“Tell me everything that happened.”
Best friends. They’re not always the best to have around. Especially when you don’t want to relive a very shitty night. “He’s married. There’s not much else to tell.” Frowning at my admission, I fight the urge to burst into tears. I don’t want to talk about it, let alone hash it out with my best friend. But isn’t that what friends are for? To complain about your love life with and have them agree with you regardless of their opinion?
It may sound strange, but my life, and everything in it is temporary.
Slowly drowning in the confusion of love, I’m on borrowed time. And up until today, everything made sense. Until I find out the man I’ve been dating for the last six months is married. Pretty shitty discovery, huh? Six months and I had no idea.
Through some unfortunate circumstances over the years, I’ve found it’s human nature to be secretive. So I can’t say I’m entirely surprised by this.
I think about how he told me last night. Sitting across from me, relaxed as could be, the way he rubbed his thumb across his bottom lip, and the “I’m sorry” he offered me. It’s revolting. As soon as the words “I’m his wife” had been said by his actual wife, I contemplated stabbing him with the knife next to my plate.
The neon sign above Presley’s head turns her blonde hair a shade of purple. “Seriously?”
Resolutely, I stare at my friend and her ridiculous attempt to cover up the hickey on her neck by wearing a scarf in the middle of summer. “Yes, seriously.”
She blinks, lashes fluttering in surprise. “For reals?”
“Jesus, yes, Presley. He’s married. As in, he has a wife.”
“I knew he was a bit of a shady fuck, but damn….” Presley Dakota, she’s my best friend since birth, but she’s clueless sometimes. Sensitive, yet fierce in her own way, there’s a part of her that doesn’t ground with reality. She cares too much and in turn, oversteps the boundaries between friendship, obsessively trying to fix everything in your life. Sometimes I welcome it because everyone needs a Presley in their life, but today, I don’t like her very much. I don’t like anyone.
Presley waits for me to say more, gawking at me in shock. Have you ever watched someone’s face when you give them shocking news? They make the funniest faces. It’s like their facial muscles react on their own.
“Well…” Her expectant sky-blue eyes slide to mine. “…did you stalk her on Instagram at least? I mean, who are we dealing with?”
One by one, I refill the tequila bottles in the back room. “I looked her up on Instagram last night.” With aggravation and bitterness flowing through my veins, I arrange the clear bottles on the shelf and think about how much trouble I’d get into with Avie if I dropped them on the ground. I think I’d like to. Just one. Or maybe all of them. The sounds of the glass breaking, I bet it’d provide me some relief. I can pretend it’s Devereux’s face shattering like he did to my heart.
“And…?” Presley pulls her phone from her pocket. “What’s her name? I wanna look her up.”
I scramble for something derogatory to say about his wife. I spent most of last night, and the early part of the morning, stalking her on social media, but nothing comes to mind. At least nothing I can justify. “She’s pretty.” I’m not sure what else I can say about Norah Belmont, other than if stunning had a face, it’d be her. And the fact that I couldn’t find anything to hate about her only hurt more. I thought maybe if she was ugly, I could justify it by saying it was because he wasn’t getting any at home. But no, it wasn’t like that, and it’s irrational for me to think that way. Norah, she’s beautiful. The kind of woman you look at and sigh because you know even when she’s old and wrinkled, she’s still going to be beautiful, aging timelessly.
From what I gathered from the events that unfolded last night, she didn’t know about me, at least not at first, and doesn’t deserve what Devereux is putting her through. A pediatric nurse, a volunteer, and she probably gives all her free time to her church. At least that’s the way her Instagram feed presents.
“What is wrong with you?” Presley grabs me by the arms and spins me to face her. “Did you hit your head? We’re supposed to bash him and talk about how small his dick is.”
Regardless of what I want to be doing, my thoughts remain on: I’m a home-wrecker!
Temptation gets the better of me and I drop the bottle at my feet.
Bang!
The sound of glass breaking against concrete shrieks through the bar. Immediately, the frown surfaces. It’s not as rewarding as I thought it’d be.
Silence stretches between us, Presley and I staring at the shards of glass at our feet. With a gasp, she holds up her hands and smiles. “It wasn’t me, Avie!”
Traitor.
“Journey!” Avie growls, surfacing from the office around the corner. He scrubs his hands over his tired face and then flops them down at his sides. “Damn it, I told you to be careful!”
I know it’s coming out of my paycheck by the expression on his face. His brow drawn up tight, his lips thinned in a set form.
Avie Weldon wears the weight of our lives on his shoulders. He’s had to. Our parents died when I was thirteen, and he was eighteen. Legally old enough to take care of me, since there was no way in hell I was living with our Aunt Lea—she’s borderline bi-polar, smokes a pack a day, and smells like fried chicken and peach rings—so Avie left behind the life he thought he’d have. The one where he had a full-ride baseball scholarship and is now the owner of a tavern in Westport Washington.
I’m sure it’s not the life he wanted for either of us.
“Clean it up,” he barks, despondent of emotion, his eyes on his phone in hand.
“Sorry,” I mumble, reaching for the broom.
A little bit of honesty? I’m not sorry. I’m hating.
Devereux Belmont, I hate you.
Believe me when I say you’re going to hear that name again, probably soon, and it’s going to be because I killed him. It’ll be in the papers later. Just kidding. I’m not a killer. I googled the traits of a killer and I have none of them. I wouldn’t hurt a spider. I’m that person that “relocates” the damn things.
My only victim here is a poor, unsuspecting bottle of tequila.
You might be wondering how this happened? The part where I fell for a married man? I’m going to have to start from the beginning for it to make sense.
Remember when I said I’m on borrowed time? Let’s revisit that. I was eight when I found out I had a heart muscle disease. Cardiomyopathy. It’s a condition that causes your heart muscles to become thick, stiff, and less able to pump blood. I was stable for years, and then, two weeks after my parents died, I went into acute heart failure. A week later, I was living on a LVAD machine and waiting for a heart transplant.
That day came November third. I was seventeen years old. I’ll remember it for the rest of my life because it’s the day I got a second chance, and someone else had their last. I went through a lot of grief knowing I was getting a heart because I knew someone had to die for me to get a new one. It’s not like I could go out and buy one, or borrow it. Their life ended so mine could continue. Avie tells me I’m living with survivor’s guilt because I’m afraid to live my life now.