by Lila Monroe
“Don’t talk to me about expectations,” Fitz growls, looking furious. “I’ve had them weighing on me my whole life!”
“And what have you done about it?” I challenge him. “You keep your career secret and deflect any questions with your charming one-liners and quips. Is it any wonder people think the worst of you? You just float through life in your own little bubble, you have no idea what it’s like for the rest of us, struggling to make a difference!”
“You don’t know me,” Fitz says, looking frighteningly calm.
“You’re right, I don’t.” My heart aches again. “The Fitz I thought I knew was kind, and smart, and driven. But you were just pretending. The way you pretended to be my husband. And we both know that was a lie.”
I turn, and this time, I walk away.
“Becca . . .”
I hear his voice behind me, but I can’t stay and listen to any more of his lines. It hurts too much, knowing the truth beneath all that charm.
I never really mattered to him. I heard everything I needed on that tape, and fuck, I have to go clean up the mess now.
I have to get back to my real life again. The one without him.
17
Becca
The only way I can get back to New York immediately is to trade my first-class ticket for a standby red-eye seat in coach. I don’t care. I’m so heartbroken, I spend the 3 a.m. flight replaying all the happy moments Fitz and I spent together, while the linebacker-slash-bodybuilder beside me snores loudly, dribbling all over my cardigan.
Where did it all go wrong?
Trusting a man like Fitz, for starters. I thought he was different, that he was more than just his bad reputation, but it turns out I should have believed that gossip feature where he swore he’d never settle down. A leopard doesn’t change his spots, and a sexy, handsome man with zero responsibilities definitely doesn’t give it all up to marry a complete stranger and live happily ever after.
How could I have thought we would work? He’s used to lounging in VIP clubs, while a big night for me means staying home with a bubble bath, Netflix, and a bag of Krispy Kreme donut holes. Talk about incompatible. If he hadn’t been in the bar that night after Scott left me at the altar, we would probably never have even met! That should have been my first hint.
And the list of ex-girlfriends a mile long should have been my last.
I was just a brief diversion for him. A way to kill some time between Victoria’s Secret models—and scandalize his parents, too. The hot sex and cute snuggling was just a fringe benefit to him.
I should have known it would only end in tears.
My tears.
I don’t even want to think about what he’s doing now. I bet he’s probably already at a club somewhere, effortlessly charming the hottest woman in the room. If he even had to go that far. I wouldn’t be surprised if an alert went out on the gossip line, and girls just lined up outside his room ready to take their clothes off and throw themselves into his—strong, muscular—arms.
I swallow back an empty sob. I wouldn’t blame them. Being with Fitz was the adventure of a lifetime. Is it any wonder I ignored the truth for so long?
It was only ever temporary.
We were never meant to be.
And now I get to face the consequences of my bad decision-making. Starting with the mess at Waverly Place.
After getting held on the runway and stuck in line at JFK, I’ve been traveling over 12 hours by the time I make it home. I drag myself up the stairs to my apartment and unlock the door.
The place is just the way I left it. And just the way Fitz left it, too.
His was staying over before we went to England, and his presence is still everywhere: the sweater draped on the back of my couch, his briefcase propped by the door.
And in the bedroom . . .
I don’t even want to think about the things we did in there. All the wicked, delicious ways he made me moan.
How am I supposed to go back to crappy Tinder dates and half-hearted fix-ups knowing what it feels like in his arms?
I swallow back another sob and determinedly grab an empty tote from my stash under the sink. I quickly charge through the apartment, grabbing all signs of him and stuffing them in the bag before shoving it in my closet. Then I strip my bed and briefly consider burning my sheets before settling on balling them out of sight in my laundry hamper.
There. He’s gone for good.
Somehow, that just makes it hurt even worse.
I sink down on the edge of my bare mattress and fight the aching in my chest. I can tell myself it was all just pretend a hundred times over, but I know what I felt, and what I felt was the real thing to me.
And this heartbreak feels real, too.
