One Week Hating You: One Week Series Book 2 (standalone)

by Roya Carmen

  And that didn’t work out so well, did it?

  He ends up dumping me at the altar.

  Corrie might be right… All men are assholes.

  The last time I got my heart broken, I ran away. Am I doing the same thing again? Am I running away? I won’t give him the power. I have a life here. I have friends.

  I’m going to call the bastard and tell him off. I’m going to ask him what the hell his problem is. After seven years together, he owes me an answer to that question.

  Were the last seven years a complete waste? They can’t be. I can’t start over. I had it all planned out perfectly; marriage, a house, and in a few short years, two kids, maybe three. I can’t go back to dating, I can’t. I’ve never even dated. I wouldn’t know how to. What’s the norm these days? Casual hook-ups – never had one. Sexting – no clue how that works. Blow job on the second date – really?

  God, I feel so old. I don’t have the energy to start over.

  We need to fix this.

  Later, Journal.

  M

  I slap my journal closed, slide the smiley face pen down the spiral spine, and throw it on my dresser. I grab my phone. I close my eyes and draw in a long breath, psyching myself up. I need to do this. I need to call him, and ask him what’s going on. It’s been almost twenty-four hours since he cruelly tore my heart apart, and I need to understand.

  I know we can fix this.

  My heart does a loopy-loop when the email notification slides down the top of my screen. It appears momentarily, a tease. I eagerly scroll down to my Gmail app, and tap on his message, my heart pounding.

  Hi sweetheart,

  First off, I want to say I’m sorry. You have no clue how sorry I am. The last thing I wanted to do was hurt you, Maeve.

  I choked. I froze. I freaked out. I’m sorry.

  You know me. You know how nervous I get before a big presentation or an important event. I just couldn’t go through with it. Do you realize what a big step marriage is, Maeve? We’ve never actually talked about it.

  You’re probably wondering why I got cold feet. I guess it was a week or so ago, when you went to Gabbie’s and hung out with her kids. You came home, gushing about her house and the kids, how you wanted two or three of your own, and that you couldn’t wait. You said you pictured them with my eyes, and your freckles.

  Honestly, you completely freaked me out, Maeve.

  After marriage, comes the house, and the mortgage, and then the kids! And let’s be honest, you want a nice house, not a shack – me too. Let’s face it, Maeve, your salary at that kids clothing store is not going to help much, and now you’ve just lost your job. It’s all on me, baby. And I got really stressed out at the thought of all that responsibility.

  I still love you, Maeve, and I want to give you only the best. You deserve the best. I just don’t know if I can.

  I haven’t mentioned this to you, but I’ve been thinking a lot about my career lately. I want to reach higher, I want to go further. I want to get my license, and that’s going to take a lot of time studying, not to mention money.

  I just can’t do the whole house and kids thing right now – I just can’t.

  We’ve been together so long, Maeve, and I feel like I haven’t really lived, haven’t sown my wild oats. You’re a sweet girl, but you’re not very adventurous. You’re happy with your face buried in books and your journals. You’re predictable, and I want unpredictable. I want to have fun, Maeve. I don’t want to know what every single day will bring before I even live it. I’m too young to settle down right now.

  I don’t want you to think that I don’t love you anymore. I still love you. If you’ll still have me without the commitment, without a promise of a white picket fence and kids, I’m still here.

  I’m staying at Robbie’s. Not sure if he wants me there but what are brothers for, right? I just needed to get away from it all. I’ll be staying with him for a while.

  I’m so sorry, Maeve. I hope you can forgive me, and that we can start over.

  Yours,

  Peter

  My heart is still pounding, but it’s no longer filled with hope. It’s filled with rage. How dare he? Who does he think he is? He’s such a narcissist – it’s all about him. Never mind what I might feel. Never mind that he completely destroyed me. God forbid, his perfect life might be a little challenging at times. When you love someone, you make sacrifices.

