by Liz Talley
“I don’t want to,” she said.
“Why are you such a brat? Sit down. Or go. Either way, stop reeling around, knocking into people.” Clay’s expression grew less interested in what she would do and more prone to lecturing her the way her father would. Imagine that, the man whore of Shreveport lecturing her about her maturity.
“Why did you sleep with my mom?” she asked, ignoring his question and the fact he was insulting her. “Did you do it to make me jealous?”
Clay’s hard laugh made her insides hurt even more than she thought possible. “You don’t get it, do you? I’m not into you, Ellery. I was into your mother. She’s beautiful, accomplished, and generous. She made me feel like a person, like I wasn’t some schmuck who didn’t have a brain. Your mother was exactly what I was looking for.”
“But too old for you. She’s my mother. My mother, Clay.”
Clay signed the receipt Chris slid over to him along with his credit card. Then he looked hard at Ellery. “If there is anyone in this world who needs to get over herself, it’s you, Ellery. Get an Uber, go home, and dry out. Then when you wake up and can think straight, you should really, really get the fuck over yourself and stop acting like a selfish princess.”
With that, Clay stood up and walked away.
Her mouth was open. She should close it. But she couldn’t seem to remember how to.
She wasn’t a selfish princess. He didn’t get to call her that. How dare he? How . . . tears started leaking from her eyes. People were staring.
So Ellery left, staggering toward the door of Elmo’s, passing people she’d probably known her entire life, while wearing kitty-cat slippers and listing to the right. She stumbled only once before pushing out the heavy metal door into the cool night air. A carload of people climbed out of a car. She thought there was an Uber symbol on the window, so she knocked before the woman pulled away.
“Are you Uber?” Ellery asked.
The woman pointed to the window. “That’s what that sticker means.”
“Will you take me home?”
The woman made a face. “Use the app. You have the app, right?”
Ellery managed to complete the request and then climbed into the front seat.
“Don’t puke in my car,” the woman said before pulling away from Elmo’s.
Ellery fell asleep as soon as the woman hit the interstate. She woke groggy, nauseous, and annoyed at something poking her. She opened her eyes to see a stranger, whose index finger was super pointy. “What?”
“We’re here, princess,” the driver said.
Ellery peered out the window at the town house she and Josh had signed a yearlong lease on. He’d taken a few things with him when he left that morning. He said he’d come back when she was at work to pack the rest of his stuff. Like she might get crazy if he came while she was there. Crap, how was she going to pay for the lease now? The fairly expensive town house was in her name, cosigned by a father who was no longer paying her bills. “I’m not a princess. I’m a pauper.”
“Great. Looking forward to my tip.” The driver unlocked the door and took off as soon as Ellery managed to shut the door behind her.
Ellery stood for a moment, watching the taillights fade into the darkness. A tear plinked onto her sweatshirt. Huh. She didn’t realize she’d been crying until that moment. She wiped her cheeks, and a wave of nausea rose within her. She barely made it to the bushes out front before the tequila made an encore performance in the worst possible way. After her body finished its last heave, she used her sleeve to wipe her mouth, which was totally gross but all she had. It occurred to her drunken brain at that moment that she had, in fact, hit rock bottom.
Uncurling from a standing fetal position, she staggered toward the front door. It was upon staring at her cute red door that she realized she had no idea where her keys were. She tried her pockets, but they held only a gum wrapper and a hair tie.
“Great,” she said to the door.
A strange sound emerged from the azalea bushes to her right. A yowling that could best be described as a dirge to the hopeless and forgotten.
Ellery peered at the bushes, hoping there wasn’t a rabid raccoon ready to attack. Because that would be the cherry on top of her rock bottom. A rustling of still-green leaves yielded the ugliest cat she’d ever seen. Mottled fur of gray and black, one ear definitely missing a nice chunk. The feline hotfooted it toward her, making a racket that made her oddly sympathetic considering she’d never liked cats much. The lean cat twined about her feet. “You like my kitty-cat slippers, huh?”