I hear a knock on my door and have to take a deep breath to collect myself. I wipe the tears from my eyes and go to answer it. I find Lionel outside in the hall.
“Hi!” I force a bright voice and the fakest smile this side of Vegas. “What’s up?”
Lionel frowns. “You mean, you haven’t heard?”
“Heard what?”
He peels an envelope from my door and hands it to me. “They just appeared this morning. We all got one. Eviction notices. We have to be out by the end of the month.”
I stare at the page numbly, but it’s all there in black and white.
Brett didn’t waste a minute making it official.
“I don’t understand,” Lionel is saying. “I thought Marigold left the building to you, but Stanley ran into this other fellow, and he says the place belongs to him now. What’s going on?”
I look at his face, the honest confusion and fear, and I can’t keep it together any more. The past day of heartache and betrayal comes welling up, and I collapse into loud, messy sobs.
“It’s all my fault!”
Lionel is stunned. “Becca, sweetheart, what’s wrong?”
I hiccup, in full ugly-cry mode, snot streaming now. “I tried . . . Fitz . . . but I couldn’t . . .”
“Hush now,” Lionel insists. “Whatever it is, we can figure it out. Stanley!” he calls down the stairs. “Put the kettle on. And find some brandy. Poor Becca’s in an awful state.”
I don’t deserve their sympathy, but I’m too messed up to protest as Lionel steers me down to their apartment and sets me up on the couch with a soft blanket and a glass of something strong. I manage to sniff back the tears long enough to tell them everything. The whole sorry story from start to painful finish.
“You mean . . . you were just faking your relationship with Arthur?” Lionel looks shocked. “You missed your calling on Broadway. I could have sworn the chemistry between you was real.”
“It was!” I wail. “That’s what makes it worse. I really fell for him.”
“Oh, darling.” Stanley comforts me. “It will all be OK.”
“But it won’t!” I blink at them both, feeling like pond scum. The dirty primordial ooze that lurks six feet below pond scum. “The eviction notices are for real. Brett inherits everything now, and you’ll all be out on the street. Because of me.”
Because I couldn’t find a fake husband who’d keep his mouth shut.
Because I let my guard down, and opened up to Fitz, and forgot the stakes of the game we were playing.
“That’s nonsense,” Stanley says firmly. “About it being your fault, and us all being doomed. You did your best to save the building, and the rest of us . . . Well, we’ll cope. We might have to relocate to an outer borough, or downsize a little, but that’s hardly the end of the world.”
“I hear Jersey City is very up and coming,” Lionel pitches in. “The Times had a whole feature on the new shopping district.”
“Liar,” I hiccup. I know they’re only trying to make me feel better. After all, this has been their home for over twenty years now, and now it’s being ripped away.
“Don’t you worry about us,” Stanley insists. “We’ll be fine. I just can’t imagine why you thought you needed to go to such lengt
hs to stop it. Where did you even get the idea for this hare-brained scheme?”
“It seemed like a good idea at the time,” I offer weakly. “A quick marriage, an even quicker divorce . . . It’s all just paper, in the end.”
Until I met a man who turned my life upside down. And made me wonder if maybe, just maybe, those empty pieces of paper could lead to something real, after all.
“I should have known it wouldn’t work out with Fitz,” I say sadly. “He’s this handsome, charming guy, and I’m—”
“Beautiful, and lovely, and generous.” Stanley gives me a comforting squeeze. “He would have been lucky to have you, anyone could see.”
Anyone, except Brett. His radar was up from the start, and he was just looking for his chance to expose us. If only Fitz had paid more attention; thought twice before spilling the whole story to that woman on the phone . . .
But who am I kidding? I was so swept up in love-struck sex vibes that I would have done the exact same thing.
I wasn’t thinking straight. I wasn’t thinking at all.
Love will do that to a girl.
Stanley and Lionel insist on trying to cheer me up. I make it through a morning of their old theatre stories and a couple more Irish coffees before finally begging off and returning to my apartment to wallow in misery alone.
