Royal Games (Dating Games Book 5)

by T. K. Leigh

  These women have always been there for me, even when I tried to keep them out. They didn’t have to go through the trouble of throwing this party to commemorate my failed marriage. Yet they did because, somehow, they realized I needed it. Isn’t that the mark of true friendship? Realizing what you need when you’re too stubborn to admit it?

  I wrap my arms around Chloe, Evie and Izzy joining in on our group hug. “I love you girls.”

  “Hoes before bros,” Evie says.

  “Chicks before dicks,” Izzy adds.

  “Pussy before… I got nothing.” Chloe laughs, and we all follow.

  I glance at my circle of friends, my family. Until this moment, I’d been apprehensive about the divorce being finalized and being thrust into the next chapter of my life. Now I look forward to it. Because no matter what’s written on the pages, these three amazing women will be a part of it. They’ll be with me until the last word.

  That’s a love worth celebrating.

  Chapter Two

  Nora

  “Is that the sun?” I slur, taking a swig out of a bottle of champagne as I rest my head on Izzy’s shoulder. We must be a sight, all of us collapsed on a spacious patio sofa on the rooftop terrace of the Gramercy Park townhouse Izzy shares with her boyfriend, Asher.

  After leaving Chloe’s, my friends dragged me out to Staten Island, where they’d rented out a paintball arena for the night. Mannequins with photos of Jeremy’s face were set up throughout, allowing me to take out my frustrations on inanimate objects. As if that weren’t enough to help me release this pent-up aggression, Chloe had snuck into my apartment and stole my wedding dress, which waited for me toward the end of the course.

  When I first saw it, I hesitated, not wanting to damage the dress I’d dreamed of wearing since I was a little girl. But this would always be another memory of Jeremy. If I wanted to turn the page on this chapter, I had to let go of those memories.

  Now, as I stare at the wedding dress covered with splats of paint, the rising sun illuminating it from behind, I feel less bound to Jeremy and more like the woman I was before I swiped right on his picture.

  “Impossible,” Chloe responds in a lazy voice. “It’s probably just the bright lights of Manhattan or some shit.”

  “No. I definitely think that’s the sun,” Izzy remarks.

  “What time is it?” Evie asks.

  “That would require me to move.” Chloe takes another long pull from her bottle.

  “But you can find the energy to take a sip of champagne?” Izzy snips playfully.

  Chloe shoots her a pointed stare. “I have priorities.”

  It’s silent for a moment as we bask in our denial over the fact we managed to drink the night away, something I doubt we’ve done since our college days. I glance around the rooftop terrace that’s now littered with bottles, as well as the remnants of the Jeremy piñata I’d obliterated after just a few smacks with a stick. It will take me at least a week to recover from tonight’s festivities.

  “So, what’s next?” Evie asks in a scratchy voice, floating her gaze toward mine.

  I take another large swallow from my champagne, the liquid having grown warm and flat over the course of the past few hours, but I can’t be bothered to get up to find a fresh bottle.

  “Maybe I’ll take a page from Jeremy’s book and turn gay,” I joke, then scowl. “But I like the dick too much.”

  “So did Jeremy,” Izzy snort-laughs, and we all join in, the sound echoing against the relative stillness of early morning.

  “But seriously,” Evie continues after a beat. “What is next for you, Nora?”

  I sigh. “I wish I knew. It probably sounds stupid, since Jeremy and I were only together for less than three years, less than the time it takes people to earn a college degree, but he was such a big part of my life during that time. Sure, we haven’t lived together for several months now, but…” I expel a breath. “It’s hard to explain. There’s something so final about the divorce being, well…final.”

  “You should go on a divor-cation,” Evie suggests.

  “Divor-cation?” I ask in a drawn-out voice.

  “Well, couples go on a honeymoon to celebrate the start of their marriage. You should take a trip to celebrate your independence and the fact you’re no longer beholden to anyone, except yourself. It’s what the main character did in Eat, Pray, Love.”

