Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 81707 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 272(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81707 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 272(@300wpm)
I’m totally inappropriate for him.
Because no one wants a first lady with a criminal record.
This has to be the end. I just need to make it through the rest of this evening and then I’ll break it off, explain to Warren that being with me would be toxic for his future. I’m attempting to duck past Thomas and re-enter the ballroom when my lawyer speeds up his pace and calls out my name.
“Audrey! I really need to speak with you!”
No way. Not here. Not now.
There’s only one thing to do. And maybe I do seem wishy-washy and indecisive. And I’m definitely letting Warren down. But this is what they mean about being cruel to be kind, right? I’m not good for him. I can’t help him. And I can’t be by his side. Not anymore.
They’re serving the dessert as I bail out, leaving Thomas staring dumbfounded as I turn around and duck out a side door. Because as much as I want that cake, staying would mean bringing on more scandal, and I won’t do it.
I’m running, stupid high heels in hand.
Chapter Thirty-One
I have to take the train to get back home, but that won’t even get me there all the way. Ugh. I have to do one of the most embarrassing things I’ve ever done.
I have to ask Miller for help.
I tell him in the text that I’d like to hire him, as a gig worker, to pick me up. I try to keep it official so that it’s not as pathetic.
But honestly, there isn’t really any getting around the pathetic part. Especially when I’m going to have to go to the train station in my evening wear, by myself, with tears streaking down my cheeks.
I know I did the right thing for Warren, but it doesn’t mean I can’t be miserable about it now. It doesn’t mean I can’t feel like I just walked away from the love of my life.
It can all feel like shit, even if I have to set him free because I love him. Like some tragic motivational sign, in which I’ve crossed out And if they return to you, it was meant to be. Because that’s shit. Real life doesn’t work like that.
I’m making my sad walk to the station when I see it. A beacon of hope for heartbreak. It’s a cupcake shop, and I’ve never seen a more welcome sight in my entire life, except maybe when I saw vintage Chanel in perfect condition at a thrift store.
I walk into the shop. The entire thing is painted baby pink and white with a cartoon baker grinning from behind a mural of cupcakes. She’s so proud of those damn cupcakes. I bet Cartoon Baker has always made the right life choices. She’s never gotten drunk and mad and committed a crime. She didn’t ruin her life. She just focused on the future, one cupcake at a time.
“I’ll take a dozen,” I tell a teenager behind the counter, who is radiating far too much hope and joy for my state of mind at the moment. “Whatever the emergency assortment is.”
“Excuse me?” The girl blinks at me in confusion, as if there’s an actual assortment named for heartbreak.
There should be. The heartbreak dozen, served to-go, with one fork.
I tell her to give me an assortment of whatever. It’s cake and frosting, and there’s not a whole lot of ways to fuck that up.
Why couldn’t I have been born a cupcake? I’d never have to make decisions, good or bad, and everyone would love me. Except for the people with gluten issues. And the diabetics. Scratch that, not even cupcakes can win them all.
I carry my sad box of cupcakes to the station. Then I get on the train, not even worrying about the looks I’m getting. I’m overdressed for the train, clearly. Out of place in my evening dress clutching a bakery box and a bouquet of sadness. Go ahead and think what you want. Nothing any of them could say or think is worse than what I’m thinking about myself right now.
God, I’m such a loser.
The train ride’s three hours, and I work my way through four cupcakes before I feel sick and have to stop. Even the cupcakes are betraying me because, normally, four would be… well, it would be a piece of cake. But now? The cupcakes are tasteless and just stacking up in my stomach like a painful reminder of my shame. Which is a crime. Another one I can add to my rap sheet. I managed to ruin cupcakes.
By the time my train arrives, it’s pretty late. I check my phone, grateful to see that Miller’s pulled up outside. Waiting curbside with half a dozen cupcakes while still in high heels would be too depressing to handle.
Fine, yes, I ate two more of them. Three hours is a really, really long time to reflect on your shortcomings.