In the anise, I thought. “OK, well…are you sure?
I mean, I don’t think I’ll be able to get deposits back from those vendors. It’s less than a week away.”
“I don’t care. No party. I can’t face anyone, I’m too humiliated.”
Closing my eyes, I nodded slowly. Goodbye, house. “I’m sorry, Angelina. If you need any events planned in the future, I’d love to work with you again.” Not true, but what else could I say?
“All right. Thanks. Sorry about this.” She sniffed.
“It’s OK. You’ll find someone better.”
“Damn right, I will. Hey, is Nick Lupo available?”
“No.” Rolling my eyes, I ended the call and put my head in my hands. What the hell else could go wrong?
Back in my car, I called Nick, but it went straight to voicemail. I didn’t want to leave the test results in a message, so I hung up and figured I’d try again later. At home, I brushed my teeth and curled up in bed, my phone next to me in case he called back. It was crazy how much I missed him sleeping beside me, when he’d only been there for the last two nights. I reached for my phone and texted him. I miss you. Call me.
But I fell asleep still waiting for the phone to ring.
#
The next morning I got ready for work, looking at my phone way more than usual. Normally I’m not someone who’s glued to it, but my job makes it necessary to be available to clients and vendors even when I’m not at the office. By noon, I still had no call from Nick, and I figured with the late flight and time change, maybe he was sleeping.
Hey sleepyhead. Wake up. Let’s talk.
After lunch, I tried calling again, and this time I left a message. “Hey, it’s Coco. Just trying to reach you, so give me a call. The party this weekend is off, so don’t worry about that. Thanks for saying you’d help out, though. And I’m glad we got to spend time together. Hope you arrived safely and that you’re having a good time. Bye.” That last part was kind of a lie—I didn’t really want him to have a good time there. I wanted him to miss me the way I missed him.
By three in the afternoon, I was a little annoyed.
By five, I was angry
By six, I saw the pictures.
I was still at the office, and even though I’d managed to slay the dragon urge to Google him before, today was a different story. The dragon won.
I typed his name, hit enter, and sucked my lips between my teeth. In the news, it said at the top, and underneath the words was a photo of Nick with his arm around a pretty brunette, his lips pressed to her cheek. Gasping, I clicked on it. According to the gossip site that posted the photo, it had been taken two hours ago. And there were more.
Trying to remain calm, I clicked through a bunch of photos from the event, some kind of fundraiser with celebrity chefs cooking the food. I was hoping to see him with a bevy of different beauties, but it was always the same one. Apparently she was a chef too, a contestant on the current season of Lick My Plate.
And his ex-girlfriend.
My breaths came harder and faster, making my dress feel too tight in the chest. The photo captions did nothing to set my mind at ease.
Season One winner Nick Lupo cozies up to former flame and Season Two fan favorite Alex Rigler.
Sexy exes Nick Lupo and Alex Rigler turn up the heat in the kitchen.
Nick Lupo and Alex Rigler still sizzle. “She can lick my plate any time,” he said.
My stomach twisted and churned—I felt the familiar old sickness I used to experience when Nick would flirt with other girls at parties and later I’d look through his texts to see if they were contacting him.
Horrible, juvenile behavior that I never wanted to repeat. I knew gossip sites exaggerated things. But why hadn’t he called?
Disgusted with him and myself, I closed the window and packed up to go home. On the way, I called Mia and told her I’d been an idiot to think Nick was serious about me. After hearing everything that had happened since I left her house the night before, she said not to panic until I talked to him. And though she didn’t say how glad she was that Angelina’s party had been canceled, I could hear it in her voice.
By dinner that night, he still hadn’t called, and I found myself stabbing my chicken breast with a fork instead of eating it.
“Something wrong?” Sitty asked, one eyebrow arched.
“No.” I cut a bite and ate it, staring at my plate like a sullen teenager. Sitty said nothing further.
On Tuesday, Mia left for France, and Erin and I went out for a drink. Nick still hadn’t called. She listened to me gripe about trusting him and being disappointed all over again, but told me not to jump to conclusions or overreact, which pissed me off. I wasn’t overreacting! I was being fucking smart. Protective.
That night, I got my period.
When Wednesday came and went without a call, I deleted his number from my phone. I also emailed my real estate agent that I couldn’t afford the house on Iroquois but I wanted to keep looking at things in my price range. Then I got out my Grass Widow Bourbon and took a shot before pressing Send.
Well, that’s that. Goodbye, house. Goodbye, Nick. Goodbye crazy, stupid dreams.
Of course, on Thursday, he called.
I didn’t answer.
I deleted his voicemails without listening.
I deleted his texts without reading.
More sickening familiarity.
On Friday, I didn’t go to work, scared that he might try to find me there. He wouldn’t dare show up at my parents’ house, I figured, not after everything in our past. But I spent the weekend at Erin’s apartment just in case.