Technically, when I find myself on the verge of uncontrollably crying throughout the day, I’m supposed to call Dr. Sorenson for an emergency session, since it’s a trigger for my unhealthy behavior.
But I already know I’m not going to do that.
I’m ready to fall. Crave it in that way nobody could talk me out of.
I straighten in my chair and hand the phone back to April. “Text me the picture.”
“I will.” She drops the cell onto the table and places her hands in her lap. “They’d love it if their Aunt Layla came to their dance.”
An image of sitting in the audience fills my head. My parents, April and Derrick, and me, sitting next to some stranger where my husband is supposed to be. It’s a selfish thought and I immediately dislike myself for it. This isn’t about me. It’s about my nieces.
I nod. I will not disappoint April, not in this. “Of course, I’d love to come.”
She clasps her hands together in a gesture of prayer. “Thank you so much, they’ll be so excited.”
I’m sad she views this as a major accomplishment, and I renew my vow to spend the rest of lunch being a good sister.
Thirty minutes later, April has filled me in on every aspect of her life—from the petty women in the PTA, to her vacation with Derrick. I’ve done a good job, made all the right noises and gestures, laughing in all the right places. She’s satisfied. Relaxed.
The waiter walks away with our empty plates and April puts her elbows on the table and leans forward. “I want to ask you something.”
Spine stiffening, I’m immediately on high alert.
“I don’t want you to say no right away.” April’s gaze looks just past me and she nibbles on her bottom lip.
All my good intentions fly out the window and I say in a hard voice, “No.”
April sighs, folds her hands on the table, her two and a half carat ring glitters in the sunlight streaming in through the window. “You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”
I shake my head, one hundred percent certain I don’t want to hear it. “I don’t have to.”
Her blue eyes fill with a shiny brightness. “Please, won’t you please hear me out?”
Do I want to ruin her whole lunch? I grit my teeth and nod.
She twists her ring, a sure sign she’s nervous, and my stomach sinks. “There’s a man, he works with Derrick—”
“Absolutely not!” I’m unable to hide the shriek in my tone. How could she even suggest it?
She holds up her hand. “Layla, wait, just listen. He’s a great guy. His name is Chad and he’s an IT Manager.”
“Stop.” My voice shakes. “How could you?”
She runs a hand through her golden hair, and the waves rustle before falling perfectly into place at her shoulders. “I only want what’s best for you. Tell us how to help you.”
“And you think going on a blind date would be helpful?” The words are filled with scorn. I’m unable to hide my sense of betrayal.
“Layla, it’s been eighteen months,” April says, her voice soft.
I look down at the table, staring at the leftover basket of half-eaten artisan breads, as I swallow my tears. Why does everyone keep saying that? Is eighteen months really that long? Is there an expiration date on grief? On fear?
“We all loved John, you know that,” my sister continues without mercy. “But you’re still young with your whole life in front of you. He’s gone. It’s time to move on and put your life back together. I don’t think he’d want you suffering like this.”
I put my hands in my lap and clench them tightly, so tight my nails dig into my skin. So brittle I might break, I look at my sister. My beautiful, thirty-five-year-old sister, who’s never even had a bad hair day.
“Someday,” I say, my voice cracking. “I’m going to ask you if you think eighteen months is a long time, and we’ll see what your answer is.”
She pales and reaches across the table, making me jerk back. She slides away. “I don’t mean it like that.”
“You do.” A cold, almost deadly calm fills my stomach. “You keep waiting for the girl I was before to show up, and that’s never going to happen.”
She presses her lips together, and tears fill her eyes, turning them luminous. “I miss you.”
“I miss me too.” And it’s the truth. All pretense of faking falls away. It’s impossible to maintain the mask, not with my emotions so close to the surface. So raw.
April picks up her white linen napkin and blots under her lashes. “I can’t pretend to know what you are going through. And with,” she clears her throat and her chin trembles, “what happened…” She trails off and looks beyond me, over my shoulder.
A smug, selfish satisfaction wells in my chest.
“Look at you,” my tone filled with an ugly meanness I want to control but can’t. “It’s been eighteen months, April, and you can’t even say it.”
Emotions flash across her face—worry, sadness, and lastly guilt. “I’m sorry.”
Remorse weaves a fine crack through my heart, but it doesn’t break me, because I’ve spoken the truth. None of them can even bring themselves to mention that night. They avoid it. Pretend only John’s death is the issue. I can’t say I blame them. Where we live, bad things happen to other people. They’re ill prepared for tragedy.
I abruptly stand. I need to get out of here. Escape. I glance at the large clock hanging on the wall. Ten hours. It seems like an eternity until I can go to that one place where I’m free to be as fucked up as I want and don’t have to apologize. I grab my purse, slip out two twenties, and throw them on the table. “I need to get back to work.”
There will be no good progress reports today.
“Wait, please.” April’s tone is pleading. “Don’t go.”
“Text me the details about the twins recital.” My voice is as cold as I feel.
“Layla.” A big fat tear rolls down my sister’s cheek.