  “We’re not resorting my life to some cheesy romantic comedy or self-help book.”

  “I’m not suggesting you should. But some time away might be good for your soul.”

  I stare ahead, watching as New York City comes to life with the dawning of the day. The sound of cars increases, a few dogs barking as their owners take them for a walk.

  “If you found out Julian were gay, where would you go to clear your head? On your own personal Eat, Pray, Love trip?”

  “Do I have to pick three different places like in the book?”

  “Whatever you want. No rules.”

  She nods, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth as she considers the question. “This is really difficult,” she admits with a laugh. “You don’t want to choose a place that will have overwhelming memories of your ex.”

  “And you probably want to avoid places where all you’ll do is sit by the ocean or pool without anything to keep your mind occupied,” Izzy adds.

  “And there should be nothing romantic about it,” Chloe states. “It should be the antithesis of romance.”

  We nod in unison, a pensive expression falling over all our faces as we consider the perfect divor-cation location.

  “I’d go to California.” When Evie’s voice cuts through, we all look toward her. “I’d eat my way through the Mexican food in San Diego. Find clarity of mind hiking around Yosemite or camping in Big Sur.”

  “And love?” Chloe waggles her brows. “Where would you find love?”

  A playful grin tugs on Evie’s lips. “I’d fall in love with wine in Napa Valley.” She lifts her bottle to her mouth. “Oops. Too late.” Then she takes another long sip of her champagne, which causes us to erupt in laughter.

  “How about you?” Evie asks Chloe.

  “Vegas,” she replies without hesitation.

  Izzy whips her head toward her. “What? Have you forgotten you met Lincoln in Vegas? Hell, you guys also eloped and got married there. Pretty sure all you’ll have are memories of Lincoln.”

  “I want my divor-cation destination to hold memories of my ex. To remind me why I’m better off without him. To show him he can’t ruin a place for me.”

  Her response doesn’t surprise me. Chloe’s not the type of woman who wallows in heartbreak for too long. Her divor-cation would be one big “fuck you” to whomever hurt her. But based on the way Lincoln adores her, I don’t see that happening anytime soon… Or ever.

  “Well, I wouldn’t choose Vegas,” Izzy remarks. “Even though Asher and I kind of…reconnected the same weekend you hooked up with Lincoln.”

  “Where would you go?” I inquire.

  She furrows her brow, shaking her head. “I’m not sure. I think I’d just go to the airport and pick somewhere.”

  “Without any planning?” Evie asks, aghast.

  Out of our circle of friends, Evie’s the one who finds joy out of making itineraries and lists. Chloe’s more spontaneous, preferring to live life to its fullest. Izzy’s the compassionate one, as evidenced by her career. And me? Well, I’m not sure who I am. On the outside, I’m a calm, collected woman who seems to have her life together. But the more I think about it, that’s who I want people to see. On the inside, I’m still the naïve teenager who clung onto every man who looked familiar after a psychic told me my soulmate would be a stranger I recognized. It’s part of the reason I agreed to marry Jeremy after only knowing him three months.

  “Yes, Evie.” Izzy rolls her eyes. “Without any planning.”

  “But what if it reminded you of Asher?”

  “Truthfully, I doubt there’s a single p
lace on this planet I could escape to that wouldn’t hold any memories of Asher, considering he’s a musician who tours around the world. Not to mention, I can’t turn on the radio or bring up a random Spotify playlist without at least one of his songs coming on. But some higher power brought us together back in Vegas after over eight years apart. If something ever happened between us, which I doubt, I’d want some higher power to steer me in the direction I should take.” She shrugs, then levels her gaze on me.

  “Your turn, Nora. Where should you go on this divor-cation? Where should you begin the next chapter of your life?”

  A gentle breeze brushes against my skin as I consider where to go to reboot my life. “Maybe Paris.” I scrape at the label on the champagne bottle.

  Chloe scrunches up her nose. “Paris?”

  “Why not? I’ve always wanted to go.”

  Her eyes narrowed, she assesses my response, then shakes her head. “That doesn’t work for me.”