  He wants me to wait for him. How long? How long do I wait before I can move on with my life? Before I can settle down and have children? I’m not getting any younger. Just the other day, I spotted a brown spot on my left cheek. It came out of nowhere, like bad weather at a picnic. And it’s not going anywhere – there will only be more.

  “Let’s face it, Maeve. Your salary at the kids clothing store is not going to help much.” What an asshole. I want to throw my phone at the wall.

  That’s what it comes down to… I’m not good enough for him. Never was. Both his brothers are married to superwomen. Robbie is in finance, and his tall perfect blonde bombshell of a wife is an attorney. And his brother William and his wife are both doctors. I guess a simple girl who works in retail is not up to his standards.

  I’m glad he’s going for his architect license – I’m really happy for him. I’d support him if he’d let me. I guess he just wants to measure up to his brothers and make his snobby parents proud – I get it. But why does he have to hurt me in the process?

  I pick up my phone again and block his number. Then I tug off his engagement ring, and throw it in the drawer of my bedside table. Fuck him.

  “You’re a sweet girl, but you’re not very adventurous.” Seriously? So I don’t race cars and leap off bridges. So what? He’s never complained about that before.

  I’m not boring, damn it.

  And I’m not ‘sweet’.

  I’ll show him.

  Part II

  Hometown

  4

  CORRIE POPS ANOTHER PRINGLE into her mouth – pizza flavored. She’s wearing a classic white suit and stylish red Mary-Jane heels with a T-strap. She looks fabulous as always. She will definitely not fit in in Westbrooke, where the idea of high fashion is Birkenstocks, dark blue Levis jeans and a clean white tee.

  And neither will I. I’m wearing a flowy polka-dot skirt and pink tank top, with matching flower covered pumps – not too high, only two and a half inches or so.

  “We’re going to stick out like sore thumbs,” I tell her. “Did you bring some t-shirts and jean shorts?”

  She reaches for her iced tea bottle in the center console. “Oh yeah,” she says. “I just like to make a grand entrance… you only get to make a first impression once.”

  I stare up ahead at the road – blue skies, green hills and mountains. It’s beautiful, I’ll give it that. “True.”

  “Almost there?” she asks.

  “Yep.”

  She digs into the tin for another potato chip. “So what’s your favorite Pringles flavor?”

  I mull it over for just a second. “Original.”

  “Booooor-ing,” she quips. “I like Pizza.”

  I’m brought back to Peter’s words, and a sharp stab hits me in the stomach. “Yep, that’s me… boring.”

  “Well… I didn’t mean,” she falters. “You’re just very… simple. You’re a simple girl. That’s not a bad thing.”

  I am boring. I always eat original Pringles. There are about a dozen flavors out there: Pizza, Cheddar Cheese, Sour Cream and Onion, Salt and Vinegar, BBQ, and so many more. I see them at the grocery store but I always reach for the original. No wonder he left me.

  “Seriously,” I say. “Am I boring?”

  Corrie snickers. “Well, you’re not the most exciting person in the world, but we still love you. You’re sweet.”

  “Ugh….” I scoff. “There’s that word again…. ‘sweet’.”

  “What’s wrong with sweet?”

  “That’s what Peter called me in that stupid email he sent me,”
I tell her. “He said I was predictable and sweet. He said he wanted to experience more, wasn’t ready to settle down.”

  She stretches her legs out on the dashboard – her pretty shoes shine. “What a pompous jerk.”

  “Yep.”

  “We should show him,” she says. “That you’re not a sweet little predictable wallflower.”

  I think about it for a beat, hands pressed on the two and ten o’clock position on the wheel, just like I was taught in Driver’s Ed. “But I am… he’s right.”

  “Well, you could try… you could try something different,” she suggests. “Step out of your comfort zone a little. It would do you good.”

  “Well, that’s easy for you to say,” I point out. “You’re a natural risk taker. You’re fun and bold. You’re the woman who walked out on her husband because he didn’t fold his basket of laundry like you asked.”

  She laughs, a loud boisterous chuckle. “Impulsive is what I am, and hot tempered… not always a good thing.”

