Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 133224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
This situation is completely out of control.
“Stop it,” I cry. “Somebody, do something.”
Blake punches John in the face, hard.
“Blake,” I yell.
He punches him again and again, and oh my god, he’s actually going to kill him.
“Enough.” Henley and Antony wrestle Blake off John, holding him back by the arms. Blake is panting and red; adrenaline is surging through his system. “You come around here again, and I’ll fucking kill you.”
“Not if I kill you first,” John pants. He’s on his hands and knees as he tries to collect himself. He spits blood onto the grass.
My eyes go to Blake as he struggles to get free, and that’s when I see the fading red love bite on his neck. My stomach rolls in disgust. A hickey from a woman who he claims to have no attraction to.
An outright lie.
John’s right; they are tarred with the same brush.
Twins, both trying to control my situation. Neither of them giving me an inch of respect.
I ask John to go home; he refuses. I ask Blake to go home; he refuses. Everything is all about what they want.
That’s it.
“Don’t come near me again. You both make me sick.” I turn and march inside, slam my front door shut, and lock it. Having an ex-husband and a friend who act exactly the same is fucking toxic and not something I need in my life.
That’s it; I’m done.
I storm upstairs and get into the shower; I stand under the hot water as I try to calm myself down.
I hear more screaming coming from outside, and I put my hands over my ears.
Hopefully they kill each other.
I sit in the café and sip my coffee as I watch the sun set. As the sunlight fades, my mind wanders off into something really depressing.
I don’t want to go home.
It’s been three days since the front yard boxing match, three days since I’ve spoken to Blake.
It’s one thing to be disrespected by my ex-husband. It’s another thing to be disrespected by a friend. Blake had no right to order John to leave; it is still legally John’s house, after all. Here I am, trying my best to keep it civil so that I have at least a chance of a good outcome in the divorce courts, and my supposed friend is doing all he can to sabotage my mission. When I asked Blake to leave and go home so that I could talk to John, he point-blank refused and then proceeded to beat him to a pulp.
It’s not okay.
John came around to our house to have a conversation with me about financial matters and our impending divorce. What gives Blake the right to react that way?
He acted like a jealous child. I understand that he hates John. I do, too, but that doesn’t excuse violent behavior.
I didn’t leave a controlling, toxic marriage to enter into a controlling, toxic friendship.
I feel so deflated and flat, and my rose-colored glasses have been well and truly smashed.
To make matters worse, I haven’t sold a single image on Foot Finder. I guess my toes don’t have what it takes, and I feel like a fool that I ever imagined they would.
This time last week, I was excited and had hope that I was going to be able to afford to keep my house. This week, I’m just not so sure.
I glance at my watch. It’s 6:30 p.m. The boys leave for Vegas tonight, and I didn’t want to see Blake before he left. He’s called me at least twenty times over the last few days, and I just . . . I don’t even want to talk to him. I mean, what is there to say.
You’re a disappointment is all I’ve got.
The door opens, and a little old man and woman walk in. They must be at least eighty years old. I smile sadly as I watch them. They’re holding hands and chatting away to each other; they look so in love.
How long have they been together?
I feel a deep, overwhelming sadness. Lost dreams and a sad statistic are all my marriage amounted to, and an unexpected wave of emotion fills me.
I was a good wife; I swear I was.
The worst part is, I know that the part of my heart that loved so deeply and unencumbered has died. Never to be resurrected, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.
I’m not the same girl I once was.
Quite sure I’ll never trust a man again, let alone be able to love one.
The vision of the old couple blurs as my eyes fill with tears, and I discreetly wipe them away. I drag myself off the stool and stumble out to my car, and then once safely alone, I let myself cry.
8:30 p.m.
My phone vibrates on the coffee table as a text comes in from Juliet.