by Cass Kincaid
I didn’t want his money, and I still don’t. And, if my husband would’ve just acted apologetic, been somewhat sincere in his apologies to me, I might never have let my lawyer go up to bat for that kind of settlement.
But Austin didn’t apologize to me in any heartfelt way. What he did do was curtly and assertively request that I see reason when it comes to the splitting of our assets and understand that his business and the income it generates is exactly that—his.
Funny, that’s exactly how I’d felt about my husband during our marriage. There was a time when I thought that he was mine, too.
Needless to say, I was awarded fifty percent of his business profits. I also got to keep the condo we’d once shared.
I should be happy. Or relieved that it’s finally over. I should be thinking about all the ways I can move on now, get on with my life.
Instead, as I leave the courthouse, all I feel is empty. I don’t want Austin’s money, or the condo that he moved out of weeks ago. And I sure as hell don’t want a failed marriage under my belt.
I want the life I thought I had. With the husband, and the career, and my own cozy little nook in the world to come home to at night.
But as I get in my car and drive back toward home, I know that all I have waiting for me is an empty condo and a bottle of wine in the door of the fridge. My boss at the office I work at has been kind enough to allow me a few days off to deal with the legal proceedings of the divorce, so I know I have nowhere I need to be tomorrow.
And no one to check in on how I’m holding up.
It’s such a depressing thought, and in an attempt to distract myself from it, I check my cellphone when I pull up to an intersection with a red light.
How are you holding up?
I laugh out loud. Well, I guess there’s always one person who checks up on me. Leave it to Zach to be the one to ask. Not my parents, not my coworkers...Zach. I swear he can read my mind sometimes.
Quickly, I send him back a text. All settled. That’s that. Onward and upward.
I don’t wait for his reply, tossing the phone back onto the passenger seat. I know he knows me too well to believe I’m so nonchalant about it all.
Zach and I have been friends since grade school. In elementary school, he was the one who punched the boy who called me a sissy for not wanting to go down the tallest slide in the schoolyard at recess. In high school, he was my prom date—and I use the term date loosely, seeing as we just drank raspberry vodka from a flask and spent the evening telling each other that we were going to get up the nerve to ask our high school crushes to dance. It never happened, but we had fun together anyway. In college, we went to separate schools, but did manage to crash a party or two at each other’s campus.
It was always a good time with Zach Delaney. Fun-loving, carefree, no drama, no rules.
And no romantic connection, despite what other people might have thought. We almost kissed once at my college graduation—yeah, he showed up and cheered louder than anyone else in that room—but we both started laughing before it happened.
Thank God we dodged that bullet.
That’s not to say I haven’t ever wondered what we would’ve been like as a couple. Would it be weird? Was the connection between us something that could survive a relationship status, instead of just friendship?
If Zach ever wondered the same thing, he didn’t mention it.
Besides, I started dating Austin and ended up marrying him.
And look how well that turned out. I don’t need another botched relationship, and I sure as hell don’t want to ruin the kind of friendship Zach and I have managed to keep all these years.
It takes me fifteen minutes to get across town and into the parking lot of my condominium building. I wasn’t expecting him, but I’m also not surprised to see Zach standing there with his tattooed arms and his mischievous smile.
“You can’t park there,” I chuckle as I climb out of my car, purse in tow. “These spots are reserved for tenants. Guest parking’s over there, you know that.”
“And you know I don’t give a shit,” he grins. He reaches into the interior of his truck and pulls out a pizza box and a six-pack of beer. “Thought you might need some cheering up.”
I stand there and stare at him. There’s one thing I won’t deny about Zach Delaney—he’s hot. Once a lanky, sandy-haired boy with a thin build, he is now broad in the shoulders and built like an athlete. And that’s because there isn’t a sport the man can’t play; his football scholarship was proof of that.
Finally, I laugh at his blatant disrespect for the rules. “Good Lord, you’re going to get yourself in trouble someday. And I don’t need cheering up, I just need beer. Are you and that six-pack a package deal?”
“You better believe it.”
“Well, I guess you can come, too, then.”
But Zach has already fallen into step with me. That’s just how it is with us. Easy. Simple. We joke, bicker, and get on each others’ nerves, but we’re still there when we need a friend.
Like I do, right now. And he knows it without me having to outright admit it.
I think that’s the part I appreciate the most, not having to say it out loud.
Zach follows me into the building and we take the elevator to the seventh floor. He doesn’t push for conversation, mindful of the elderly couple sharing the elevator with us on the way up, and I don’t offer anything, either.
Once we’re in my apartment, however, that’s a different story.
“I don’t need details, Gab. Just tell me, did Austin cry? Tell me he cried.”
His hopeful, smug grin makes me laugh out loud. “You’re just horrible, you know that?” I shake my head, catching the beer can when he tosses it at me. “And, no, unfortunately he saved his tears for behind closed doors. But, you know him. Those tears are for his precious money, not for me.”