Where I stay. For the next three days.
After all, what’s the point of living in a city where you can get comfort chicken soup and mashed potatoes delivered to your apartment at 11 p.m. if you don’t use the chance to sink deeper into a pit of sweatpants, bad reality TV, and heartbreak?
I may as well make use of the moping while I can, because based on my bank balance and pay stubs, I’m not going to be living in Manhattan for much longer. Goodbye, Greenwich Village. Hello, Tulsa, Oklahoma. Or St. Louis. Or Detroit.
Would it cost me money to buy a VW van and just squat in the back? I see it on Instagram all the time, but something tells me it’s not so glamorous #vanlife in person. I mean, where exactly do they all do laundry?
Such are the questions I’m pondering when a loud banging on my door interrupts me on Wednesday afternoon.
“I’m sick!” I call from deep in my blanket nest on the couch. I’ve discovered that if I balance a pizza box on the coffee table and the TV remote in a makeshift sling off the sofa arm, I have everything I need within arm’s reach, and I don’t have to get up, ever again.
Except for the bathroom. Which, thanks to the gallon of chocolate milk I’ve just guzzled, is calling me.
Insistently.
Reluctantly, I haul myself to my feet and stumble to the door—over the carpet of empty takeout wrappers and magazines.
“Holy shit, you look terrible!”
It’s my friends. Bearing grocery bags and uplifting pep talks, clearly.
“I have to pee,” I tell them, and I head for the bathroom. I can hear them through the door talking in hushed whispers, and when I emerge again, they’re gingerly nudging the filthy mess that was formerly known as my living room.
“I see we arrived just in time,” Natalie says, looking around.
“Lionel called,” Poppy adds. “He was worried. Said you were having a few difficulties.”
“Which seems like the biggest understatement of the year,” Natalie adds. “Since clearly you’ve eaten every carb known to mankind, and needed supplies. Luckily for you, we brought plenty.”
She starts unpacking a box of donuts from my favorite store.
“Are those lemon jelly?” I ask, my spirits lifting for the first time since, well, my last orgasm with Fitz.
“Yup, you freak,” Natalie says affectionately. “Trust you to like the worst flavor ever. Although, it worked out, since they were nearly sold out of everything else. Except gross lemon. Big surprise.”
“You mean, delicious, tart, creamy lemon,” I correct her, going to snag one. “Some people just don’t have taste in donuts.”
“You’re welcome.” She grabs a chocolate glazed and joins me on the couch while Poppy goes rummaging in my fridge.
“Eww!” she calls. “Everything here is past its expiration date.”
“I haven’t been to the store since before . . . before England.”
There it is again: pain slicing through my chest. Maybe donuts will help smother the heartbreak into submission?
It’s worth a shot.
Poppy comes to collapse on the chair beside us, having found a lone can of un-expired soda. She grabs a rainbow sprinkled and takes a bite before giving me a sideways look. “Sooo . . .” she starts. “Has he called?”
“Who?” I reply stubbornly. “Santa Claus?”
She gives me a sympathetic look. “I guess not.”
“Why would he?” I ask, miserable. “The ruse is over. The jig is up.”
“But still, I thought . . .” She stops, not wanting to go any further. But she doesn’t have to.
“I thought so too.”
“And you really don’t think . . . ?” Poppy asks.
I shake my head.
“Eat another donut,” Natalie advises.
“Will that turn back time, to when I had an amazing boyfriend AND secured an inheritance to keep all my friends from being tossed on the street?” I ask, only half-kidding.
“Well, no,” she says gently. “But we work with what we can.”
Good point. I eat another donut.
“You can always crash with me,” Poppy says. “If you need a place when the Bastard of Bolton throws you out.”
I wince.
“What?”
“Nothing,” I reply. “It’s just . . . The Game of Thrones reference. There was this couple . . . when Fitz and I got married . . .”
