Fixing You: A steamy summer romance. (You Collection Book 3)

by Roya Carmen

  I hate her. I really do. I know it’s horrible to hate someone, and I don’t think I’ve ever hated anyone before.

  But I really do hate her.

  It’s pretty serious actually. She’s been the star in many macabre scenarios I’ve cooked up—it’s amazing what the mind can conjure. Seriously, I think I’ve missed my calling; a career as a crime fiction novelist might suit me perfectly—it would be a lot more interesting than bookkeeping. One scenario involved the roof of her house collapsing on her. In another, she was shaving her ridiculously long legs in the bath, then her plugged-in hair dryer just happened to fall in. Of course, to my delight, she was fried to bits. I also dreamed up a scenario where she got bit by a black widow. I wonder if we even have poisonous spiders in Vermont. Probably not. Damn, why can’t we live in Australia?

  To my pleasure (or horror—I’m not sure), all her posts are public, so I can efficiently stalk her. We’re not even friends, and she has no clue who I am. Well, that’s not quite true. I’m sure she knows something about me—she stole my boyfriend, after all.

  There’s a new post! And this one takes the cake. This one beats the pic of her new slutty heels. She’s eating a three-scoop ice cream cone. Pleeaaase, I’m sure she had a few licks and the cone was trashed as soon as the photo was taken. Ice-cream-eating faker.

  Speaking of ice cream, Trish swoops in with a tub of fudge marble—my favorite. She walks straight to the kitchen and tucks it away in my tiny freezer. She shakes her head as she inches closer, then takes a seat next to me on the sofa. “You’re stalking her again, I see.”

  I don’t want to admit it, but yes. It’s addictive. “Check out the latest photo she posted. She drives a freakin’ red Mustang convertible, for crying out loud. I don’t even have a car.”

  “But your beach cruiser is really cool,” Trish chirps. “I love the basket… and the little bell.”

  I roll my eyes and scroll down her feed. “And look at this photo. She’s drinking a cool foreign beer and laughing with the boys.”

  “Well… um...” Trish says, at a loss for words. Then she spots the flashy red shoes with the colorful platform heels. “Oh my God, those shoes are fabulous, and I’m not even into shoes.”

  I glare at her. “You’re not helping.”

  “I’m sorry,” she adds quickly. “I just like the artsy design. That’s all. I’m sure she can’t even walk in those things.”

  “You’re probably right. I hope she falls and breaks her neck.”

  “So… you still want her to die, I see,” she says with a sigh.

  “Yes.” I’m not ashamed to admit it—I want her to die. I wonder if it’s a sin to wish for someone’s death, but I don’t ponder it too long. “And look…” I point at the photo which got to me the most—a comical heart with the words I love butt sex. “And then she wrote, ‘Not every week, but once in a while, it’s fun to stir shit up.’”

  “That’s kind of clever,” Trish points out with a laugh.

  “God, you’re not fucking helping. Why don’t you go back home and take your tub of ice cream with you?”

  “Jeez, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you swear, Sammy,” she says, and then she softens her tone. “You’re really upset. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this angry… ever.”

  Trish is a real friend. I can see it in her eyes—she’s just as upset as I am. When you hurt, real friends feel your pain and hurt as much as you do. She pulls me to her and wraps her arms around me. I instantly fall into sobs.

  “She’s the ‘cool girl,’” I cry. “He left me for the fuckin’ cool girl.”

  Trish shakes her head, almost as pissed off as I am. “That’s it… do you know where she lives? Let’s go beat up that bitch.”

  “I know where she lives, but she has a black belt in judo. She’d probably beat the shit out of us.”

  “Damn, I’m starting to really hate this bitch. Wait… you know where she lives?”

  I shrug. “She’s everything I’m not. She’s perky and blond, really cool, speaks three languages, and loves anal. How the hell am I supposed to compete with that?”

  “Oh, Sammy,” she says, pulling from me. She takes my face in her hands. “You don’t, sweetie. You don’t compete with that. You’re completely different than her. You’re sweet, quirky, and smart. You’re your own person. And if she’s the one he’s looking for, he obviously wasn’t the one for you.”

  I’m still crying buckets—I just can’t help myself. I can’t help comparing myself to her. She’s all legs and long blond hair, big blue eyes and tiny waist. I’m short with plain brown eyes and hair, and I’d love to lose those last ten pounds. One or two people have told me that I remind them of Selena Gomez, but I’m pretty sure they needed to have their eyes checked.

  She stares at me and winces. Her large bohemian earrings clang as she shakes her head. “Damn, I wish I could stay with you this weekend.”

  I sit up straighter. “It’s okay, Trish. I’ll be fine, I promise.”

  “But you’re driving yourself crazy. You need to stop stalking her. You’re going to go insane.”

  “I know I should stop. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

  “You’re acting crazy. And honestly, I’m a little afraid that you are actually going to go try to off her,” she adds with a shaky little laugh.

  It’s not funny. Because I do feel as if I could really kill the woman.

  “Seriously,” she says, “you wouldn’t do well in prison. They don’t have Netflix and chai lattes in prison.”

  I blow out a breath. “I know… I wouldn’t survive.”

  “I wish I didn’t have that art retreat. I want to stay with you.”

  “But you’ve been looking forward to it forever,” I point out. “I’ll be fine.”

  I know I won’t be though. It seems I’m even more upset now than I was last week when Matthew brought me to that fancy restaurant and dumped me. We’d even been planning to set off to Florida this week for a holiday. I had the week booked off work.

  At least he had the decency to not lie when I asked him if there was someone else. But now, I wish he had. Then I wouldn’t be obsessing over this woman, imagining her with him—kissing, walking hand-in-hand, eating spaghetti like a scene from Disney’s Lady and the Tramp, and having stupid anal sex.

  Trish bounces off the couch. “I have an idea! It’s fabulous. I’m not sure why I didn’t think about it before.”

  I stare at her, wide-eyed, wondering what the hell she’s going on about.

  “You come with me,” she almost sings. “Come to the art retreat with me. A week in Québec City, surrounded by French-Canadian hotties, it’ll be the perfect distraction. You’ve already booked the week off work. Your passport is still good, right? It’s meant to be.”

  I stare at her, speechless.

  “What?”

  “I can’t draw to save my life. I don’t have a single artistic bone in my body.” I stretch out my arms, displaying my hands. “Just look at these nails.”

  She stares at the mess I’ve made of my nails and actually winces. “God… what were you trying to do?”

  “I was trying to get my nails to look like hers,” I explain as I scroll down Melanie’s feed. “See?”

  She glares at the photo of Melanie’s perfect pink and black-polka-dot mani for what seems like eternity. I turn my gaze to the screen and glare too. Fuck her… and her pretty nails. I jerk back when Trish snaps my laptop shut with a loud slap.

  “That’s it,” she scoffs. “No more internet for you. You’re coming with me, and I don’t want to hear another word. No ifs, ands, or buts about it.”

 

 

 
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