My dad took a swing at him. Go, Dad! My mom took a swing at the woman. Go, Mom! My bridesmaids huddled around me, ready to shank people, while the groomsmen protected their king. Needless to say, the wedding was off.
James was a lying, no-good, beating, cheating, horrible-taste-in-sports son of a bitch. My heart ached so bad, I thought the cracks would never repair. I would never feel whole again. Then I got my bank statement. That piece of shit had drained me dry. He had access to all my accounts. I saw no issue with it when he asked. We were about to be joined in marriage, why would it matter? My measly income was nothing compared to the big bucks he made.
Or what he told me he made.
Not only did I realize I was broke, but so was James. He never had this great, high-profile career he’d painted himself to have. More like admin status with a chip on his shoulder. He didn’t have money; he just had access to his mistresses’ bank accounts—me included.
He’d been bleeding me dry right under my nose for years. So now, six years later, I have no money, no fiancé, let alone husband, and a broken heart. But it’s not the pain inside my chest that irks me. I’ve exhausted all my tears already. Now, it’s pure anger. All I see is red. It may be because my eyes are severely bloodshot, but all I see is R.E.D. I hate him. And hate is a strong word—but too weak for how I feel for him.
So now, I lie in bed, soaking up the last moments before I’m forced out of our apartment because there’s no money to pay for it. In less than twenty-four hours, I’ll be moving back in with my parents. I clench my eyes shut before throwing my legs off our bed. After today, life is going to change.
“For the better. I can do this. I am worth it.”
2
“Hi, honey. How are you feeling? Would you like me to make you a sandwich?” My mom greets me at the door, acting like a peanut butter and Doritos sandwich—my favorite since I was five—will make everything better. Like it will glue the pieces of my life back together. To be honest, it does sound lovely. Maybe she’ll offer me a band aid for my heart like old times and this will all go away.
“No, Mom. I’m good.” Maybe if I wasn’t so full of self-pity. “Where can I put this stuff?” I ask, holding up a box of my things. My parents decided to turn my old room into their workout studio…even though they don’t workout—which means I’m stuck in a makeshift bed on the couch until they can figure out how to accommodate their twenty-seven-year-old daughter moving back home.
“Oh, just put it…um, over there. We’ll figure out what to do with it later.” Translation: How do I ask my daughter to put her things in the garage so it’s not an eyesore when I host my Bunko night?
I nod and tuck the box in a corner by the coat closet.
“Honey, did you ever give that woman a call? The one Aunt Shirley suggested?”
The number is for a therapist—one who specializes in anger management. So what if I lost my shit at a family barbeque last weekend, got drunker than necessary, cried to my aunt, confessing all the horrible things I’d like to do to James, then proceeded to legit lose my shit and kick the grill into the pool. Did people actually expect me not to be mad? Isn’t that the next stage of grief? I nailed denial. May have bypassed depression because when it came to anger? I was crushing it. Along with all of James’ things. I seem to have paid for it all, so I had the right to burn, break, and trash anything I wanted…and I did.
“No, I haven’t had a chance.” Aka I’m handling my anger just fine. “Listen, I was hoping maybe I could pick up some hours at the flower shop. Just while I figure things out.”
Did I mention I may have lost my cool at the marketing firm where I worked and got fired? Okay, maybe I wasn’t doing the best at handling my anger. But when you find out one of your coworkers is on the list of whores? Well—You. Lose. It. And of course get fired. Screw you, James!
“Hmmm…you know it’s a slow season. We just had to let Becky go.”
Yeah, yeah yeah…even my parents who own their own flower shop can’t throw me a bone. Then again, they are housing me so I’m not homeless, so I guess beggars can’t be choosers. “Yeah, no worries. I’ll find something.” Like a job in murdering cheating assholes. I’ve come up with quite a few creative ways to take them out.