I turn to leave before I confess my biggest secret, not to cleanse my soul, but out of spite. I’ve shielded my family from the worst of that night, the true extent of what happened and how it damaged me. Not because of some misguided notion of protecting them, but because, in truth, I’m no better. I also want to pretend.
Only, my nightmares won’t let me.
Step into Walk of Shame
For when you like your romance fun & disastrous…
Chapter One
Ashley
The walk of shame.
Kill me. Just put me out of my misery. All I want is to crawl into a hole and die of humiliation.
I squint my caked, mascaraed eyes at the dawn breaking across the Chicago skyline before digging my sunglasses from my bag and slipping them on as my throat tightens and my eyes well.
Why, Ashley? Why? Why? Why?
What is wrong with me?
Head throbbing, I start down the near deserted street, my high heels hitting the concrete a reminder of my transgressions. My only saving grace is that it’s five thirty on a Sunday morning, and the Lakeview neighborhood is still quiet.
At least no one except taxi drivers and the lone exercise fanatic will bear witness to my walk in what’s obviously last night’s little black dress attire. I’m a hot mess, with my just-fucked hair, ruined makeup and too swollen mouth, but I’ll pretend anyone passing by isn’t smug.
I sigh, long and mournful. Last night being the culmination of the gigantic shit storm that’s taken over my life for the past six months.
My downward spiral of humiliation began when the love of my life Trevor Whitmore fell in love with a dancer. Well, in fairness to him, it wasn’t like he cheated on me, because we hadn’t even been going out. It only felt like a betrayal because I’d been stupidly and blindly infatuated with him to the point of obsession.
Which makes me sound like a real idiot, a shame, considering I’m plenty smart in other areas of my life. I come from a good, loving family, I have great friends and I’m the top pharma sales rep
in my region.
Only, I’ve never made smart decisions when it comes to men.
With guys, I always turn into that girl you love to hate. I don’t even know why. Maybe because my dad spoiled me too much, or my mom was one of those moms that insisted I was special and perfect. Maybe because in high school, growing up in my small Central Ohio hometown, I was the head cheerleader, and the absolute shit, adored by everyone.
I’m sure at one point I was sensible about men, but Trevor changed all that for me. He was the first boy I’d actually coveted. I’d met him my junior year of college, fallen in lust at first sight, and become completely, obnoxiously infatuated with him. And, like a lot of girls, I confused his desire to use me for sex, with love. The more dismissive he became, the harder I tried to hold on, and the farther he slipped away.
Except when he was too lazy to go through the process of hitting on another girl at the party we were at. Then we’d circle each other like preying tigers before going in for the kill.
It never once occurred to me to say no.
My friend Layla called him my kryptonite, and she was exactly right. I was caught in a vicious cycle. He’d leave me in the middle of the night, I’d get all strong and indignant, insisting I wouldn’t let him use me anymore, but then time would pass, nobody else would catch my interest, and I’d start to jones for him. I’d see him at some bar or party. He’d look at me with those blue eyes, give me that smile, and like an idiot, I’d swear tonight would be the night I’d make him love me.
This cycle lasted for years—far too many than a girl with a high IQ should ever admit to—until the last time we hooked up. A week after we’d been together he’d met a dancer (aka stripper) and had fallen instantly in love. They eloped to Vegas three weeks later. After years of telling me he doesn’t do commitment he married that…that…woman in a month!
Yeah, yeah, I know. Oldest story in the book. I get it. I’m an idiot. It’s my own stupid fault. I got what I deserved. Believe me, nothing you say isn’t something I haven’t said to myself.
But anyway, let’s move on to humiliation number two.
Like any proper scorned woman I seek revenge, because of course I need to make him pay. He needs to suffer. Hurt. If the past months have taught me anything it’s revenge doesn’t lead to the clearest head, so I conveniently ignore the fact that a guy has to remember you exist for your plot to work.
A minor detail that had no effect on my bloodthirsty rage.
Naturally, I do the worst thing I can think of. The day after I find out Trevor’s married, I get his best friend drunk with the goal of seducing him because nothing says fuck you like sleeping with your ex’s bestie. My evil plan worked, but I overestimated the amount of alcohol I fed him and he can’t get it up! And, in typical male fashion, he blames me. Me!
I’m a pretty, long-haired blonde with blue eyes, with 32DDs and a twenty-six inch waist. He’s an overweight, unemployed slacker that’s starting to bald.
And he had the gall to say it was my fault.
I mean, sure I put on a good show and ripped him a new one, but my self-esteem can only take so many beatings. And while I slammed out of the door like the ultimate diva, I’d felt rejected and small. I’d never admit it to anyone but I went home and cried like a baby.
Like I really wasn’t pretty enough to get a guy off.
If only that sorry affair had been rock bottom, but no, there’s humiliation number three.
In a mad rush to find the love of my life as quickly as possible so everyone can stop feeling sorry for me behind my back, I join match.com and go on a series of dates so bad I contemplate becoming a lesbian. I mean, I don’t understand it—I’m smart, I make over six figures, and I’m good looking—but that’s not good enough on a dating site where fives think they’re entitled to nines.