The memory stings, recalling our mad rush to the altar. Even then, I knew it was a risk.
Even then, I thought everything would work out OK.
“I really screwed everything up,” I say miserably, burrowing deeper into my blanket nest. My friends, at least, have the decency not to lie to me.
“Love will make you do crazy shit,” Poppy advises me wisely. “Remember when I fell for that drummer and took the Greyhound all the way to Connecticut, just to watch him play an opening slot at some kid’s Bat Mitzvah?”
“And don’t get me started on whatshisname, the guy I got obsessed with in college,” Natalie adds. “I hacked into all his social media accounts, just to figure out his schedule so I could accidentally run into him. I’m lucky I didn’t get a felony charge.”
I smile, but inside, I still have the sinking sense that this was inevitable. I mean, my last ex, Christian, fell out of love with me in the time it took to order an appetizer over lunch. Is it really such a big surprise that Fitz didn’t feel the same way as me?
“And no pining.” Poppy knows me well enough to read my expression. She shakes a Boston cream bar at me. “Trust me, you had a lucky miss. I mean, what’s he playing at, running the whole ‘international playboy’ routine at his age?”
“It’s tacky as fuck,” Natalie agrees. “He’s halfway to Leo, with those bimbo swimsuit models.”
“So sad,” Poppy sighs. “I used to love him. I mean, Romeo and Juliet was formative for me. And now . . .”
“Creepy old man!”
My friends chatter on, about bad exes and heartbreak, and I let them talk, taking comfort in their warm voices and caring hearts.
But it doesn’t change anything. The whole whirlwind of a charade is over now, and as for Fitz?
I’m guessing he hasn’t skipped a beat.
18
Fitz
What do you do when you’ve fucked up big time?
Luckily, I’ve had plenty of practice. I know the routine down cold. First, alcohol—the older the whiskey, the better. Then, distraction. Hopping a flight to San Paolo does the trick, or driving a sports car down the Amalfi Coast—preferably with a gorgeous woman at my side. Throw in some high-stakes poker or an ill-advised yacht race, and soon enough, I’ll have forgot
ten all about my latest mistake, because I’m too busy making the next one.
But this time, the usual tricks don’t work.
This time, I have a sinking suspicion there’s no escaping the pain.
“Christ, Fitz. If I’d known you were going to sulk all night, I wouldn’t have wasted my extra seat on you.”
My buddy, Luke, gives me a friendly nudge. We’re sitting at a VIP table at some British awards show, where he’s flown in to accept a gong. The room is packed with glamorous, hot starlets, and usually I’d be in my element, but tonight, all I can think about is Becca. It’s been almost a week since I fucked things up and sent her running back to New York, but the gaping wound in my chest isn’t fading anytime soon.
“Champagne not up to scratch?” Luke teases, noting my untouched glass. “I can send someone out for bourbon.”
“Life as a Hollywood star,” I shoot back. “Don’t tell me you’re turning into a diva.”
Luke snorts. “I don’t know, it could be fun. What do you think, Stella?” he asks, turning to his partner. “Should we come up with a list of demands? A box of kittens, and M&Ms with the green ones taken out?”
“I heard Mariah Carey insists they outfit the dressing rooms in white fake fur,” Stella laughs. “Sounds like fun.” She turns to me. “What do you say, Fitz? Would puppies cheer you up?”
“That depends, are they delivered by the Sports Illustrated swimsuit team?” I crack, but my heart isn’t in it.
And clearly, Stella can tell, because she gives me a sympathetic smile. “Or we could just order in pizza and talk about your feelings?”
“Trust me, the champagne is fine.” I take a defiant gulp.
Stella and Luke exchange a look.
“Really, guys, I’m OK,” I insist, hating the pity in their expressions. “We were barely even dating. It’s nothing. I’ll be back on my feet in no time.”
“Sure.” Luke doesn’t sound convinced, but then again, as a former TV doctor, his acting skills were always best left to a dramatic, “she’s coding, nurse!”