My phone rings, and I pull it out of my pocket and almost drop it at the name on my screen. He has some nerve…
Maybe he wants to apologize. If he asked me to fix us, would I? Should I—"Silence!” I scream at myself, accidently scaring my mom. I need to shut my brain down. No way in hell will I get back with him. Now, heart, shut up—you’re done calling the shots.
I mouth, “Sorry,” to my mom and put my finger up, letting her know I’ll be a minute as I excuse myself outside to take his call.
“What do you want?” Yeah, start off strong and stern. Take no prisoners.
“Hey, baby girl.” Gah! Nickname from hell! Don’t fall for it!
“I’m not your baby girl, James.”
There’s a long sigh. “I know, but…Katie, I miss you. You know I do. I don’t sleep well without you.”
La-la-la!
“Good! Why don’t you have one of your girlfriends keep you warm. Seriously, why are you calling? We’re over, if you haven’t noticed.”
“Yeah, I know. I hurt every day because of it. But I need a favor, and I know you still love me, so you’ll help me, right?”
Is he for real?
“Hold on, let me shake my Magic Eight Ball. Oh, lookie there! This must be a new one it says go fuck yourself!”
“Baby girl, please. I need—”
“What could you possibly need from me, huh? Haven’t you taken enough? What, do you not know where to pick up your laundry? Cook? Need more money?”
There’s an uncomfortable pause. “I need your engagement ring.”
I almost drop my phone a second time. I clearly heard him wrong. “Excuse me?”
“I need the ring back. It cost me a lot, and I figured since you probably don’t want it, I could get it back. The jeweler said he’d give me a good return price on it—”
“You already talked to a jeweler?” my voice rises.
“Baby—Katie, listen. I need the money, and I spent a lot on that ring. It was bought on your credit card and it’s blocked, so I can’t—”
Wait. Just. A. Goddamn. Minute.
“You what?”
“I was going to pay it back, but—”
“You didn’t charge my engagement ring to my credit card.” Red. All I see is red. My tone is calm yet murderous.
“If you could just give it—”
“You are one grade-A asshole! No, you can’t get my ring back—that I apparently paid for! What you can have is a one-way ticket to hell—that’s where you belong, you cheating piece of shit! And on the way there, I hope you get chlamydia!” I finally take a breath. Wow, that felt good.
“Well, now that you’re bringing it up. You may want to get tested. I’m not sure how, but I’ve had some…issues down there.”
I hang up.
And toss my phone into the bushes.
Then go back and get it because now I need it to make a Gyno appointment.
Fuck!
3
Negative.
He’s damn lucky too. If I had crabs on top of everything else, I would be treating them in jail. For seven whole days, I thought the unimaginable: crabs, herpes, you name it. I was beyond paranoid. I didn’t have any symptoms, but man can a mind do wonders when you overthink. Maybe I had a new version—one with no symptoms, but the bugs were there, eating away at my vagina.
I hang up with the doctor and sigh a breath of relief.
“No new-aged crabs. Phew.”
“Excuse me?”
I forgot I’m in a salon chair, with a seventy-year old lady working on me. “Oh, nothing. The market is all out of crab. Darn.” My mom, in a nice motherly way, told me it was time I got my head out of my ass and started taking better care of myself. Angry and sad was not the best loo
k on me, and she suggested I go for some upkeep. Meaning shower, brush my teeth, and groom myself. She sent me to her gal at the local salon, since I could no longer afford the big city prices.
“Oh…okay. This looks glorious. Ready to see?”
“Sure. Show me my new self.” One where my eyes aren’t sunken in from lack of sleep. I would normally never cheat on my hairdresser. I’m a devoted client like that, but she’s booked and I’m broke and how hard is it to cut a little off and touch up a few lowlights—“Holy shit!”
I jump back, catching my reflection in the mirror. “What the fu—?”
“Blonde looks lovely on you.” She smiles back at the horror that is her work.
“I said lowlights. LOWLIGHTS. My whole head is blonde.”
