A Charm Like You

by Sharla Lovelace

  I heard the bell ding over the door, but all I saw was the ficus across the room by the end of a counter. Above it was a striking picture of roses climbing into a window. Drew had drawn it years ago with colored charcoal. You could interpret it as invasive, as hopeful, as a show of strength—really however the mood struck you. That was the genius in it.

  Right now, it was the anchor grounding me to sanity.

  “Gabi,” Micah said, pulling me to her for a hug.

  I let her, unable to feel it but knowing there was love there. Drew stayed on the other side of the counter and met my eyes, righteous sisterly rage shining in hers on my behalf. I loved her for that. For chasing that stupid idiot out the door. But I couldn’t voice anything.

  “Are you okay?” Micah asked.

  I just nodded.

  “Gabi,” Drew said carefully. I shook my head. Words were—they just weren’t. “Gabi, don’t let them break you.” Her eyes filled with angry tears. “They don’t deserve that satisfaction. You are strong. You are a badass bitch.”

  A laugh choked through my own building tears, and the sound broke my paralysis. My stomach pitched and I pulled free of Micah. I ran, a hand clamped over my mouth as I bolted through the back hall and nearly took my mother down, side sprinting around her.

  “Gabi?” she called.

  I threw open the bathroom door and didn’t even get it closed before I had to hit my knees. My stomach pitched again, rolling, contracting with every hard-drawn breath. Like morning sickness, or so I’d heard. Like Lanie had gone through. Like Dixie was probably going through now. The thought sent more vile retching through my body.

  I felt cool hands sweep my hair out of the way and stroke my back, bringing more hot, stinging tears to my eyes. I’d know my mother’s hands if I were struck blind and deaf tomorrow, and—and—no one would ever be able to say that about me.

  She handed me a small towel and I clenched it in my fist, pressing it against my eyes as hard sobs took the place of hurling. I sat back on my heels as my mom flushed the nasty away and squatted to wrap her arms around me. I hugged her arms and let her rock me softly, knowing that she thought it was about the house, and also knowing that word would spread quickly.

  “Bart and Dixie are getting married,” I choked out.

  There was a pause. “Ah.”

  I shook my head, soaking the towel with more of my tears. “No, that’s not—not it,” I managed. It wasn’t. Yes, it would have still hit me weird for them to get engaged. I would still be pissed that two people I loved betrayed me and now they were moving on together. But this—this was just—a cruel joke. “They—they’re having a baby,” I said, pushing out the last word like I’d never uttered it before in my life and wasn’t sure how.

  I felt my mother sigh and lean her head against mine.

  “Oh, honey.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  A fun consequence of being the spurned, cheated on ex-wife is how the cheater’s friends and co-workers suddenly part like the Red Sea when they see you get off the elevator. People I’d hosted showers for at my house, had drinks with over the holidays, gone to parties with and even almost considered friends spun out like tops when they laid eyes on me barreling toward the reception desk.

  Dora, a tiny woman who’d been there since God created pencils, jumped to her feet, her headset bobbing.

  “Gabi!” she exclaimed. “How did you—”

  “The security guard likes me,” I said. “I ordered two tubs of cookie dough for his kid’s fundraiser.”

  “But—”

  “Where is he?” I asked, monotoned.

  “Mr. Larson is in a meeting,” she said, adjusting her headset and wiggling her mouse to wake up her screen.

  “Mr. Larson needs to get his ass out here,” I said.

  “Now, Gabi—”

  “Remember when I bought up all your granddaughter’s stupid wrapping paper?” I said, leaning over the desk. I fanned myself with the now very crumpled certified letter. “It was sucky paper, but I bought it anyway.”

  Catching another spinning top to my right, I turned and pointed with my whole arm.

  “You!”

  Deer-in-the-headlights eyes gazed back at me from a skinny man with dark-rimmed glasses. Eyes that had darted around my kitchen over crab dip and deadline crises more times than I cared to count. Peter Pascal was Bart’s team lead, and I’d hooked him up with my lawyer friend, Carmen, to handle his dad’s will and estate last year. At a discount.

