My heart sank in disbelief. I swear that I felt a physical blow to my gut; it was as if a giant invisible fist had been launched directly at my navel. Could I even breathe anymore? Had all the air suddenly been sucked out of the room? Why had everything become a blur? And why was everything happening so quickly? I needed to get off the fucking phone. I couldn’t hear any more from him.
“I want to remain friends.”
Had he lost his mind? Had I lost my mind? Why was I even still listening?
It was bad enough that I’d invested three years into loving him, hanging on his every word. I listened to him all the time sounding like a scratched record on repeat. He was sure that there was nowhere for our relationship to go but marriage. Of course, he didn’t ever want to marry, or so he’d always said.
When I finally got the courage to end it, he decided it was best to keep his toe in the pond, staying near the front and center of my world, stoking the embers of love in my heart, never letting the fire go out completely. He would never fully release me. And now this? Surely I had fool written across my forehead. Pretend you love me. Play with me. Screw me. Never marry me. The prick.
“Congratulations, I wish you all the best.”
How I managed to belt those words out as strong as I did, I’ll never know. I was already hurting, but he hadn’t hurt me enough. No, he had to turn the knife, had to twist it in my back some more. He wanted to kill what little life was left in me completely. He insisted on sharing the details about her, about the two of them.
“I want you and me to stay friends. I’ll call you in a couple of weeks,” he said, ending the call.
Seriously? Mr. Heartcracker, who is currently extracting every bit of life from me, thinks we’re going to “remain friends?” Oh hell no. My head was dizzy. The walls of my bedroom were starting to close in on me, getting closer and closer, as each paralyzing second ticked by.
I needed to get out of here. I was struggling to breathe, and I couldn’t stand being in my own skin, let alone being home alone. It was time for me to use my lifeline, my phone a friend. I needed my girlfriends now more than ever. My promise of tomorrow, my man-future, my everything had just come crashing down all around me, shattering me into a thousand little pieces. I burst out in tears, sobbing aloud.
It was time for me to call my roadies. Time for us to find the nearest hot spot so I could drown in an endless row of tequila shots, where I could silence those ugly words. Until then, “I got married” would replay endlessly in my ears.
I grabbed my black leather messenger bag, twisting it over my shoulder against my favorite navy blue, leather-trimmed, quilted Burberry jacket. I stuffed some extra tissues in my dark five-pocket denim jeans to wipe my runny nose with. I slid on my black suede Louboutin shoe boots with the four-inch heels. I pulled my red cashmere scarf off the bed, wrapped it around my neck, and stuffed the matching red boy cap into the side of my bag.
Maya and Logan would surely remind me that the best revenge was looking good. If I was going to die of a broken heart, I needed to at least look like every penny’s worth of the million-dollar princess he’d let slip right through his fingers.
Milk Money Page 31