Chapter 1
Reed
It’s a temperate Sunday afternoon in the Hollywood Hills. The perfect day for Hazel Hennessy’s first birthday party on her parents’ small backyard patio. The birthday girl is sitting in a highchair, wearing a bib that reads, “I’m the Birthday Girl, Bitches!” Her party guests, other than me, are crowded around her, singing “Happy Birthday,” while her proud mommy stands over her with a white cupcake topped with Elmo and her smiling daddy records the occasion on his phone.
And where is Uncle Reed in this happy moment? Nowhere good. He’s slumped in a chair in a corner of the patio, slugging his third Bloody Mary, while drowning in a dark and stormy sea of soul-searing regret.
Because... Georgina.
It’s been sixteen hours since she took off in that Uber with her stepsister, without looking back, leaving me to wallow in a brand of pain I didn’t even know existed. What I’m feeling in this torturous moment is the kind of pain artists sing about in their most tormented breakup songs. The kind of pain I’ve heard other people talk or sing about and immediately thought to myself, “Get over it, you fucking pussy. Move on to the next and you’ll be fine.”
And now, here I am, wallowing in misery, drowning in Bloody Marys, and certain I’ll never “get over it” or “move on to the next and be fine” ever again.
My phone vibrates in my hand, and I look down, praying I’ll see Georgina’s name. But, no. It’s Owen, telling me something I don’t care about. Goddammit! Why won’t Georgina respond to any of my texts or voicemails? I mean, yes, I know why. Because, last night, in a space of mere minutes, Georgina got hit by a shit storm trifecta that made her question everything. In rapid-fire succession, Georgina figured out I’d funded the grant, she found her stepsister sobbing in an upstairs guest room, thanks to a speech I’d given to her about her demo, and, worst of all, Georgina discovered me coming out of the garage with Isabel, right after I’d kissed her. In that horrible moment that’s now running on a permanent loop in my brain, Georgina saw Isabel’s smudged lipstick and the guilty expression on my face and decided, wrongly, that I’d fucked the living hell out of Isabel in that garage, rather than merely giving her an ill-advised goodbye kiss. And, just like that, Georgina’s trust in me was shattered, along with her precious heart. And now, I’m rightfully paying the price for my stupidity.
Out of nowhere, an idea pops into my head. A lifeline. An ingenious idea that will prove to Georgina I did nothing more than kiss Isabel. Granted, this idea wouldn’t fully exonerate me in Georgina’s eyes, since touching Isabel at all was wrong. A betrayal I wish, more than anything, I could take back. But, still, at least this idea would put an end to Georgina thinking I screwed the crap out of Isabel in that garage. At least, Georgina wouldn’t be thinking I cared so little about her, and our magical week together, that I took the first possible opportunity to screw my ex. And, maybe, knowing I’m not that big a monster would soften the blow a bit for Georgina and then, hopefully, pave the way for her to eventually forgive me.
My mind begins turning this idea over. Looking at it from every angle. Weighing the pros and cons. And, soon, much to my dismay, I conclude it’s a non-starter. Surely, it would create more problems than it solved. Shit.
I take another long swig of my Bloody Mary, and sigh from the depths of my tormented soul. I just wish Georgina would call me, if only to chew me out or interrogate me about the grant. CeeCee is still in Bali, so I’m presently Georgina’s only source of enlightenment about the grant. Doesn’t she want to hear what I have to say about how that happened? Does she hate me so much she literally never wants to hear my voice again? Because, if so, then I’ve got some bad news for her. She’s still assigned to the special issue—including writing an in-depth article about me—and I fully intend to hold her to her professional obligations.
The crowd reaches the last note of their song, and I let my eyes drift to Josh’s former assistant, T-Rod. Theresa “Tessa” Rodriguez. Nowadays, Morgan. The Woman I’ve Wanted to Fuck for Ten Years. She’s standing next to her asshole husband, Ryan, holding a dark-haired baby on her hip, as Ryan holds their toddler’s hand. And, man, she’s smoking hot. Hotter than ever. Motherhood definitely suits her. But there’s no doubt about it: I don’t want T-Rod. Not even in a fantasy. Sitting here now, I know, without a doubt, the only woman I want, the only one my heart and body are capable of wanting, is Georgina.
It’s a mind-blowing thing to realize, considering how long T-Rod has been my gold standard of hotness. My go-to masturbation fantasy. But it’s the undeniable truth. Georgina owns me now. Georgina is my new gold standard. My queen. Before today, I knew Georgina had burrowed herself underneath my skin and slithered her way into my bloodstream. But now, as I sit here trying in vain to “move on” and “get over it” and “be fine,” I realize something shocking: Georgina has embedded herself into the very tissues of my heart.
T-Rod laughs, along with everyone around her, so, I shift my gaze to the birthday girl to see what’s up and discover Hazel has just smashed a large glob of white frosting into her face. She was aiming for her mouth, and missed, apparently. And the crowd loves it. I don’t blame them. It’s a cute moment. Objectively humorous. But I don’t give a shit. Because... Georgina. If only she’d call me to let me explain!
I glance at T-Rod again, and marvel at how much she reminds me of Georgina. In ten years, I bet that’s exactly how Georgina will look. T-Rod is a crystal ball showing me Georgina as a mommy. Georgina as a wife.
Out of nowhere, while I’m still staring at T-Rod, her asshole husband gives her a kiss and then glares at me. I quickly look away. Was that a not-so-subtle message to me? Did Ryan notice me staring at his wife and decide he needed to stake his claim? Fucker. Calm down, man. I don’t even want your fucking wife anymore. I was just imagining she was someone else. Someone who used to trust me.
Aw, fuck. Out of nowhere, I’m having a horrible thought. If I don’t win Georgina back, pronto, if I don’t fix this mess I’ve created, Georgina is going to “get over it” and “move on to the next” and “be fine.” Maybe one day soon. And then, one day, ten years from now, she’s going to be standing at a kiddie birthday party alongside her asshole husband, holding his baby on her hip, getting kissed by him when he notices some pathetic loser staring at her. And I won’t be Georgina’s asshole husband in this scenario. I’ll be the pathetic loser staring at her, wishing she were mine.
Testosterone whooshes into my bloodstream. White-hot jealousy. Aching regret. And all of it followed by a tidal wave of panic. If I don’t fix this right away, Georgina is going to move on to the next. She’s going to fuck someone else. Fall in love with someone else. Get married to, and have babies with, someone else.
In a flash, most likely to avoid my head physically exploding, my brain transforms T-Rod across the patio into Georgina. And Ryan into me. That’s my baby on Georgina’s hip now. Nobody else’s. Georgina fucked me to make that baby happen. Nobody else. In fact, in this fantasy, Georgina never fucked anyone else, after me. Ever again. And she certainly never pledged her undying love to some other motherfucker. Hell no. She pledged her undying love to me.