  “Mrs. Larson,” he said, pasting on a smile.

  “You know damn good and well I’m not Mrs. Larson anymore, Peter,” I said. “And you know where Bart is. Get him.”

  “Gabi, we can’t just go jerking people out of meetings,” Dora said. “It’s not done that way.”

  “Well, it’s a whole new world today, Dora,” I said. “I suggest you walk on the wild side a little and get that man standing in front of me right now, or I’ll go swinging doors open till I find him.”

  Peter took off at a jog and ducked his head into a room at the end of the hall, just as Dora worked her way around the desk, tossing her headset on her chair with a huff. Three more people gathered by the elevator, pretending to be going somewhere so they could watch. Let them. Drew had put a name to it, and I had nothing else to lose. I could be the badass bitch.

  “Is Dixie here, too?” I asked. “She still banging it out?” I laughed shortly. “I’m sorry, is she still interning?”

  “Dixie is out today,” Dora called over her shoulder. “Not that that’s any of your business.”

  “And yet you told me anyway,” I said, giving her a thumbs-up. “Good job.” A tall man with thinning blond hair and a still-boyish face emerged from the room as Peter held back behind him. “Hey, kudos, Pete! I knew you were the man for the task.”

  “What are you doing here, Gabi?” Bart said through his teeth, his tone seething with a mix of humiliation and anger. He’d always hated his work day being interrupted with personal things. Well, except for when someone wanted to have sex on his desk. That hadn’t seemed to bother him too much. “I’m working.”

  “Oh, I have no doubt,” I said. “You’re always so focused.” I pulled the letter from the envelope and smiled up at him. “I hear congrats are in order.”

  Bart did the quick blinking thing he always did when he was stressed.

  “I was going to tell you about the wedding,” he said.

  “Oh, yeah, that,” I said, laughing. I sounded weird. Like a maniacal cat. “Hey, good for her, let her deal with your piss on the toilet for eternity. I was actually referring to the new little Bart or Bartilina on the way.”

  He at least had the grace to turn very pale, and that was something for someone as white as Bart. I noticed the dark circles under his eyes growing more prevalent.

  “That—that was unplanned,” he said under his breath, glancing around him at the growing number of ears tuning in. Dora walked slowly back to her desk, one eyebrow cocked. “I’m at work, Gabi. I’m sorry you had to hear it like that, but—”

  “Like what, Bart?” I asked, tilting my head, putting one hand on my hip. “Like random chatter from a college girl barely old enough to get carded?” I waved a hand at him and held up the letter, swallowing down the acid threatening to choke me. “Nothing but a thing. Have fun. In the meantime, maybe you want to explain why the bank is taking my house.”

  I stretched out the letter before him, the giant FORECLOSURE word dancing across the top. I knew this man backward and forward. I could tell if he was lying to me about what he had for breakfast just by watching his eyes. Or I could before he snuck Dixie in under the radar. That one I’d never seen coming. I’d gotten complacent. Comfortable.

  Now here I was again. Fucked while my head was turned.

  “What’s going on?” said a deep voice to my left. I didn’t h
ave to turn to know it was the big boss I couldn’t recall the name of. “Is there a problem, Larson?”

  Bart blew out a breath, sweat beading up at his hairline. “Not at all, Mr. Price.” Price. There. “Can we go in my office?” he said, steering me around the corner.

  My feet halted progression as soon as we were away from nosy eyes.

  “You know what? No,” I said, wheeling around. “I don’t care who hears or how embarrassed you get.” I held up my hand, bare of rings. “You wanted this off? Well, all my give-a-shits went with it.”

  He ran a hand over his face. “Gabi, please.”

  “Don’t Gabi me,” I said, thrusting the letter against his chest. “Start talking. Right here. Because I just left the bank, and they had plenty to say.”

  Bart visually wilted. Leaning back against the wall, he blew out a breath and ran his fingers through his hair.

  “I didn’t think they’d foreclose,” he said finally, looking at the floor. “They’ve been good on extensions, and I thought I had more time.”