  “So,” I go on. “How does one step out of their comfort zones? What should I do?”

  “Well, first off…” She digs her slender arm deep into the Pringles tin. “Get rid of that day planner you always carry around, and chuck that fancy watch. Live in the moment.”

  “Okay… what else?” I ask. I’m enjoying the possibility of becoming someone new.

  “Ditch the little polka-dot skirts and frilly tops, and buy some black leather pants. Get a tattoo…”

  I laugh out loud. “Yep, me with a tattoo… I can totally see it.”

  “We’re doing it,” she says. “I’ve got a plan.”

  I smile wide. “I’m sure you do.” Of all my friends, Corrie is definitely the funnest one – it’s one of the reasons I’ve brought her along. There was also the fact that she doesn’t have a day job and was free.

  “You’re still friends with Peter on Facebook and Instagram right?”

  I nod. “Yep…”

  She sits up and practically bounces off her seat. “We’ll show him,” she says. “We’ll post all kinds of pictures and make him squirm. He’ll be sorry he ever let you go.”

  I bite my lip. I’m not sure I want to play these games. What are we? Thirteen years old? But I do like the idea of him seeing me in a different light, of showing him that there’s more to me than the sweet girl he’s always known. If I show him a different side of me, will he change his mind and come back to me? Will I get my old life back?

  As soon as we turn around the bend, I spot Momma running out of the house, arms flailing, dreads flapping in the wind. As we near closer, I can make out the vibrant pattern of her tunic, worn over black leggings. She has her slipper booties on.

  “Your mom is so cute,” Corrie smiles. “I’d love to have a mom like that.”

  “She’ll be in our faces the whole week,” I warn her. “Be prepared for that. She thinks she’s one of the girls.”

  “She was awesome at movie night,” Corrie tells me. “Cute house.”

  I study the little brick bungalow with its beds of flowers and white picket fence – it’s exactly the kind of house you’d expect in small town America.

  As soon as I cut the engine, I hop out of the car and hug Momma. Corrie joins us, teetering on her heels on the gravel ground.

  Momma gives her a big hug. “So nice to see you again, Corrie. Glad you could join Maeve.”

  “Well, she needs a sidekick.”

  “So how have you been?” Momma asks and they start chattering. As I make my way to the back of the car to retrieve the suitcases, I see him in the distance, stepping out of my house. What the heck is he doing here?

  And damn, he still looks so good. I was kind of hoping that he’d lose his hair, sprout a beer gut and develop some kind of strange skin disease, but no such luck. As he closes the distance between us, I take him in: all six foot two inches of him. He still has that dark thick hair, swept to the side. He’s wearing worn jeans which hang low on his hips, a simple white t-shirt and work boots. His eyes are as beautiful as ever as they take me in. A smile slowly curves his lips as he inches closer – his cocky grin is exactly as it always was too. It’s a bittersweet smile – it makes me want to punch him in the face, but it also makes me want to jump his bones. My heart hammers and I can barely breathe. He still has an effect on me, and I hate that. I really hate that.

  He reaches for my suitcase. “Can I help you with that, Freckles?”

  Freckles. It’s what he used to always call me. I liked it back then, but now it makes me want to take off my shoe and throw it at his head.

  As he pulls out the suitcase from my trunk, I don’t fail to notice the curves of his lean torso and strong arms. I shake my head and turn my gaze to Corrie and Momma. Corrie’s jaw is hanging on the ground – she likes what she sees. Of course she does.

  “What are you doing here anyway?” I ask him.

  He cocks a brow as his gaze travels slowly down my body, from my frilly pink tank top, along the flare of my skirt, down to my cute pumps. Back up again it goes, and that cocky grin makes an appearance again. “Nice outfit,” he says. “You’re not planning on going fishing, I see.”

  “Nope, I’m planning on having tea with my Momma and catching up. I really don’t know what you’re doing here but you’ll have to leave.”

  He laughs. “Oh will I?” he says. “I think that’s up to your mom, not you.”

