She eventually gives up an exasperated sigh. “As I was saying, I have good news. We finally have an offer on the house.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “We’ve had offers before. Three of them. Why should I bother getting my hopes up about this one?”
“Because it’s a real offer. Ten thousand dollars over our asking price, so long as we’re willing to close by the end of the month.” She lets a small smile curve her lips. “I was thinking we could sign the offer and then maybe do brunch somewhere, for old times’ sake.”
“We’re divorced,” I remind her. “So ‘for old times’ sake’ probably isn’t something either of us wants to revisit.”
She glares, then draws in a long breath and lets it out slowly, like she’s trying really hard not to claw my eyeballs out. It’s a look I’m used to, unfortunately. Sometimes I wish we could be one of those couples who split up but can still find a way to share a meal together and not have it feel like hell on earth, but with appetizers. But I don’t think we’ll ever get there. Too much history, too many years of not communicating, and too little patience with each other means we’re long past any hope of that. We’re better off walking away from each other so that neither of us gets hurt anymore.
She sighs. “We at least need to sign the papers. If we can be civil with each other long enough to get that done, then this is over. Completely.”
That one word—completely—trips a switch in my brain, and suddenly it’s as if someone has turned on all the lights in a darkened room. This is what I’ve been waiting for. Without a mortgage payment, I’ll finally be able to move forward. I can move out of my parents’ basement, find a place of my own, and truly have a fresh start. My heart starts to beat too fast, just from thinking about how close I am to moving on. I bite back the huge grin I want to let out and give Nicole a curt nod.
“Let’s finish this.”
16
Anya
Skulking behind the front window curtains, I watch JT disappear into the house with Nicole and try really hard not to snarl.
Or cry.
Or stuff another fritter into my mouth.
I ignored JT’s request to wait to eat because my empty belly is barking orders and my heart is feeling a little sucker punched, so I need my apple fritters. Now. Not whenever JT finishes his little tête-à-tête with his ex and finally saunters over here.
Logically, I know that nothing is going to happen in that house that I need to worry about. Because other than his awkward “we’ve been dating for a while now” declaration—which only made me feel like a chess piece in whatever game JT and Nicole were playing—as far as I know, our extended hookup is near its end. When that happens, JT can be with whoever he wants. Including his ex-wife.
And I can see why he might want that. JT and Nicole must have stopped people in their tracks when they were together, dazzling everyone with their combined hotness while fielding inappropriate questions about their plans to procreate. Those two would have gifted the world with one gorgeous kid, that’s for sure.
I yank the curtains closed with a sigh. This is insane, standing here peeping through the windows like I have no life of my own. There are a million things I could be doing right now.
Checking my long-ignored email feels like a good place to start, so I grab my phone and another fritter, then start scrolling. I zip right past all the spammy-looking stuff, then skim a long message from my mom. Just underneath that one, I see a name I don’t recognize, followed by a partial subject line that reads Greetings & Congratulations! Welcome to…
I let out a snort. That email looks like it has something to do with a handsome foreign prince whose billion-dollar investment account is supposedly tied up in an offshore account. I pop the rest of my latest fritter in my mouth, hovering over the sender’s name so it will show me the email address, fully expecting it to be something obviously phishy.
The name Samuel Brooks appears, followed by an address that nearly makes me choke on my fritter. I force myself to chew slowly, trying to connect the dots without losing my cool.
An email addressed to me.
A subject line with the word congratulations in it.
From the Fenton program.
This can only mean one thing, my brain squeals, like a peppy cheerleader who just needs to pipe down for a second. I need to be able to think straight before I open this. I’ve already done a few too many emotional cartwheels this morning and I can’t risk doing more of them on a stomach full of doughnuts. But that’s hard to do when all I can think about is the way my career will open up if I, by some miracle, won the Fenton. I’d have a place to live and create for the next year, all while earning a stipend that will cover the rest of my bills every month. It’s everything I want—and everything I’m terrified to imagine.
I focus on my breath until I have myself together. There’s no way I’m opening anything until I’m as calm, cool, and collected as a freaking FBI bomb technician. When that finally happens, when I’m finally feeling ready, I only want for one other thing.
Someone to hold my hand.
Unfortunately, my first choice for that task happens to be across the street with his supermodel of an ex-wife, so I blow out a long sigh. Time to do this—all on my own. With just one eye open, I jab a finger on the touchscreen and read my fate. Then I read it again.
By the third time through, tears are blurring my eyes.
Because I did it. It’s mine.
Despite the odds, despite what Martin said, despite my own lack of faith… the Fenton committee chose me.
I sit there with tears streaming down my face, happy and grateful and exhausted by how good it feels. Because this is it—I’m on my way to everything I wanted, all on my own, which is exactly what I need to do to be the woman and the artist I truly am.
Finally, I wipe my eyes on the hem of JT’s t-shirt and go into the bathroom to splash some cold water on my face, coming out just in time to hear a knock at the door. I school my features as best I can and holler out that the door is open. By the time JT finds me in the kitchen, I’ve recovered enough to fix a smile on my face. JT strides in, coming to a stop with his hands balled into loose fists at his sides.
“Hey!” I say, cringing at how loudly it comes out. I need to play this cool, for at least as long as it takes for him to leave. I point at the doughnut box. “I couldn’t wait to eat, I’m sorry. I was starving.”
JT doesn’t say anything; he simply closes the distance between us and presses his mouth to mine in a kiss that nearly knocks me off balance. It feels different from every other kiss we’ve shared, so full of heat you’d think we’ve been away from each other for weeks, instead of less than an hour. When he finally releases me, I’m almost breathless.
“Missed you,” he says. He gives me a lopsided grin. “I have fucking spectacular news and I want to tell you about it.”
He slides around the kitchen counter and starts to rummage around in the cabinets. I watch him fiddle with the coffee brewer and all I can think about is how badly I want to tell him my good news. But I know that’s a bad idea. For so many reasons, I can’t even sort them all out.