  I had no words. My mouth fell open but only air came out. Actually, not even that, because my lungs stopped working too. After several beats of silence, he finally glanced up at me.

  “I’m sorry.”

  I shook my head as angry tears filled my eyes. Tears that hadn’t come when the bank told me there hadn’t been a payment in six months, and that they’d tried to reach us—us!—to discuss options, but finally had to close the loan and take the collateral.

  Collateral. That’s what they had called my home.

  “You’re sorry?” I hissed, feeling the heat blink free and stream down my cheeks. “You didn’t have extensions, you lying sack of shit, you had one. One! And then never answered the fucking phone.”

  “Okay,” he said, sounding like a child in trouble.

  “You could have taken out a second mortgage,” I said. “Gotten another loan. Hey, here’s a thought,” I said, poking him in the arm. “You could have mentioned it to me instead of lying and telling me it was paid for!”

  “Like I could ask you to fork out money for the mortgage after—everything,” Bart said, looking miserable. “Come on.”

  “As opposed to having the bank take it away?” I said, hearing my voice go up maybe an octave or two too many. “You bet your ass. How did you even pull that off with the divorce papers? Are you fucking someone at the courthouse, too?”

  Bart laughed humorlessly. “Like I would have time,” he said, his own tone rising. “Between work and deadlines and schedules and date night—because that’s a thing now—and now I’ve got wedding shit I can’t afford and a kid? Where exactly is sex penciled in? With anyone?”

  I blinked two more tears free and whisked them off my face.

  “Are you seriously complaining to me right now?” I asked, incredulous. “You have everything!” I yelled in his face. I prayed that snotty Dora would come around the corner, because I had a mad urge to slap some haughty. “You took everything from me. My life, my self-esteem, my trust in people, now even my house. My house, Bart!” I grabbed the front of his shirt to let the aggression take over and push the tremor from my voice. I didn’t want to be emotional, I wanted anger. “Do you have a roof over your head? Because in five days, I won’t.”

  His eyes fluttered closed as I grabbed him, and he did nothing to stop me. “Five days,” he echoed.

  “That’s right,” I said. “Did you think they’d give me magical extensions, too? Order pizza and come over for a packing party? No. They say get out. And I can’t pack everything that fast. I have to spend money on a moving company to come help box up my life and find a big enough storage unit, and a place to live—” I gulped in panic-infused air as the list made my head swim. “All in five days.”

  “I’ll pay for the moving company,” Bart said quietly.

  “Why didn’t you pay the house note?” I asked, tears choking me. “It was never a problem before. Or tell me so that I could pay it. Why did you lie to me and set me up like that?”

  “Jesus, it wasn’t intentional, Gabi,” he said, pushing off the wall and out of my grip. He paced the empty hallway, glancing around for prying ears. “It was one tough month that just kept growing. And Dixie—she expects a certain lifestyle.”

  Oh. My. God.

  I walked slowly toward him, stopping just out of reach so I wouldn’t kill him. My hands were shaking so badly, they might punch him in the throat if I got anywhere close.

  “So, you threw me and our home in the trash along with our marriage, to keep your jail bait whore in the lifestyle to which she was accustomed?” I said, my voice nothing more than a hiss.

  “Don’t call her that,” Bart said, crossing his arms over his chest. “She doesn’t deserve it. You know she really used to like you.”

  I shook my head. If I hadn’t wanted to rip him limb from limb, it might have been kind of cute, his standing up for his woman.

  “I’m sorry, you’re right,” I said. “She did. She called me Gabadabbi and sat in my lap to watch cartoons. She also used to pick her nose and hide the boogers in the couch cushions, but I’m guessing she left that out.” I picked up the letter that had fallen to the floor at some point, suddenly feeling exhausted. “I liked her too, Bart. Right up until she hit legal age and thought it was fair game to ride my husband’s dick on her lunch break.” I crumpled the paper up and stuffed it into his waistband. “And then you traded me in.”