  “Well, what does work for you?” I retort lightly.

  “Route 66.”

  Her answer nearly takes the breath from me, my chest constricting, a lump building in my throat. “Route 66?” I respond in a small voice.

  “Yes, Nora.” Her tone drips with sympathy. I float my eyes to Izzy and Evie, both of them wearing the same reassuring smile. I get the feeling they’ve discussed this amongst themselves. “It’s what you need to move on.”

  I briefly close my eyes. It doesn’t escape my notice that she doesn’t say it’s what I need to forget about Jeremy. She’s talking about finally moving on from my first love. Finally mourning everything I lost when I watched all our dreams go up in flames mere hours before we were supposed to move to California. We’d planned to drive Route 66 then. But we never got the opportunity.

  “I don’t think I—”

  “I can’t even begin to imagine what that must have been like for you.” Chloe places her hand over mine. “But you’ve pretended you’re okay long enough. You never allowed yourself to grieve him. Instead, you tried to fill the void Hunter’s absence left by finding someone to take his place, hoping meeting someone you could pretend to love would be enough.”

  I want to argue, but I can’t. She’s not wrong. Once I made the decision to move to Manhattan mere months after losing everything, I’d downloaded a few dating apps. Not a single man I dated carried the same spark I experienced with Hunter, but at least I felt something. And something was better than the utter despair and misery that seemed to consume me.

  Then I saw Jeremy’s profile. Everything about him reminded me of Hunter, from his deep-set eyes, to the square shape of his jaw, even his love of Mel Brooks movies. Maybe that’s why I clung onto Jeremy like I had. Maybe I so desperately wanted him to be Hunter that I’d been blind to everything else.

  It’s been six years, but I still find myself imagining Hunter lying beside me. Still move my hand to my stomach where our baby once grew. Still haven’t made good on the promise I made to his mother to dispose of his remains. They still sit on the dresser in my apartment. Even during my marriage to Jeremy, Hunter was there. Hunter’s always been there.

  “It won’t be an easy trip,” she continues when I don’t say anything. “But it’s something you need to do. Isn’t that what Hunter would have wanted? What would he say if he were here and saw how miserable you are?”

  “I’m not that miserable,” I protest.

  Chloe tilts her head. “You don’t look miserable. But inwardly, I know you’re falling apart. Even six years later.” She offers me a compassionate smile. “We repeat what we don’t repair, Nora. It’s time to repair yourself. You can’t start the next chapter if you’re still stuck in the last one. And you’ve been stuck in Hunter’s chapter for years now. It’s time you turn that page. For Hunter.”

  I nod, peering into the distance. “For Hunter.”

  Chapter Three

  Nora

  “Mother fudge of all that is crap!” I exclaim, clenching my jaw tightly when I see the name flash across the screen of my phone. The anger in my voice is jarring against the tranquil music playing in the background at the yoga studio where I work.

  “If it’s a telemarketer, just ignore it,” Lindsay, the receptionist, says.

  “It’s not.” I close my eyes and exhale deeply. “It’s my mother.”

  She grimaces. She’s only worked here a few months, but in that time has learned all she needs to know about my rather tenuous relationship with my mother.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No more than me,” I mutter under my breath.

  This is the last thing I need today. Which is exactly why she called. She tends to reach out at the worst moments, if only to have a front-row seat to my misery. It’s like she gets off on watching people suffer. Which is an interesting notion, considering her line of work.

  As much as I’d love to ignore her, I’m smart enough to know it’s not an option. She’ll view my reluctance to speak with her as using avoidance as a coping mechanism…or whatever other term she’ll come up with in her analysis of my supposed distraught state.

  The drawback of being a psychiatrist’s daughter.

  Finding my AirPods, I place them into my ears, wave to Lindsay, then push open the glass door, leaving the tranquility of the studio behind, exchanging it for the frantic atmosphere of Greenwich Village. Tourists and commuters scurry along the sidewalks like ants, everyone walking with purpose. No one acknowledges one another. Here, I’m nobody.

