From picking up my car, to the rest of the work I had to accomplish, my day was packed.
I didn’t want to spend a single moment thinking about Fletcher. I was afraid of what conclusion I might come to if I allowed myself time to think. So the busier the day, the better.
Staying focused and completely busy was exactly what I did.
I managed to ignore the elephant in my mind the entire day.
From being busy tackling projects, to talking down my friend from spoiling her soon-to-be-fiance’s surprise, I didn’t have one minute where my mind wasn’t occupied.
Even though we met up for lunch, our text conversation before lunchtime had gone something like this:
Andrea: Milo thinks he’s being sneaky.
Me: What did he do?
Andrea: There’s a small velvet box in the glove compartment of his car.
Me: WHAT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Andrea: It’s gorgeous.
Me: You looked?? That’s so bad!!
Andrea: You know I can’t help myself!!! And listen, he did amazing. I can’t believe he picked this out on his own. But I think I’m slowly dying inside.
Me: Why? What’s wrong?
Andrea: He still hasn’t proposed!
Me: When did you find it?
Andrea: Last night. I think I’ve burst a blood vessel in my eye trying to be patient.
Me: That’s not good. You don’t want that in your engagement photos. Let’s meet for lunch and I’ll distract you.
Andrea: I’m bringing my wedding magazines.
And so we’d enjoyed lunch where we chatted all things wedding. It had been awkward when Andrea asked how Fletcher was doing, but I’d managed to steer her safely back toward wedding dresses and flower arrangements. Andrea and her boyfriend, Milo, were equally Fletcher’s and my friends. We’d met them after we’d started dating and had quickly gotten to know the sweet couple.
Now it sounded like they would be tying the knot soon. I didn’t even have the energy or emotional capability of being jealous of their stable, apparently committed relationship. I was still broken over mine that was obviously in shambles. Our relationship that I refused to think of as I stared at Andrea’s wedding magazines.
After lunch, I went back to work and kept it business as usual until it was time to go home.
I checked my texts as I unlocked my house after work. No missed messages from Fletcher.
Grandma had sent me a text with a picture of a girl who’d been in my class who had just joined the New York City Ballet. It was a very subtle message—for grandma.
It had been her greatest dream that I would become a ballerina—like she had been. She’d been horrified when my mother got married and raised a family, giving up her “career” on the stage.
The tension between Grandmother and Abuela, my dad’s mom, was palpable at the holidays. Abuela was very proud of the family my parents had raised while Grandmother talked about all the could-have-beens.
After setting my purse down on the entry table, I changed into a pair of comfy yoga pants and a t-shirt, and just in time, turned on the latest live Bee Best podcast and began pulling clothes out of my dryer to fold. Bee was back with a new special guest.
I listened as the podcast hosts droned on about the importance of self-care and its relation to productivity. I pulled out my ironing board and began to iron my shirts while I was reminded that healthy emotional examination was an important form of self-care. Exactly the opposite of what I’d done all day.
I didn’t really want to be thinking about that right now, thank you very much, Bee.
After the wrap up of their topic, they moved on to some fun quotes and then to their weekly giveaway.
“Tonight, we announce the winner of the World’s Worst Boyfriend contest! There were so many entries. We were overwhelmed—and frankly upset—that so many of you are living in relationships like this. This is a travesty. And even if you don’t win the contest, please remember you can be a winner today by choosing you. Ready to find out who the winner of the World’s Worst Boyfriend is?”
Bee cheered in the background as the other woman hummed, adding to the anticipation. My stomach dropped to my feet, and I picked up the iron so I wouldn’t accidentally burn a hole in my favorite workout leggings. I absolutely despised wrinkles—even in yoga pants.
I’d forgotten that I’d entered Fletcher. Although, after last night, it seemed well deserved…and I would enter him again if given the chance. Of course, they wouldn’t select me as the woman with the worst boyfriend. Other people were in situations far worse, that much I was sure. At least I hope there were others worse off than me.
“And the absolute worst boyfriend entered into the competition goes to SPBespoke28!”
I dropped the leggings I’d been holding. SPBespoke was the username I’d used to enter the contest. I’d won. Or lost. Depending on how you wanted to look at it.
“Girl. We are so sorry. You need to choose yourself. Choose you. Break up with this guy and find someone who meets all your needs. This guy is not treating you the way you deserve.”
They rattled on with a review of last week’s episode, reminding women they should always choose themselves first.
I covered my face with the yoga pants, both mortified and vindicated that I had won. It wasn’t only in my head. His neglect and the way he used our relationship. It was confirmed. He really was the World’s Worst Boyfriend.
The initial guilt I’d felt when I’d entered him into the contest was long gone.
After the comments he’d made in front of his friend, I knew he didn’t value me the way I did him. It hurt. And it felt as though my heart were going to split in two. I should text him and break up right then, but I knew better. I needed face-to-face closure. And to end things the right way.
If I could look him in the eye, maybe he could at least explain himself. He deserved that chance, at least. Texting didn’t allow closure or answers for me, and I deserved that much too.