  His eyes met mine, and for the first time in a long while, he actually looked like the adult I married. Much more worn, and stressed out, but that was a good thing. Maybe that made me bitchy and vindictive to have that thought, but I didn’t care.

  “I’m really, really sorry, Gabi,” he said. “I never intended—”

  “Don’t,” I said, holding up a hand. “Just don’t.”

  I walked around him and back out into the lobby, where at least eight or nine people were gathered around Dora’s desk, all heads on a swivel as I approached, Bart following close behind. I strolled past them to the elevator and pushed the button.

  “Gabi,” he said in a low voice. “I’m serious. Send me the moving bill.”

  I got on and turned to face him, giving him all the nothing my numbness could muster.

  “Done,” I said.

  Just before the door closed on his face, backdropped with all the curious and nosy faces behind him, I lifted my shirt and bra in one motion, flashing them all. Men, women, old and young.

  Bart.

  Let them now all talk about Mr. Larson’s ex-wife’s most excellent tits for the next few days. The jaw drops were priceless. Bart’s look of angry jealous mortification was definitely worth it.

  I might have lost my mind. I might be acting stupidly impulsive. But at that moment, after months of pain and anger and humiliation, of feeling discarded and less of a woman and faking positivity so my friends wouldn’t pity me, I was free.

  He’d taken all he could take from me. I had nothing else to lose. I wasn’t going to cry anymore. I would not give them that. I wouldn’t give Bart that. I’d been in various states of grief for months as I hit all the firsts alone. My birthday, Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years—now these new fun facts of the day. Not that I sat in mourning, but it was always there. Always hovering like a tiny devil poking me in the side of the neck. Reminding me, over and over.

  I was done. He could kiss my ass a thousand different ways, and I was done with feeling sad because of him. Gabi Larson had been officially gone for six months since the divorce was final, but for the first time, I actually felt it. That chapter was over.

  I was homeless and single, I’d never be a mom, and I’d probably have trust issues for the rest of my life, but Gabi Graham came alive in full force in that elevator. Meow.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The wardrobe stepped up a rung or two this time, as I got ready
. There was a fine balance I needed to ride, regardless of who did or didn’t show up. I wasn’t about to doll it up to little black dress level like some of those women had, but I wasn’t going in sneakers and a hoodie again either.

  Yep, I was going to the group meeting. If anything required a support group, it was this day, and if I was ever in need of an ego boost, it was now. I’d spent the entire afternoon after I left Bart’s office scouring the internet for apartments, rental houses, anything nearby. Hell, even the trailer park on the other side of Charmed was full. Nothing in neighboring Goldworth that I could afford, and nothing in Denning that I’d feel safe in. I couldn’t swing a daily hotel rate, and now that Drew was in a one-bedroom tiny trailer, I couldn’t bunk with her. All my friends were coupled up, and I wasn’t about to be anyone’s third wheel. There was one option, and I wasn’t happy about it. The rooms above Graham’s Florist. The thought kept making me nauseous, and I couldn’t think about it anymore today. For one more night, I needed some kind of normal. One more night of looking through my closet for something to wear, while it was still my closet. Still my bedroom. Still my world. My house.

  My house that the bank now owned in full, that I couldn’t afford to buy back or get a loan for, since my name was now attached to a foreclosure. I was stuck in limbo, and about to be stuck living in a room above my workplace, where my mother cleaned the shared bathroom that was down the hall.

  I needed an outfit lined in magic dust. I decided on a soft, fitted, v-necked burgundy sweater that I always got compliments on and made me feel pretty. Some dark jeans that I knew made my ass look good, and a pair of leather mule wedges that I’d had for probably ten years and were as comfortable as slippers. Underneath, I wore a tiny thong and a barely-there lace bra I’d forgotten I owned, so I could feel very female and powerful. I had both sexy and comfort on my side, and with some extra little flip to the layers in my hair and a clear gloss on my lips, I headed out the door. I had dressed for me.

  I wasn’t fooling myself. I had dressed for the possibility of someone else, too, but mostly for me. He would just be icing. They’d all just be icing from now on. No one would have the power to gut me like that again.