad decision is spending the night out without calling me or taking a new job without discussing it with me first,” I scoff incredulously. “Having an affair with your assistant is more than a bad decision. You didn’t accidentally fall, and your penis slipped into her mouth or vagina or where
ver else you put it. You chose to cheat on me. On. Our. Wedding. Day. You let her record it! I know it wasn’t just one time. It happened multiple times, Scott. I’m not an idiot. There’s no way I can forgive you for that. You broke my heart, my trust. You shattered my world. There is no coming back from that. I hope you have a happy life with Mandy.”
“I don’t want Mandy,” he claims as he reaches for my hand again.
I pull back further inside, and he looks hurt. Too bad.
“I want you, Danielle. I love you, Danielle. I want what we were building.”
His green eyes shine with his regret, and I believe he’s truly sorry, but I don’t know whether he is sorry he did it or sorry he got caught. Either way, it doesn’t matter.
“I wanted you, too, Scott. Forever. I wanted everything with you, but for whatever reason, you wanted Mandy and not me. I can’t forgive that. You hurt me in ways I cannot begin to describe. It’s over. There’s no coming back from this.”
He shakes his head. “You don’t mean that.”
“I do.” The irony of saying those words to him in the complete opposite meaning I was planning to yesterday is not lost on me.
I stay strong and don’t waver as he stares at me in shock.
“The damage is done, Scott. It can’t be fixed.”
Despite how much animosity I feel, memories with Scott flicker through my mind. Our first date. The way he held me during scary movies. How he always let me pick the restaurant.
And it takes one second, another sliver of time, for him to wash it all away.
“If you’re serious and this is over,” he says as his posture shifts from desolate to indignant, his eyes flaring with a new emotion, one akin to the need to hurt me, “then I’m done. I’m going on our honeymoon. And I’m taking Mandy with me.”
Pure hatred erupts inside my chest like a volcano, and my foot and hand have a mind of their own. My fist pops Scott right in the nose as my foot slams into him. Right in the balls. He sounds like a wounded animal as he hits the floor in the hallway.
Mrs. Martinson swings open her door and squawks, “What’s going on out here?”
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Martinson,” I say. “He was just leaving. And if he doesn’t, I’ll have Armando remove him.”
Scott writhes on the floor in pain, clutching his crotch.
“Have fun. Good luck getting your dick up after that.”
Slamming the door, I walk back to my bedroom and sag against the wall. I feel like I’m vibrating on the highest setting. My adrenaline is through the roof.
How dare he! He thinks he’s taking Mandy on our honeymoon trip. Over my dead body.
I can hear Mrs. Martinson yelling at Scott, “Don’t come back here. I’m trying to watch Jeopardy, and I don’t want any more interruptions.”
Glancing at my phone sitting on my still-bare mattress, I debate calling Mercy. I need alcohol. But for whatever reason, I find myself grabbing my phone and then my bag from the kitchen. I lock my front door and then head back to my room and slip out the window onto the fire escape.
The logical part of me wonders about the ramifications of leaving my bedroom window unlocked as I climb down the rickety metal stairs into the alley behind my building, but if I see Scott right now, chances are the throbbing in my hand won’t stop me from pummeling his stupid, cheating face.
I pull my phone out and dial back the airline.
It takes about twenty minutes and ten blocks before the flights for St. Lucia are canceled.
Screw you, Scott. I’d rather lose part of the flight fees than have him go on our trip with his new girlfriend.
There’s an inferno burning inside me. I don’t know whether it’s my mounting anger toward my idiot ex or the hot, sticky air that is making me feel extra flushed.
My heart is beating fast in my chest, and a whooshing sound fills my ears.
I need something to eat before I pass out right here on the dirty sidewalk. Wouldn’t that just be the kicker to my already screwed-up everything?
I glance around, looking for something, anything at the moment, and see the logo for a bar two doors up.
Food, alcohol, and air-conditioning. A perfect trifecta for all my needs.
Chapter Four
Danielle
The sign for Cohen’s hangs over the door, generic and nondescript. I’m not sure why that matters, considering all I want to do is sit down in the air-condition and toss back a few shots to forget about my life for a while.
Mandy’s lips wrapped around Scott’s dick.
Her please don’t marry her text.
Scott’s stupid begging.
His proclamation of him and Mandy enjoying what was supposed to be ours.
So much for not thinking about him today.
I can’t believe the asshole had the audacity to show up and try to get me back. What does he take me for? A doormat?