Sinking down onto the stoop, Ellery extended her hand. The cat bumped up against it, twisting around so that she could tell it was an unaltered male. His purr was loud in the silence of the night around her. She shivered and wondered where Josh had hidden the spare key. They had one, but Josh had been insistent that it be hidden in a place no one would think to look.
Mission accomplished, because she had no clue where it was.
A single headlight swept over her, and she peered at the brightness hitting her square in the face. The loud rumble died at the same time the light turned off.
A motorcycle sat in the parking spot in front of her town house, and a figure clad in black, helmet covering his face, climbed off.
For a brief moment, Ellery wondered if this was how it was going to end for her—her mangled body found in the most hideous of clothing, hair matted, vomit on her sleeve. But then she realized it was Gage, and he was carrying a box.
She didn’t get up because she didn’t trust herself not to fall. The horizon still tilted back and forth, like she was in a fun house with crazy mirrors and optical-illusion floors that made her walk with her hands out. He pulled off his helmet and shook his hair, which was really too short to worry about, but it was probably a habit or something.
“Hey,” she said.
He stood, helmet tucked under his arm, box in hand. “Hey.”
“What’s in the box?” Stupid question. There were so many better ones, like: Why are you here? Or: How did you know where to find me? Or: Do you have some wet wipes, because I really would like to wipe my face . . . and shirtsleeve? But she didn’t lead with any of those.
“Your wineglasses.”
“Wow, that’s service. You came all this way to bring my glasses?” She knew it was another stupid question, but she’d made asking dumb questions the theme of the night. Might as well continue the streak.
“No. I came because you texted me and told me you were in trouble and needed help.” He slid his phone out of his back pocket and waggled it. “About an hour and a half ago.”
“I did?”
“You did. Luckily we had your address on file.”
“Well, I’m drunk.”
His lips may have twitched. “So I see.”
“And I’m locked out of my house.” The cat yowled pitifully, as if he were the choir joining in on the chorus of her pity song.
“That’s definitely a problem.”
“And Josh is gay. He broke up with me.”
Gage moved closer, his boots almost touching her kitty-cat slippers. “I figured as much. Not about the breakup, but the other.”
“Yeah.” She looked down at her hands and the cat bumping against them, demanding attention even though she had never seen the fellow before. He was awfully demanding for a cat who didn’t know her. “I guess I should have known, but I didn’t. I’m stupid.”
“Okay, enough with the pity party. Do you have a key hidden around here somewhere?” Gage asked, his gaze scouring the small porch with the bright, happy mums she’d planted a few days ago. A fat pumpkin sat beside the clay pot looking ridiculously festive, an insult to her current nonfestive mood. She wanted to kick the pumpkin for being so fallish, so perfectly round and pretty, but she’d probably fall on her ass.
“Somewhere around here, I guess.”
Gage stepped past her and tried the doorknob. It opened. “Your door is open, babe.”
Sh
e wasn’t his babe, but it sounded so nice to be called that by him. She wanted him to call her that again . . . and for the world to stop spinning. “Told you. I’m stupid. I left my door unlocked. Irresponsible as hell.”
“Ellery,” he said, turning around. He set the box on the umbrella stand opposite the cheerful fall decorations and stretched out a hand. “Come on.”
She tried to take his hand and missed. “Oops.”
“Here,” he said, lifting her beneath her arms and tugging her up. He was stronger than he looked because he practically lifted her. “Whoa, babe, you smell ripe.”
“Yeah, I threw up.” Somewhere in the recesses of her mind she was horrified at what was happening. Ladies didn’t throw up. They also didn’t wear house slippers to a bar. And they brushed their hair and wore lipstick. “I’m sorry. I don’t remember texting you. I mean, I saved your number even though I told myself I wasn’t going to. I didn’t want to want you . . . I mean, I didn’t mean to call you. I don’t—”
“Sh,” he said, turning on a lamp near the door. “Let me check the house since the door was unlocked. Stand right here.”
