by Elise Faber
Hot Mess
Life Sucks #2
Elise Faber
HOT MESS
by Elise Faber
Copyright © 2020 ELISE FABER
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This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.
HOT MESS
Copyright © 2020 ELISE FABER
Print ISBN: 978-1-946140-82-1
eBook ISBN: 978-1-946140-81-4
Cover Art by Jena Brignola
Contents
Life Sucks
hot mess
1. Hot Mess
2. Not What It Seemed
3. Of All the Low-Down, Dirty Things
4. Sand Toys Lead To A Gut Punch
5. Graceful As An Elephant On Rollerblades
6. Bearing More Than Gifts
7. No Tears Spilled, Only Milk
8. All The Baked Goods
9. Penguin Socks and Reality Strikes
10. Tears and a White Couch
11. Pancakes
12. Scrunchy Faces Bring the Big Bucks
13. Thirty Pounds of Muscle
14. Resolution on the Dotted Line
15. The Other Woman
16. Feels Like the First Time
17. Trucks and Morning Wood
Epilogue
Epilogue
Epilogue
Dumpster Fire
Life Sucks
Also by Elise Faber
About the Author
Life Sucks
Train Wreck
Hot Mess
Dumpster Fire
hot mess
noun
A disorganized, disaster at life.
Someone who excels at disorder and disarray.
A person who’s holding it together . . . but just barely.
Shannon Torres
One
Hot Mess
Shannon
She sealed the box with a loud, screeching roll of the packing tape dragged across the top of the cardboard, stinging her ears, disturbing the quiet of the house one final time.
Brian disturbing her quiet one final time.
But then, right on cue, her reason for existing, for pushing through and carrying on with her life instead of being a giant, pathetic ball of ice-cream-and-wine-inhaling hysterical female, screeched in complete joy. Rylie’s laughter drifted in through the open windows.
Salt breeze.
A child’s laughter.
Crashing waves and pale beige sand.
Happiness.
Or so Shannon had thought when she had married Brian and they’d scrimped and saved and worked their asses off to afford this property.
Work he’d squandered by fucking every female he could charm while on business trips.
Work he’d dismantled by creating a new family with a new little boy.
Work . . . he’d broken into pieces that could never be reassembled.
Or maybe that was just her.
Broken into pieces, floundering to gather them all up, even while knowing it wouldn’t make one fucking bit of difference.
“Ugh!” she snapped, eyes stinging but spine stiffening determinedly because no longer would she cry over the man who’d once been her prince but had changed into a monster who’d devasted her. It was done.
She was done.
Rylie was the center of her focus. Her job, and Pepper and Derek, and her other friends in town were the rest of it.
And this—the last fucking box of Brian’s things she was packing up to ship off to him—was the end of it.
Enough wallowing.
Enough tears.
Rylie and her students. Her friends . . . and wine.
Yeah, the wine would help.
Speaking of that, she figured she deserved a glass of red to punctuate the end of her time with The Ex Who’d No Longer Be Named, and so she got on with shoving the box out onto the front porch to join the others, ready for pickup.
She reached for the knob, balancing the box in her arms, using her foot to tug open the wooden panel, and—
“Oof—”
The box hit the deck.
The air squeezed out of her lungs.
The . . . man she’d collided with rocked back on his heels.
“Oh, shit,” she said, noticing his brown shirt and realizing that she’d almost barreled down the man who was picking up the boxes to get her husband out of her life once and for all. “I’m sorry,” she murmured.
“It’s okay,” he said. “Let me help you. Where would you like it?”
Shannon frowned. “Um . . . on the truck with the rest of them?”
Silence.
She glanced beyond the tan shirt, up to brown eyes that were looking around in confusion. “What truck?”
Okaay . . .
“Your truck.”
He frowned. “I drive a sedan.”
Her brows drew together. “How are you going to fit all of these boxes”—she waved a hand at the dozen or so littering her front deck—“into a sedan?”
“I wasn’t planning on it.”
“But you’re here to pick them up.”
A shake of his head. “No, I’m here to check out the house.”
She rubbed her forehead, a throb beginning to form. “To figure out where the boxes are or what vehicle is needed for pickup?”
Another shake of his head. “No. For the house.”
She sighed, striving for patience. “These boxes are supposed to go out today. I paid extra for them to be picked up on Saturday and shipped out.”
“Okaaay,” the man said, taking her mental sentiment and drawing it out one extra A. “That’s good, I guess. The house will need to be cleared out for this to work best.”
“The house is cleared out of Brian’s stuff.” A beat. “Or it will be, if you just take the damn boxes.”