“Let him cry, Gab. If he thinks that’s his biggest loss in this whole deal, the guy’s an even bigger douchebag than I thought.” He cracked open his beer can and held it out toward me. “You deserve better, pretty lady. Cheers to you finally finding it.”
I can feel my throat tightening with the emotion I’ve held in all day. Zach always knows how to make me feel special, and his words mean more than he knows.
But I don’t agree with him. While I do believe that I deserve better than the likes of Austin Robertson, I’m also too broken to believe I’ll ever find someone now—and not just someone better, but someone at all.
I give him a half-hearted smile and toss my beer can back at him, taking the open one and clinking it with his once he opens it. The least I can do is lie to myself, tell myself I’ll eventually move on.
Maybe if I say it enough, someday I’ll actually believe it.
CHAPTER TWO
ZACH
The woman doesn’t just have a broken heart, she also believes ridding herself of that cheating asshole she called a husband is her loss, not his.
The thought makes me want to either track down Austin and throttle the hell out of him, or pull Gabby into my arms and tell her how goddamn special she is, over and over again, until she finally realizes it.
Because, trust me, Gabby Lourdes is special. She’s always managed to stay under the radar, preferring to drift into the background, hide behind the scenes. But she’s beautiful, both inside and out. And she’s the only one who doesn’t seem to see it.
But if I say that, she’ll laugh or make some self-deprecating comment. She’ll never hear what I’m actually saying, what I’ve always told her: No one loves you like I do, Gab. I promise you that.
In elementary school, I said it to her the first time as a joke. I’d heard it on some movie I wasn’t supposed to be watching, and Gabby laughed in my face when I regurgitated the line to her. We’d both laughed. I mean, what did an eight-year-old know about loving someone? But it’d made her smile so brightly that the embarrassment I’d felt had been worth it.
After that, the phrase quickly beca
me an inside joke between us. Said with just the right inflection, I could make it sound sarcastic, rolling my eyes for effect when she’d do something silly or have some lame-brain idea. Or, if Gabby was having a bad day, griping about school or work or something, I’d say it more seriously, a reminder that she wasn’t alone and had someone who cared enough to make sure she got through whatever was upsetting her.
Gabby has heard that phrase from me countless times over the years, as well as a handful of times through texts and short conversations in the last few weeks during this whole divorce debacle. She’s thanked me for it every time.
Thanked me. That’s how nonchalant she is about it, how platonic the statement is to her.
Yet, it’s anything but platonic to me.
“Here,” I say, pushing the beer cans toward her playfully. “It’s not that bitter-tasting wine stuff you drink, but it’ll take the edge off.”
She offers me a crooked grin, but takes the beer without hesitation. “Careful, I might need all six of ‘em for myself.”
I shrug. “That can be arranged, too.”
She nods toward the four remaining beers. “Hardly. I’ll get these and some plates from the cupboard. You bring the pizza, and I’ll meet you in the living room.”
This condo has always mesmerized me a little. So much openness and granite countertops and huge windows. It’s a beautiful space, but the living room isn’t the highlight by far. “Screw the living room. We’re heading to the balcony.”
She shrugs and disappears in the direction of the patio door, plates and beer cans in her hands. Gabby might be desensitized to it, but I’m not—there is no more entertaining or beautiful show to watch than the sun setting on the city below, and Gabby’s balcony has always been the perfect spot to watch every minute of it.
She’s already got the cushioned patio chair pulled up toward the small matching coffee table. I sit down next to her, taking it as a good sign she chose the couch-sized seat to situate for us instead of separate chairs—she wants the closeness right now.
I can appreciate that.
“So,” I begin, digging into the pizza box and pulling a slice out for her. “Do you want to talk about how it all went down today, or would you rather just avoid the subject of divorce completely for now? It’s your call, Gab.”
She sighs. I think she purposely takes a bite of the pizza so she doesn’t have to answer right away. “If I talk about it, I’ll end up swearing and angry.”
“And we know how cute you are when you’re angry,” I quip.
Gabby shoves her shoulder against mine. “Very funny. Seriously though, all I want to do is forget that any of it even happened. Just for a little bit. I need some distraction.” She gives me a suggestive grin. “And you seem like a pretty good one to me.”
The sexy, crooked grin on her face halts me from taking a bite of the pizza slice between my fingers. I know she doesn’t mean it the way it sounds, but damn, I want her to mean it exactly the way I’m hearing it. “Easy, tiger. I’ll distract you any way you want me to. All you have to do is ask, pretty lady.”
She shoves me playfully again and goes back to focusing on her beer and pizza.
Just as I knew she would.
That doesn’t make the ache deep within me any easier to handle, and I shift slightly in the chair in attempt to make myself a bit more comfortable. Unfortunately, that doesn’t help me much, either.
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