Gage propped her against the wall and shut the front door. Then he prowled around her town house. She heard the opening and closing of doors. Lights flicked on. Then he came back for her, looking so gorgeous in the low light of her living room. The very moment she realized that he might be the sexiest man she’d ever met, her stomach flipped over and nausea rolled up from inside.
“I’m gonna throw up again,” she said, stumbling toward the guest bathroom right off the living room. She barely made it before she retched again, her body violently jerking, heaving against itself.
A cool cloth touched the back of her neck. “Here we go. This will help.”
His words were soft, and the dishcloth was cold and smelled like Gain fabric softener. Ellery wasn’t sure she’d ever felt so comforted. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“Sh, it’s okay. Let’s get you upstairs. Uh, you probably need to shower. Do you think you can manage washing off?” Gage asked, taking her arm and helping her toward the sink, where she rinsed her mouth.
“I think so,” Ellery said, noticing that her hair hadn’t made it out of the way when she’d vomited. Where were her damned girlfriends to hold her hair back while she puked? Well, she couldn’t exactly blame them since she’d taken an Uber to drink by herself—on an empty stomach at that. Total amateur move, but she hadn’t been thinking straight. No, she’d been hurting and wanted something to kill the pain. Tequila had sounded like a good idea.
It wasn’t.
Tequila was never an answer to heartbreak.
Gage helped her up the stairs and deposited her in the bathroom. “Look, I’m not going to come in, but just in case, don’t lock the door. You’re safe with me.”
Ellery looked at him before closing the door. “I know I’m safe with you. You’re a good guy, Gage.”
His eyes flashed something indecipherable. “No, I’m not.”
“I texted you for a reason . . . even if I don’t know what it was.”
She shut the door and turned on the shower, stripping out of her smelly clothes and kicking them toward the hamper. Steam curled up from the curtain, an invitation to scrub away the stink of the night. She’d wash her hair and bathe using her new honey-almond body wash, her last luxury for a while. Then she’d emerge and figure out why she’d texted the man she swore she wasn’t attracted to, didn’t care about, and never would.
And maybe she could also figure out why she was such a liar.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Rex was waiting for Daphne when she pulled into her driveway, road weary and not in the mood to deal with her ex-husband. She’d spent the last week driving around Texas and Oklahoma, smiling until her face hurt. She’d also worn tight floral dresses, a pearl choker, and high heels as her persona Dee Dee O’Hara demanded. Honey sweet and slightly ditzy as ol’ Dixie Doodle herself, Dee Dee was more than ready to transform back into Daphne Witt, the pajama-wearing, makeup-free author who didn’t have to laugh at every joke or smile even when someone asked her about why she continued to perpetuate patriarchal tyranny forced upon females by wearing said outfit.
She didn’t have an answer for the angry mother of a little boy . . . who seriously had sat through her talk picking his nose and eating his finds. Maybe she was perpetuating a stereotype, but even as she longed for her yoga pants, she liked wearing heels (for maybe 1.5 hours at a time), a dress with lace or sequins (but never together), and the way she felt when she applied a shiny overcoat over Chanel red lip stain (somewhat glamorous).
Couldn’t she enjoy being a lady and being a woman without being judged?
Rex gave her a half wave as she drove by and pulled beneath the new carport that had been spiffed up. Clay had covered the old wrought iron with cedar planks and added an arched farmhouse roof. It had gone from 1960s carport to fancy porte cochere.
Daphne climbed from the car, unleashing the flouncy skirt that was wrinkled from being bunched almost to her waist. Pantyhose made her sweat, so she’d shimmied out of those at the last rest stop. They lay like roadkill on the passenger floorboard.
“Hey,” Rex said, walking around the side of the house and hitting the latch of her car. He pulled out her suitcase the way he’d always done when they’d been married. The action was so familiar . . . yet so foreign. She’d gotten used to taking care of herself.