So, yes, the last was gritted out between clenched teeth.
But, fuck, come on. Wine was calling, her emotions were on edge, and Shannon tended to reserve her calm, nice tone for her students, not men who were deliberately trying her patience.
He seemed just as annoyed. “What is your obsession with these damn boxes?”
“My obsession,” she snapped, taking a step closer and glaring up at him, “is that I’ve paid a hundred extra dollars for the fucking boxes to get the hell out of my life and. You. Will. Not. Take. Them.”
“I—”
“Excuse me.”
A chipper female voice interrupted, making them both turn and take in the mid-twenty-something woman in a brown shirt very much like the one the man wore. Except . . . this one had a logo of the shipping company Shannon had paid to pick up Brian’s things embroidered over her breast pocket.
“These the boxes?” she asked.
Shannon nodded, dread pooling in her stomach as she mentally went back over what the man had said.
His brown eyes filled with clarity as he glanced from his shirt to the woman’s. “I get it now,” he murmured, stepping back to clear the way.
“Can I help you load them?” Shannon asked the delivery driver.
A flash of white teeth from the woman. “Thanks, but no. It’s against company policy,” she said. “I’ll get out of the way as quickly as possible.”
“Oh, no. That’
s ok—” Shannon began.
But the girl had already picked up two of the boxes and was disappearing down the stairs and along the path that led to the road.
Leaving Shannon alone with the handsome man in the copycat tan shirt.
“I’m Thomas Franklin,” he said, when she turned her gaze back to him, extending his hand. “The real estate agent.”
The throb in her head intensified. “Real estate agent?” she asked. “For what?”
More confusion in those brown eyes, but he answered her question.
“The one who was hired to sell this place.”
Two
Not What It Seemed
“What?” she exclaimed.
“I’m Thomas—”
“I heard that part.” She inhaled deeply, tried to find that patience, the one she managed to hold on to, even when her students were being extra ornery. “Circle back again to why you’re here?”
He opened the file in his hands. “I’m here to sell the property owned by Brian Torres.”
“Fucking Brian,” she muttered, rubbing the spot between her eyebrows with two fingers. “What the hell have you done now?”
Brown brows pulled together. “Are you all—?”
The delivery driver came back around the corner, interrupting his question as she hefted another two boxes then disappeared again.
“A hand truck would probably have been easier,” Thomas said, his eyes following the woman. “Though, it probably wouldn’t make it through the sand . . .” He trailed off, and Shannon’s gaze went to the spot he was looking at, tracing the sand that spanned the space between the bottom deck step and the concrete path that circled the house, leading to the street side of the property.
Where Brian’s boxes were slowly disappearing.
“Hmm,” Thomas muttered. “The pictures online showed that path looking nicer.” He made a note on his pad, murmuring as he wrote, “Need potted plants for better curb appeal. Boring exterior.”
“Hey!” she snapped.
He glanced up. “What?”
She glared. Her house was a cute little beachfront bungalow. A prime location in a sought-after small town with good schools, safe streets, and a gorgeous stretch of beach.
It was not boring.
“Should we—?” He gestured inside, and she debated with herself, wanting to get to the bottom of this, while also not wanting this Thomas inside her house. He made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.
This whole situation stank to high heaven.
Because Brian’s name was attached.
Shit. It was better she find out exactly what was going on now.
A nod. “Let’s go inside.”
She spun and walked through the front door, leaving him to trail her into the kitchen. White cabinets and countertops, silver handles and appliances, a pop of ocean blue accessories. A pair of matching barstools tucked into the island, atop which sat a bowl of fruit, a princess-themed lunchbox, and a roll of tape. Aside from the lunch pail and the tape, it looked impeccable. Perfect.
Just like she always strived for.
“How long have you rented here?” Thomas asked.
Her eyes flew to his, widening, fury making her words clipped and short. “Rented?” she snapped. “Rented?”
“Um—”
“I don’t rent this place. I own it. With. My. Husband.” She sucked in a breath, released it slowly. “My soon-to-be ex-husband.”
His gaze dropped to the papers in his hands. “What’s your name?”
“Shannon Torres,” she gritted.
He flipped through his file again. “I don’t see any Shannon Torres on the paperwork—”
Shit.
Shit.
Because . . . shit.
She’d asked Brian for one thing. One thing. And was he really trying to sell the house out from beneath her?
“I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad—”
The front door burst open.