  I like being a nobody.

  Summoning the strength to get through a conversation that will undoubtedly take ten years off my life, I plaster a fabricated smile on my face, smoothing back a few wisps of my mid-length hair that had escaped the ponytail set low on my nape. At least I took a shower after teaching my last class. Otherwise, I’m sure she would have had something to say about my flushed skin or the sweat on my brow. She acts like she doesn’t ever sweat or have blotchy skin. Then again, she’d have to be human. I’m not quite sure my mother qualifies.

  “Nora, sweetie,” she soothes in a voice of forced compassion when her heavily Botoxed face pops up on the screen. Her pink lips are thin, eyes tight, barely able to blink. Her cheeks are abnormally high and full, like they belong on one of those creepy dolls from scary movies.

  “Hello,” I reply, joining the crowd of people and beginning my five-minute walk toward my apartment near Union Square.

  “How are you holding up?” She tries to look concerned. It might work for her patients, but I know better.

  “Today’s just another day,” I lie.

  Today’s never been just another day. Instead, today is the day I’ll always remember as not only the day Hunter died, but also a part of me.

  It still drives me crazy that my mother feels the need to call me every year on this day when she couldn’t manage to pull herself away from whatever midlife crisis she was screwing at the time to be with me when he actually died. When I was in the hospital with my own injuries as a result of the car wreck that took Hunter’s life.

  When the doctor delivered the awful news that our baby no longer had a heartbeat.

  “So, unless there’s something important…”

  “This is important,” my mom insists. “It’s the anniversary of Hunter’s death. And the first one since your divorce from Jeremy. I need to know you’re okay.”

  I do my best not to roll my eyes. All my life, this woman has analyzed every tiny thing I’ve done.

  Like when I was six and decided to give my Barbie a haircut. She said I was intimidated by her beauty and that’s why I butchered her appearance. I just wanted to give my Barbie a haircut.

  Like when I was twelve and broke my leg during the ballet class I hated but she insisted I attend so I could maintain a slim figure. She claimed it was a cry for attention. I had simply landed on it wrong.

  Like when I was twenty-four and survived the car wreck that killed my fiancé, only to learn the baby I’d been growing inside me for six m
onths didn’t make it, either. According to her, I didn’t try hard enough to save the baby. In reality, I would have given anything to have both Hunter and our baby with me.

  To still have them with me.

  It was then that I swore to never give this woman any more ammunition to use against me. To make me feel like I’m less of a woman, of a person, of a human.

  “I told you. I’m fine.” No thanks to her. The only reason I’m not a complete wreck is because of the amazing network of support I built myself.

  She wasn’t always like this. The memories are fuzzy, but I remember a few moments of happiness we shared as a family. But when my father died just after my fifth birthday, she changed. She grew distant. Not just toward her friends, but her kids, too. My brothers probably didn’t notice. They were all teenagers at that point, considering there’s a seven-year gap between me and my next youngest brother. Regardless of the fact I was so young and it was years ago, I remember wondering what happened to my mother. It was like that woman died along with my father, leaving an imposter in her place.

  At first, I tried to bring that woman back. I thought if I did everything she asked of me, it would make her happy, would make her love me again.

  It took me years to realize she’s not capable of loving anyone.

  Not anymore.

  “And I told you…” She brings a martini glass to her lips, and I recognize the pool area of the enormous house where she now lives with husband number five, whom she married last year. The same day I married Jeremy.

  If that’s not an indicator of the type of woman she’s turned into, I don’t know what is.

  “It’s not healthy to keep these things inside,” she continues. “It’s important to talk about your feelings. Don’t let it fester.”

  “I’m not. It’s been six years since Hunter died.” I force a smile so she can’t read between the lines.

  Sure, I’ve had more than enough time to mourn losing him and our baby, but have I done so? I wish I could say I have. Wish I could say I’ve accepted what happened to them. Some days, I feel like I have. But others, I still find myself wishing I would wake up and learn it’s all a dream.