But right now? I didn’t want to be with him. I wanted to sit in my bed and drink tea and avoid the world. Maybe binge watch a TV show.
I carried my basket of folded clothes into my room and put them away. As I finished laying my underwear in the drawer organized by color, my phone chimed.
I flipped it over. It was my friend Zoe texting.
Zoe: Come get a drink with me.
I hoped she was referring to a chocolate milkshake drink because that was the kind of support I needed right now.
I texted her back and asked where, because I realized I could use a friend and support system right now. It felt more necessary than binging TV.
I pulled my baggy sweatshirt on and didn’t bother changing out of my leggings.
After taking my contacts out, I slipped on my pair of “librarian” glasses, as Fletcher liked to call them. Actually, he usually called them my “sexy librarian” glasses, but I didn’t want to think about that now.
I pulled on a pair of knee-high boots, then took a look at myself in my floor-length mirror. I looked like I was swimming in the sweatshirt. And it was Fletcher’s anyway. So, I peeled it off and grabbed one of my oversized sweaters. That was better. This was the perfect outfit to overindulge in.
I headed out the door and met Zoe at a bar and grill downtown.
When I walked into the restaurant, the hostess stared at the hole in my leggings. Or at least it felt like she did. Well, she could go shove it. I was here for the food and the company.
“I’m meeting a friend here,” I told the hostess.
Her overly sketched eyebrows shot up—most likely in shock that someone like me could have friends.
I scanned the dining area and spotted Zoe at a high-top table close to the bar. Figured.
I weaved past the other diners, then set my giant purse on top of the table.
“What’s in there this time? A dead body?” Zoe asked without turning around to look at me. She had her eyes on the young barte
nder, who seemed to be reciprocating her attention.
I climbed—yes, climbed—onto the ridiculously high barstool. It was practically a lifeguard chair.
Zoe finally turned around.
“Oh, my,” she said as she took in my appearance. While I originally hadn’t thought my outfit was too atrocious, I did look a little slouchy sitting across from someone still wearing their business attire. Hers was a dress that easily fit cocktail status. Public relations wasn’t for the slouchily dressed, that’s for sure.
“That is not the kind of outfit we wear on girls’ night,” she lectured. “Guys aren’t going to want that.” She gestured with two hands over my entire body.
“I have a boyfriend, remember?”
She waved a hand through the air again, dismissing my comment.
“You have got to break up with him. I never see you guys together anymore. Besides, you could have any guy in the room!” She glanced at my sweater. “If you were wearing something different, I mean. Why are you wasting your time with him anyway?”
I glanced around the room, realized how incredibly shallow I was, because none of the men in the room were even remotely as attractive as Fletcher. Just because our relationship was shattering didn’t mean I wanted a replacement or a rebound.
“Have you listened to the latest Bee Best episode yet?” I tried to ask casually.
“No, not yet. I had a work meeting early this evening. I’m going to listen to it while I walk in the morning. Why? What was it about this time?”
I really didn’t feel like bringing up the fact that Fletcher had won as the World’s Worst Boyfriend. She was already jumping on his case without that information. I should really talk to Fletcher first, not Zoe, but my emotions were all over the place. I needed to make some definite decisions, somehow.
“It was about relationships, and how to thrive in your relationship with your significant other.”
Zoe smiled slowly. “That sounds like an interesting one.”
I hummed in agreement.
“You seem a little quiet tonight,” Zoe pressed as she turned to study me. “Anything juicy to tell me?”
“Meh,” I shook my head and nodded at the same time, turning my head into a real-life imitation of a bobble head.
“Oh, come on. I’m your best friend. Tell me what’s wrong.” She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. Best friend was a bit of a stretch, convenient friend would be a lot more accurate, but I understood what she was saying and didn’t disagree.
“I don’t think Fletcher is that into me anymore.”
Zoe sighed heavily. “You have got to listen to me. You know he never liked me. That should tell you everything right there! Never date a man who doesn’t like your best friend. You need to meet a man who’s going to dote on you and be attentive. When was the last time you had a man treat you that way?”
“I met a man the other night,” I admitted. I didn’t know why I was bringing up the stranger who had helped me with my broken-down car. But he’d been very attentive. He would probably meet all of Zoe’s criteria.
Zoe’s eyes widened. “What? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It isn’t important at all. He just helped me with my car. He was really kind.”
“What? Tell me all about it. What was he wearing? Did you kiss him? Did he take you to dinner?”
I glared at her as I adjusted my glasses. “No! Nothing like that. You know I would never do that to Fletcher.”
She absentmindedly pressed on one of her rings. “Well, was this guy at least good looking?”
I took a sip of the water in front of me and wondered if the waiter would ever come over so I could put in my order for something chocolatey. “Yeah, he was a good-looking guy. A little older, maybe in his mid-to-late thirties or something close to that.”
“Oooh, you know I love an older man. Why don’t you give me his number?” She glanced at her phone as though that would make the number magically appear.