“Lowlights? Dear, you said highlights.” My once dark hair with a fruitful shade of chestnut is…blonde. I’m going to cry. I’m going to cry…
“And I said a trim. My hair…it’s…” Seven inches shorter!
“Well, the bleach took a toll on your hair. Needed to clean it up. You look lovely. Like your mother when she was younger. Now you’ll find a nice boy. Your momma told us all about that bad—”
“Thank you!” I shove out of her chair, throw tip money at her since my mom so kindly paid upfront for this disaster, and run out of the salon. I don’t normally act so crazy, but I’d probably kick a puppy right now if one passed. Why does the universe hate me? My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I check the screen: Woman’s Wellness Clinic.
“Oh great.” The way my life is going, this place is calling to tell me they mixed up my results and I really do have a rare form of crabs and I’m going to die. I shove my sunglasses over my eyes to block out the angry sun and answer the call. “Hello?”
“Good morning. Is Katie Swanson available?”
“Nope. Wrong number.”
“Well, this is the secondary number we have on file for billing. Mr. Kipatrick has a past due account.”
He’s going to haunt me for the rest of my life. I stop and pull my phone away to recheck the caller. “Who are you again?”
“Woman’s Wellness Clinic.”
Don’t ask. Hang up and don’t ask.
“And what exactly is the past due bill for?”
“Um…” Even the lady on the other line gives me the opportunity to hang up when she hesitates to respond right away. “A dilation and curettage.”
“Yeah, English please.”
She clears her throat. “Surgical abortion.”
It takes my brain a minute to catch up. Like the wick of a firework igniting and shooting down until—kaboom! “That piece of shit!” My eyes clench shut so tight, my eyeballs would suffocate if it were possible. He had the nerve to put me as a contact at an abortion clinic! “Listen, lady. I’m not sure why my cheating ex would put me down as a reference, but he’s my ex, so you’re going to have to find another way to get your payment, because it’s not going to be from me.”
Right as I’m about to hit “end,” she pipes up. “You may want to know…” probably not, “we had to send him—you—to collections for the last time he was in here and never paid. The credit card listed was you as the main holder.”
“He’s…he’s been there more than once?”
“Three times, actually.”
A shriek, which no doubt woke aliens on Mars, explodes from my lungs, tearing at my esophagus. Add getting sued for hearing loss onto my list of unknown debt as I blow the poor girl’s eardrums out. I scream until I feel like I’m going to collapse and don’t stop until my poor mother shows up out of nowhere, most likely called by her mortified stylist, drives me home, then makes me a peanut butter and Doritos sandwich—which I eat and decide I would look just fine in orange.
Hours pass before I feel the couch dip next to me. “Jesus Christ, you are having a breakdown.”
“Huh?” I slowly turn to see Trudy, my ride-or-die and best friend since high school.
“Your mom called me. Told me you were having some kind of straight jacket episode. I didn’t really believe her since you’re a badass, but the hair...shit. She should have called me sooner.” I’m so damn happy to see her, I don’t know whether to cry or cry. “Hey, hey…” she brushes a loose strand of my hair back, tucking it behind my ear. “It doesn’t look that bad. I mean, someone should have stopped you, but it’ll grow back. The color, though…”
“Bad time for sarcasm,” I whisper, fighting back my emotions.
“It’s never a good time for sarcasm. That’s why it’s called sarcasm. What happened? I thought you were moving past this?”
How do I move past something that’s like a leech sucking away at my sanity?
“I did too. I’ve killed him so many times in my head, but he keeps resurrecting and torturing me in the most demented ways.”
“Wait—like, you’ve seen him? I swear, if that motherfucker—”
“No, I haven’t, but he called me. Had the nerve to ask for my engagement ring back after admitting he paid for it with my credit card.” Her gasp is impressive, but it doesn’t stand a chance against her growl when I tell her about the clinic call.
“Tell me that’s fake. Tell me you didn’t really murder him so I can!”