  I’m going to kill her. She knows our history. She knows I can’t stand the guy. Why is he here?

  He turns on his heel and heads back to the house, carrying both suitcases. To my dismay, he looks as good from the back as he did from the front.

  “Damn, boy,” Corrie says, practically drooling – she is so shameless.

  “What is he doing here?” I ask Momma.

  She shrugs, a tight smile stretched across her cheeks. “He lives next door. He always comes over,” she explains. “Your little high school romance… that was ages ago.”

  Little high school romance. It was so much more than that. He was my childhood best friend, first love… and he broke my heart. He wrecked me.

  “He lives next door?!” I ask, my words clipped. “Did he move back home?”

  “Yes, after his mother passed away, he moved back in. It’s a beautiful house… he couldn’t let it go.”

  True. I completely get it. It is a great house; a traditional Victorian home; a real life-size doll house. And there were so many priceless memories there; countless moments; laughs, board games, spaghetti dinners, movie nights. It was his mother’s pride and joy. She tended to her gardens like a new mother tends to her newborn. She was a lovely woman. When I found out that she had passed a few years ago, I wanted to attend the funeral, but this thing with Blake and I was still too raw. I’ve always regretted not going.

  “Well, I want him out,” I tell her. “I don’t care what excuse you need to use. You guys can be all chummy again in a week, when I’m gone.”

  Momma shakes her head as we head toward the house. Corrie is bouncing like a school girl, eager to see my childhood home.

  5

  THE PLACE HASN’T CHANGED. Same old rustic kitchen; oak cabinets, black appliances and robin egg blue fifties retro table. Same velvet flowery sofas in the living room. Momma’s books and knick knacks on bookshelves. Tim’s abstract artwork still covers the walls. “How’s Tim doing?” I ask.

  “Well, you know your brother,” she says. “Still hasn’t settled down yet.”

  “Well, he’s only twenty-five, and a guy,” I point out.

  “His shop is running well,” she tells me. “Can I get you gals something to drink?”

  Corrie’s gaze darts across the room. She seems amused, slightly surprised, and charmed. “Nice… I like the art,” she offers for lack of anything else to say.

  Yes, it’s kitschy as hell, and nothing like you might expect my childhood home to look like.

  “Yes, I’m parched,” Corrie says. “Thank you.”

  “How �
�bout some iced tea?”

  “Perfect.”

  We settle at the kitchen table as Momma fetches a pitcher of iced tea from the refrigerator. “I love this,” Corrie says, referring to the table. “Is this an original?”

  Momma smiles. “I believe so. Picked it up on the side of the road. Can you believe someone was just throwing this out? Got them chairs too.”

  I bury my face in my hands. Yes, my childhood home is furnished with others’ castaways. I smile at the thought of Peter whenever he came here – he hated it. Too small, too stuffy, too fishy-smelling.

  I shake my head. I told myself I wouldn’t think about him.

  The kitchen door swings open and Blake swoops in. He’s larger than life, like he’s always been. When Blake Taylor enters a room, people take note. Corrie’s mouth is agape – like everyone else, she’s fallen under his spell.

  “Got her working,” he tells Momma. “And don’t you worry about the lawn, Sheila. I’ll mow it for you.”

  She smiles tightly. “Oh, you’re such a sweetheart, Blake. You don’t have to do that. Tim is the one who should be doing it.”

  Sweetheart? My mother has selective memory when it comes to Blake. She seems to have completely forgotten how he broke my heart.

  Corrie’s jaw is still hanging. I nudge her. Seriously?

  As Momma hands us our iced teas, the telephone rings in the distance. “Oh, that’s probably Marilyn,” she chirps. “I’ve been expecting a call from her. Excuse me, ladies.”

  Blake inches closer and I can smell the town on him – truth be told, it’s not unpleasant. “Blake Taylor,” he says and offers his hand to Corrie.

  “Nice to meet you,” she says in a small voice which is not quite her own. He’s managed to turn Corrie, who is one of the strongest women I know, into a quivering meek mouse.