The sun beats down on my neck as I stand on the sidewalk in front of the bar, and a warm breeze blows a stray piece of hair that’s fallen from the messy knot on the top of my head. Aside from the intense heat, it’s such a gorgeous day for the first weekend of summer—a beautiful time of year to get married. Hence why I picked it.
Ugh, Scott has forever ruined my favorite weekend of the year.
“Bastard,” I mumble as I swing open the door to the bar.
A gust of cool air washes over me, but it doesn’t do anything to cool the rage inside me.
I feel like a basketcase, as though I’m on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Deliriously angry one moment and incredibly heartbroken the next.
“Asshole,” I grumble as I take a seat at the bar.
A shot of clear liquid is placed down in front of me as a tall blonde with colorful tattoos covering her arm smiles at me. “Seems like you could use this. It’s on me.”
I glance up and check her name tag. “Thanks, Roxy.”
It doesn’t even cross my mind to ask what’s in the glass before I pick it up and toss it back. The vodka burns like hell as it slides down my throat.
“Another, please.” I nod toward my empty glass. I don’t typically drink vodka because I think it’s gross, but now, it doesn’t matter what I drink as long as it numbs me. “And thanks. How’d you know?”
I watch as the stream of liquid pours from the bottle to the glass, promising to numb my pain soon.
“Most women who come in, mumbling about an asshole, need a shot.”
“Ain’t that the truth?” I agree, raising my now-filled glass in a toast. “Fuckin’ assholes.”
“Food?” she asks, holding up a menu.
I nod. “Please.”
I glance over the menu. The bacon cheddar burger sounds amazing. The only thing is, I don’t want to wait twenty minutes for food. I need it ASAP, especially now that I’ve thrown two shots of vodka into my empty belly.
“Nachos,” I order as Roxy comes back down the bar.
“Coming right up.”
I look around the bar, and it’s pretty nice. The L-shaped bar top has a decent number of patrons sitting at it. Roxy talks to most of them as she flits around, refilling drinks and chatting.
The place itself has a rustic yet modern design to it. Everything is wood and metal, except for the mirror behind the bar, framed by what has to be about a hundred bottles of liquor. One TV is showing the baseball game, and the other is set on an episode of Friends. I’m not sure why though. It’s not like anyone can actually follow a TV show in a bar.
A plate of nachos is placed in front of me, pulling my attention back from the televisions.
“Hey there Rocky. You’d better get some ice on that hand.”
“What?” I look up to find an attractive man behind the bar looking at my red swollen knuckles.
He holds out his palm. “Can I check it out for you?”
I put my hand in his. He asks me to bend and flex my fingers. Pain jolts down my arm. It hurts so bad I can feel it in my teeth. I wince and pull my hand back.
&nb
sp; “Well, it’s not broken, but it’s going to hurt for a few days,” he says. “Let me get you some ice.”
I have no business checking out this broad-shouldered, tattooed, five o’clock–shadowed man who screams of a good night and zero commitment, but I do anyway.
Scott is the quintessential boy next door. He is good-looking in the classic Kennedy-esque way. He wears Dockers and a tie to work every day. He opens doors. Makes reservations. He did all the little things women are supposed to swoon over. But even he couldn’t keep it in his pants.
I wonder how many side pieces this guy has with his bulging arm muscles, colorful dragon tattoo covering his arm, and husky bedroom voice.
He returns with a bar towel full of ice, as promised. He gently places it on the top of my hand. “Keep this on for no longer than twenty minutes. Then leave it off for an hour. Then ice for another twenty. Keep it up for the next day or two.”
My eyes glaze over. Too many numbers after too many shots. The ice slips off my hand as I compare my right hand to my left. “Are you a doctor or something?”
“Nope,” he replies. “Just a guy behind a bar who’s seen his fair share of busted-up hands after bar fights.”
I try wiggling my fingers again but stop as soon as I start. “Damn, that hurts.”
He puts the ice back on my hand. “Ice. Now. Trust me, you’ll thank me tomorrow.”
Someone across the bar calls out, stealing his attention. He winks at me before leaving.
My eyes can’t help but follow him. In part, it’s his ass, which is ridiculous in those jeans. But the bigger part is that he’s actually a nice guy. After yesterday, I’d basically given up hope that such a thing exists. Maybe it’s the shots talking, but I like this guy.
Roxy comes back over, smiling at me. “Oh, good, you got your food.” She looks at the towel now sitting on my hand and asks, “What happened?”
“An asshole happened.”