“I’ve literally been funding his secret life since the beginning. Now that I think about it, I even bought his drinks the day we met. I’m such a fool.”
Trudy grasps my arms and shakes me. “You are no fool. He’s a loser. A soon to be dead one. This is not about you. You’re amazing and beautiful. Smart and funny. Any guy would drop dead to have you. Do not let James’s bad decisions ruin who you really are.”
“How am I supposed to do that? All I see is the past six years and all the mistakes I’ve made. No matter what angle I look at it from, I come back to the same conclusion: he has ruined me.”
Trudy jumps off the couch, startling me. She begins to do some sort of Kung Fu dance, then freezes and stares at me.
“Um, what just happened there?”
“That was to snap you out of whatever that crazy thought was. He has not ruined you, for one. Two, I’m done watching you take the blame for something that isn’t your fault. He cheated, lied—”
“Got a ton of chicks knocked up.”
“That too, and you’re done dwelling on the fact that he’s no longer in your life. So you’re in like a shit ton of debt you’ll probably never get out of, but so what! You still have you. You’re young. You have your whole life ahead of you. Aren’t you glad you found out now—not when you’re like fifty and old as fuck?”
“Ummm, I’m not glad I found out at all.”
Trudy shrugs. “Well, same. I mean, this is all fucked up. But you can’t let him win. You need to get up and get back out there.”
I shake my head. “You’re kidding me if you think I’m ready to date again. Like, ever.”
Trudy slaps her hands onto her hips. “Who said anything about dating? I’m talking about just going out again and enjoying life! Fuck it, let’s take a trip. Anywhere. A place with lots of booze and no rules.”
“I don’t think I’d be the best company right now. Maybe ask Patti or Deb—ouch! Why did you just slap me?”
“You’re out of control! This whole not wanting to party thing you’ve going on—I don’t know this person. The Katie I know would never turn down an opportunity to hang with her besties and get drunk.”
She may be right. I’m not one to pass up a good time. But that was the old me. The new me is tame and gentle. Has a drink limit and a curfew. Tries not to swear and makes smart decisions. “God, you’re right. I am out of control. What have I turned into?”
“June fucking Cleaver. But it’s okay. You have me to change that. Just prepare to leave your parents’ couch, shower, and possibly put a toner on your hair—that shit is way too blonde—and let me handle the rest! Cool?”
She doesn’t give me a chance to reply before grabbing my hand, tugging me off the couch, and dragging me toward the kitchen.
“Now, let’s go eat. I smell your mom’s meatloaf. I’m starving.”
4
This is insane. Who just shows up to the airport and books the first flight available? “You know this is frowned upon by the government, right? We’re gonna get flagged and probably probed.”
“Dude, we’re fine. People do it all the time.”
“Show up at airports asking for a ticket to paradise?”
Trudy rolls her eyes, moving up in line. “No. They look at you with envy wishing they could just pick up and be as spontaneous. Trust me.” The last time I trusted Trudy, I found myself overserved in Mexico jumping off a ramp that wasn’t there and broke my ankle in three places.
When it’s our turn at the counter, Trudy instructs me to let her do the talking.
“Good morning, can I see a license and boarding pass?”
“Good morning,” she leans in to read the attendant’s nametag, “Marie L. My friend and I are on a mission. We don’t have a destination in mind, but my friend here, she’s in major need of freeing the demons placed inside her by the devil himself: her ex. And it’s my duty to take her away, cleanse her soul, and help her reclaim what she’s lost.”
I smack her. “Trudy!”
“See? She has hatred in her heart. She’s become violent and out of tune with her inner harmony. I need you to send us somewhere she can be rejuvenated. Body and mind. preferably body, ’cause sex cures all—ouch! Jesus, devil woman!”
“Stop talking about—”
“I know just the place,” Marie says. Her nails clank on the keyboard as she fires away on her computer. “Ah...yes. Here we are. Two seats. And they happen to be first class.”
Wicked Love Page 24