The whole experience was a horrid exercise in masochism, but the last straw was when I went out with a guy that Snapchatted the entire time and barely spoke to me. I’m serious, he said less than ten words our entire meal and pushed the check at me when the waitress placed it on the table. When he pulled up to my building, he told me I was hot and asked me to blow him. I said no. And he had the gall to get all insulted. He called me a frigid bitch and was already opening his Tinder app before I managed to scramble from the car.
I shut down my account before I even took off my coat.
Which leads me right into humiliation number four’s open arms.
I decide I need a proper rebound, someone known I can trust that will help me get a little bit of my dignity back. No commitment. No dating. Just fun and sex. Someone to get me over the hump of Trevor, so I can get my life back on track. After much consideration I settle on a guy named Chad Fellows.
Chad was the perfect choice for a hookup. He was new to my extended group of friends. He’s tall, successful, and unbelievably gorgeous. He’s the rare guy that’s nice and respectful but somehow manages to still have enough sex appeal to send girls swooning. He actually seems to like women.
But best of all he had potential to be something permanent. He was one hundred percent boyfriend material. As a bonus, because our core groups of friends didn’t have tons of overlap except for parties and weddings, if things went south, I’d only see him occasionally. The way I figured it worst-case scenario we had a good time in bed. Best-case scenario we got married.
A win/win, right? Wrong.
He flat out rejected me. What’s worse, he gave me some sad little speech about how casual sex wouldn’t fix what’s broken inside me. A speech that made me want to burst into tears and made my lower lip tremble, which he kindly pretended not to notice. After going home and, once again crying in a pathetic heap on my couch, I assumed he must be gay.
Wrong again.
Five minutes after rejecting me he turns around and hooks up with my friend, Ruby Stiles, and now they’re getting married! Married! I don’t even know how that’s possible? Up until Chad, Ruby only dated unemployed musicians. What could they possibly have in common? Why her and not me? Not that I’m hung up on the guy, because I don’t even know him, but still, what was wrong with me that I didn’t even warrant a date?
Last night was their engagement party.
I put on a big, huge fake smile, a killer black dress, mile-high heels and pretended to be thrilled for them. I thought that was my rock bottom. That attending the engagement party of a man whose last words to me were—no, I don’t want to fuck you—would be the depths of my lows. But again, I was wrong.
I’m sensing a pattern here.
Which leads me to the walk of shame, my latest humiliation.
Because I wanted my stomach to be extra flat, I hadn’t eaten, and to cover my awkwardness, I promptly started downing Champagne.
Naturally, I became overly drunk and flirty. And what do I do?
I flamboyantly hit on and sleep with the groom-to-be’s younger brother! I mean, he’s not like jailbait young, but young enough to be embarrassing. He’s only twenty-seven! I’m thirty-two. We’re not even in the same decade. He’s still in school, for god’s sake. Okay, medical school. Well, really, he’s an orthopedic resident, but that still counts and it’s humiliating. And he’s the groom’s brother!
How cliché can I get?
My stomach heats and jumps and my knees wobble a bit at the few memories I have. I think I might be sick so I sit down on a park bench and put my head into my open palms. The night is a series of blurry images, vague conversation and sex.
Lots and lots of sex. Correction. Lots and lots of mind-blowing, earth-shattering sex. The kind of sex your momma definitely didn’t tell you about. The kind of sex that makes you believe in god, because you’ve screamed his name so many times.
When Chad introduced Christopher as his younger brother, it had given me a moment’s pause. But then he’d said hi, with that smile, and it had been game on. We’d flirted shamelessly, and he’d been so cute. Christopher Fellows was boyishly, endearingly handsome with butterscotch hair and
light golden-brown eyes. He’d been tall and built. His hands big and hot on my hips. And he’d been so nice. So attentive. He seemed genuinely to like me. Although in retrospect, it probably only seemed like that in my drunken brain.
A guy always seems like he likes you until he screws you, right?
I shake my aching head at the part of the night I still remember. After hours of flirting like we were sixteen-year-olds, he’d dragged me into a storage closet and gone down on me. He’d knelt on the floor, put my leg on his shoulder, and went for it. I’m not going to lie; he has the most talented tongue in the history of tongues.
I’d come so hard my legs shook.
I groan and squeeze my lids tight. If only that was the end of it, but then he’d pinned me against the door and proceeded to fuck me hard enough I saw stars.
God kill me.
The rest of the night is kind of a blur. We drank. I know that. I remember us talking but I don’t remember what we said, all I know was that it seemed like he listened to me. Was interested. Even after the closet.
I’d obviously ended up at his apartment. I remember lots of sex. I remember orgasms. At some point I’d fallen asleep and when I’d woken I’d never been so humiliated.
It was bad enough to have a drunken one-night stand, but no, I had to go have a flirtfest with the groom’s baby brother and make a fool out of myself in front of practically every person I know.
My mind has a brief flash of us rolling around on the bed, hot and sweaty. Me riding him, my head thrown back, his hands on my breasts. I get another image of him pounding into me from behind, his fingers working my clit.
I gasp, flushing hot. Oh, dear god, no. Had I really swallowed his cock while I’d straddled his face?
The image crystalizes. Shit. I did.
I’d really grinded away there, hadn’t I?
The Burn List Page 14