“Mom!” Rylie said, running in and throwing her arms around her. She had a pink hat covering her long brown hair, the ends tipped with pink because she wanted to look like her favorite YouTuber, pink sunglasses over her eyes, but her feet were bare, and she was wearing a bright pink swimsuit that matched the pink in her hair. Exactly matched. Thanks to copious hours of online perusing. “You have to see the sandcastle Pepper and I built. It’s the best one ever!”
“Okay, Ry,” she said, straightening her little girl’s hat. “I’ll be right out. Can you just find Pep—”
“Shan!” Pepper said breathlessly as she came through the front door, her red hair flowing behind her like a cape. Her hat was huge—in deference to her pale, sunburn-prone skin, so unlike Shannon’s, which darkened to a rich brown in the summer. “I took this from the delivery woman after she grabbed the last box of the Evil One’s things”—she started to hold up a paper then froze—“oh! I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you had company. I—”
“Mom says we need to build another turret,” Rylie said, grabbing the redhead’s hand and tugging her toward the front door.
A red brow lifted, a weighted glance over one slender shoulder. “She did, did she?”
For the first time since Thomas had shown up at her door, the sinking feeling in her gut faded. God, she loved her baby, her friends.
“For the record, she didn’t,” Shannon said, then asked, “Will you be okay? I’ll be out in just a minute.”
Pepper froze, expression growing concerned. “Are you okay?”
“Fine.” Shannon forced a smile. “Go on. I’ll bring down a glass of wine for you as payment for that tower.”
“Red?”
“Do we drink anything else?”
Pepper laughed. “No, we don’t.” A beat, serious green eyes alighting on hers. “Holler if you need me.”
“Thanks, babe.”
A nod and Pepper disappeared out the front door, leaving it deliberately propped open behind her after a narrow-eyed glance at Thomas.
See? Her friend was the shit.
Throat-clearing had Shannon turning to face the realtor, pushing her hair out of her face, stifling a sigh. “Tell me again, why you’re here,” she said, each syllable carefully enunciated.
Thomas set his sheaf of papers on the kitchen island and said, “I have a contract to sell this house.” Her throat constricted. “And I’m supposed to do it as quickly as possible.”
Three
Of All the Low-Down, Dirty Things
Shannon glanced down at the papers in front of her and read, her horror growing by the moment.
The house was in Brian’s name.
In only his name.
And he wanted to sell it, as quickly as possible, to upend her and Rylie’s life further, to take away the one thing she’d asked Brian for.
She’d given up her half of the bank accounts, her half of their retirement. She’d shouldered the high car payment for the SUV she hated driving, but that Brian had to have . . . at least until his new woman had to have a brand new one and he couldn’t afford both. She’d needed a car, and while she should have gone out and bought a cheap hybrid sedan, she’d been trying to play nice.
Which had gotten her this far.
All she’d asked for was to be able to keep the house so that Rylie and she could easily stay at their elementary school—she because she was tenured, Ry because she was starting first grade.
And he’d sent a real estate agent to the house to sell it, without mentioning anything, without asking her, and she might as well admit it, without giving a shit about her, about her daughter, about the future security of their lives.
Already things were tight, since she was trying to rebuild her savings with extra money coming out of her paycheck for health insurance—since he’d taken her and Rylie off his plan—and without Brian’s salary . . . no, without The Ex Who Should Not Be Named’s income.
Yes, she was fully aware that she couldn’t call Brian that in every instance. First, she wasn’t
going to ruin what little of a relationship he already had with Rylie, and second, frankly, it was too clunky to use on a regular basis.
Ha. She was a real comedian.
Turned out, having a man who’d made her every promise under the sun—happily ever after, safety and security, love holding strong throughout all the hills and valleys—one who then broke every one of those promises, gave a girl a streak of dark humor.
Or at least, plenty of snark and sarcasm.
Just what she always wanted.
Go her!
Shannon sighed, setting the papers aside then picking up the card from the real estate agent.
Thomas Franklin, Realtor
If she hadn’t met the man, she would have thought for sure the name was made up. But, unfortunately, she had met him.
He’d shown her the contract that Brian signed, the papers in his file.
Then he’d wanted to look through the house, to take pictures for the listing, after which, she could admit, she’d gone a little crazy, all but shoving him out the front door and locking it securely behind him.
And she had been left reeling, a sinking sensation in her stomach, faking that everything was fine, all while knowing she had a forthcoming search through her file cabinet coming after she’d put Rylie to bed.
Lucky her.
Also lucky, Pepper knowing something was up, but not pushing her to talk about it. Instead, she and her husband, Derek, had kept Rylie entertained, even going so far as to BBQ and make s’mores, and sharing a secret smile with each other over the tasty treat.