“If only I could,” I laughed, trying to cover up the fact that I did have his number. The server came to our table and took my order for a giant margarita. I wanted something sweet and delicious, and after thinking about it, I knew a milkshake wouldn’t be enough.
“So…since you obviously won’t share the deets on your mystery man, did you enter Fletcher into the World’s Worst Boyfriend contest?” she asked slyly, her eyes back on the bartender.
I spun the water glass in a full circle on the mahogany tabletop. Zoe was the one who got me started listening to the Bee Best podcast. Of course, she’d listened to that episode. She’d known all along what was being discussed on the podcast. She’d probably listened to it before me.
“Erm,” I started. Luckily, the bartender delivered our drinks himself, and subsequently smiled at me and made an awkward attempt at flirting with me.
It was very sweet and flattering, then turned full on uncomfortable when Zoe piped in and embarrassed him by saying, “She has a boyfriend and is hopelessly obsessed, but I’m single and free.”
She smiled and rested her chin on her hand, angling toward him. The bartender fled back to his domain and Zoe turned to me as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. “This isn’t like you. You’re not a moper.”
“I feel like I am though,” I replied before I licked the salt off the rim.
She raised her eyebrows at me. “You’re moping because of him.”
I nodded. “I know. But I’m still deciding what to do about it.”
Zoe scowled. “You know what I think of him.”
“You’ve been wanting me to break up with him for a couple months now.”
Zoe shook her head. “He doesn’t like me either, and you know it’s important for a man to like your best friend. So important it’s almost sacred.”
She shrugged as if that explained everything about my current relationship status. It didn’t. I was still confused as to why she and Fletcher looked at each other in disgust.
Of course, after the attempted dinner the night before, I felt like looking at Fletcher in disgust. I couldn’t believe the way he spoke to that man about me. I thought he loved me the way I loved him. Okay, so in a moment of weakness I had nominated him for World’s Worst Boyfriend, that is true…but I still cared for him. But now…now I knew what he really thought of me. I was a placeholder.
I licked a little more salt off the rim before I took a burning gulp. Bless the bartender and his heavy-handed tequila pouring.
Setting the glass back down, I stood up and set some tip money on the table.
“I’m going home.”
“But you just got here!” Zoe protested half-heartedly as she winked at the bartender.
“I’m sorry, Zoe, it’s just that I finally know what I need to do.” With that I left the bar and grill, dodging the college crowd that made me feel crusty old at twenty-seven. I even managed to avoid making eye contact with the judgmental hostess.
Look, lady, I know I don’t look good right now. That was the point.
And unfortunately, there was a certain amount of clarity that came with realizing that Fletcher didn’t care about me. An overwhelming sense of serene peace filled my soul.
My hurt, broken, never-to-recover soul.
Chapter Six
Saidy
It wasn’t until a few days later, after work and dinner with my mom at a small Thai restaurant, that I texted Fletcher to see if he was free.
I sat in my car outside the Thai restaurant, planning to wait just a few minutes to see if he would answer because obviously him and text messages didn’t mix. We hadn’t spoken much over the past few days, so I was more than a little surprised when he texted me back right away.
Fletcher: I’d love to see you. I stopped by your house an hour ago, but you weren’t there. I’m at home finishing up a work project if you want to come over here.
Me: See you in a few.
When I pulled up to the small duplex that Fletcher rented, I parked behind
his car and walked up the sidewalk. I knocked on the paint-chipped door.
Surprisingly, he answered the door right away. He pulled me inside, planted a quick kiss on my lips—I didn’t even have time to respond to the kiss or attempt to dodge it—then hurried back to his laptop that sat on the kitchen table.
“Sorry, sweetie, I’m in the middle of something and need to finish it up real quick.” He flashed a quick grin, then turned his attention back to his laptop.
One hour later, I’d watched every microblading gone wrong video I could find, and Fletcher was finally done with his work. I also had time to cancel my upcoming microblading appointment after watching those videos, thank you very much. I’d be sticking with my happy little eyebrow pencil from now on. The scar on my eyebrow from when I’d been bit by a dog at six years old was large enough that it left a bald spot if I didn’t fill it in.
Fletcher came and sat on the couch next to me, stretching an arm out behind me. I leaned forward slightly, away from his touch. “Fletcher.”
“Hmm?” He began running his hands through my hair, massaging my scalp. I didn’t move away this time like I should have. I loved when he did this, and I deserved this much from him, at least.
I closed my eyes as his hand moved down to massage my neck. He worked on a particularly sore spot, and I felt the tingling all the way down my spine.
“You’re really tense tonight, is something wrong?”
“Yeah,” I replied, but I couldn’t seem to remember what. We sat next to each other silently for a few minutes while his fingers continued to work their magic.
“So, I know we were planning on getting away to the beach sometime this month,” he started. “But what if we waited until the fall? You know, the weather is so much nicer then. Besides, my work is a little busy right now.”
World's Worst Boyfriend: A Romantic Comedy Adventure (Fake It Book 3) Page 5