“Hey,” she said, closing the door after hooking her shoes in her hand. The pavement of the carport was cold on her feet, so she walked toward the back door.
She’d left an extra key with Clay so he could complete the work while she was away. Ellery had agreed long ago to come by and check on things and make sure the house was locked at the end of each day, but when Daphne had sent her a reminder, she’d gotten a message that Ellery was out of the office. Or rather Dee Dee O’Hara was out of the office, because Ellery was supposed to be Dee Dee and monitoring the business while Daphne was on the road.
“Have a nice trip?” Rex asked, pulling her rolling suitcase behind him.
“I did. Signed a lot of books, talked about the new series, drummed up support, tap-danced, all that fun stuff.” She unlocked the door and pushed into her new mudroom. Clean white shelving, a bench, and a small mail station to house packages, outgoing and incoming. She’d designed this area herself, keeping a busy working mom in mind as she made a place for book bags and junk mail to stay out of sight.
She flipped on the kitchen light and gasped at how pretty the renovation was.
While she’d been gone, Clay and his guys had finished the remodel, and it was gorgeous. Swirling gray-and-bone Carrara marbled counters, white cabinets with transparent glass, vintage lighting, and a Viking range made a striking impression.
“Wow,” Rex breathed behind her. “This doesn’t look like our kitchen.”
“It’s not,” she said. His words made her sad because as much of an ass as Rex had been over the past few years, they’d had a lot of good times together in this house. Rex had chased her around the old kitchen island wearing werewolf gloves and Dracula teeth while Ellery squealed in delight, Daphne had paced the floor in front of the old pantry holding a sick baby, and they’d dyed Easter eggs right beside the sink, praying they didn’t spill and stain the grout . . . again. So many memories of families doing what families do in kitchens—sustaining their lives with food for their bodies and souls.
“Yeah, I guess that’s true. I can’t believe you’re selling this place,” Rex said, depositing her suitcase next to the open door.
“Sometimes I can’t, either, but I need to start over. I don’t think I can do that here.” She set her purse on the counter and dropped her shoes onto the floor. “So what can I do for you?”
Her tone went from nostalgic to firm. She hadn’t forgiven Rex for what he’d done.
Rex made a pained face. “Well, you know I suck at apologizing.”
“If it were an
Olympic event, you’d be the Michael Phelps at sucking at apologizing.”
His mouth quirked. “Yeah, you got me there.”
Rex looked tired, way more tired than she did, and she’d just done a six-city tour in seven days, answering questions, signing books, and sleeping in four different hotel beds. Her back was a disaster, and the bags under her eyes were so big they’d definitely have to be checked and not carried on. Her ex-husband’s fatigue lay in the tightness of his mouth, the deep crevice on his brow, the sagging of the skin at his throat. He wore a ridiculous pair of jeans that were intentionally torn at the knee. For a moment she felt sorry for him.
But only a moment.
“Listen, Daph, I’m a dick. I shouldn’t have led Ellery to believe anything bad about you. You didn’t do anything wrong—you made a new life for yourself. After I left, you flourished. The truth is that I was jealous and looking for a way to make you look . . . look like you didn’t want me. That the divorce was your fault . . . but it wasn’t. It was mine.”
Daphne stilled, thinking before she spoke. Because she wasn’t certain she’d heard him right. Was Rex Witt apologizing? She thought he was, but she couldn’t be totally incredulous at his attempt. She needed a source for this admission, a reason why he’d shown up on her doorstep. Rex always had a reason. “Did you get a new therapist?”
“No.”
She turned toward him. “No?”
“I went by Tippy Lou’s the other day.”
Daphne raised her eyebrows. “You went by Tippy’s? Were you trying to commit suicide by cop? How bad is the money situation?”
“It’s not great, but I’m not checking out just yet. Oh, and she did bring a shotgun to the door. That might have been because she didn’t recognize my truck, and you know Tippy Lou. She’s . . . protective.”
