by Alexa Martin
Instead of letting Ethan take charge—again—Kim leans forward, her confident voice ringing out loud and clear. “Miss Turner would like to resume full custody of their daughter, giving Mr. Keane every other weekend and switching holidays. She’d also like a set amount for child support and for Mr. Keane to place Adelaide on his insurance and split the cost of both school and extracurriculars.”
With the foreign feeling of confidence and power flowing through my veins knowing that his lies aren’t going to win and I’m going to come out on top, I look at Ben. He looks like the man I fell in love with all those years ago, but for the first time, I’m really seeing him. I see the anger and the insecurity and how even though he spent his time making me feel like I was the lucky one in the relationship, he was. Because as much as he tries to convince everyone around him otherwise, he’s confused and wandering through this life searching for purpose and contentment he’s never going to find.
Contentment and purpose I get every single time I look at Adelaide or hear her voice or feel her arms wrap around me.
The anger and hate I’ve felt for this man vanish and are replaced with pity as he nods his head to Ethan and deflates in his seat.
“We agree to those terms,” Ethan says without any of the grandstanding I’m so used to from him.
“Wonderful.” Tiffany types away on her computer before stopping and looking to both Kim and Ethan. “Is there anything else?”
“No, ma’am,” Ethan says, a far cry from the man who called her Tiffany at the beginning of the meeting. “That’s all from us.”
All of Kim’s teeth are showing when she smiles at Tiffany and says, “That’s everything from us, thank you.”
I’m not positive, but even though I think Kim is happy for me, I think she’s happiest to see Ethan looking so despondent.
After all the lies he spewed about me, I can’t say I’m not enjoying it too.
“Well then.” Tiffany closes her computer and stands at the front of the room. Even though she’s addressing everyone, I can’t help but notice the way her eyes seem to only focus on me and Stephanie. “I love when a resolution is worked out. Adelaide is a very lucky girl to have people in her life who love her enough to be civil and work out an agreement between themselves.”
She’s right. Adelaide is lucky . . . but so am I.
Now that this is finally over, I can move on with my life and start living without shadows chasing me.
It’s been a long time, but I can’t wait.
TWENTY-NINE
• • •
Jude
There’s no place to hide.
Between having to plaster on a smile for Instagram and pretend I’m living this elevated, enlightened life where I drink green juice and do Pilates, then go home and put on that same happy face for Lauren so she won’t start hounding me with questions she doesn’t want to know the answers to, I feel like I’m going to break.
The most fucked-up part is that I don’t even think I care anymore.
I know I’m no saint, but I think I’m a decent person. I’m a good friend, I’ve tried my hardest to be a good daughter, I care about people, I don’t steal, and I would never intentionally cause pain—small exception for Ben, but that goes back to me being a good friend. And nothing ever comes of it. I’m still here struggling while shit people get reward after fucking reward.
Why do I keep trying to climb this damn mountain when all that ever happens is a hard shove back to the bottom? What’s the fucking point?
I’m pretty sure there’s no point. We try to make sense out of life. Find our purpose, make our mark on the world, but it’s all bullshit. Life is a series of struggles and then you die.
That’s it.
So while I’m struggling, I might as well try to enjoy myself too.
“You’re going out again?” Lauren asks from the couch.
I know she doesn’t mean to sound judgmental. She’s concerned. I see that. She’s happy and she wants that for me too. She means well, but she just doesn’t understand that unlike her, my wins are few and far between, and when they happen, I’m still alone.
“Yeah, I’m meeting Spencer at Perch for an ugly sweater party. Obviously.” I point to my sweater, which I sewed a stocking onto as a bottle holder. “You should come.”
“I don’t know . . .” She looks around the room, and I know she’s trying to think of an excuse not to come.
“I do. Addy’s with Ben. Hudson is visiting his family in whatever bumfuck nowhere town he’s from. If you don’t come, you’re just going to sit here watching Netflix and coming up with ideas for that creepy-ass elf.”
“Was not,” she says, but her eyes go wide and she closes her laptop, so I know she’s a big liar and was googling elf ideas already.
No matter how much she complains about that damn elf—Sparkle Glitter—she’s more obsessed with it than Addy. Last week, she created a Barbie-themed elf week. One day Sparkle Glitter and Barbie were taking a “bubble bath” in the sink with hand-sewn “beach towels” and drink umbrellas set up next to them. Another day they were riding in Barbie’s convertible (she even made the elf a freaking scarf and sunglasses), and then yesterday morning, I came down to powdered sugar on the counter and Sparkle Glitter making snow angels while Barbie dolls hid behind a marshmallow wall and had a snowball fight. It’s insanity. I told her to just leave the fucking elf on the damn shelf like its name says, but she said she has to “create magic.”
It’s a fucking mess.
Literally.
“Come on”—I pull the remote away from her and turn off the TV—“I have another sweater you can wear. It will be fun. We haven’t been out together since the launch, and the Remington Witches won’t be there, so you won’t have anything to worry about.” I see the indecisiveness on her face and decide to push it a little further. “Plus, you even said you want to start living more now that everything with Ben is in the past. So why not start tonight?”
And, if she comes with me, she won’t be able to give me the stink eye in the morning because I came home so late or am still a little tipsy. It’s a win for everyone.
I’d been avoiding her until I finally heard from Eliza that they wouldn’t be running the pictures of Addy. I threatened not only to pull the plug on the entire deal, but to give stories to other magazines. It probably wasn’t my brightest idea, but I was desperate. Thankfully for me, some actual celebs and their kids had big public outings and nobody cared about me anymore. But that didn’t mean I wasn’t still so mad at my mom that I couldn’t even take her phone calls.
“Fine.” She huffs and uncurls her legs from beneath her. “But I will not wear the sweater that lights up.”
* * *
• • •
The elevator doors slide open as I reach into my purse and send my mom to voice mail for the millionth time. If I didn’t know that it’d send her off the ledge, I’d block her number. I know I asked her to give me space, but she’d have to respect my boundaries to abide by that request. I don’t know what Eliza told her, but I do know that I’m not emotionally stable enough to talk to her yet.
For a split second, I think about calling Chloe when I get home and scheduling another appointment, but I shoot that down. Why waste my money on a therapist when I could just accept that no matter what I do, my life’s going to be a straight-up fucking disaster? Seeing Chloe isn’t going to help keep my childhood home or my friendship intact if Addy’s picture had shown up in the tabloids. Drinking enough vodka, on the other hand, will make me forget about it for a while, and I’d much rather put my money toward that.
Oblivion should be vodka’s tagline.
I loop my arm through Lauren’s and walk into the party, which is already in full swing. The best part of living in LA is that even in December, it’s totally reasonable to have a party on a rooftop. The view in downtown LA is amazing, and
we can see the ice rink in Pershing Square. Heater lamps pepper the space between the seating now covered in holiday-themed pillows instead of their normal boho cushions. Palm trees are wrapped in Christmas lights, and servers are walking around with tinsel dangling from their trays.
“Let’s get a drink and then we can find Spencer,” I say to Lauren.
I still can’t believe I got her to wear the light-up Christmas sweater, but even though it’s ridiculous, she somehow manages to look hot. It’s like the lights are giving her the perfect glow, and I kind of want to switch sweaters.
“Sounds good to me, I’m just tagging along.” Lauren’s looking around in awe and I can’t even blame her. As far as parties go, this one is pretty damn impressive. Plus, it’s an open bar . . . which makes it even better.
The bar on the rooftop isn’t as big as the one on the floor beneath us, but it’s not the size that matters . . . it’s the bartender’s willingness to ignore the men and come straight to me. Which this one does. He hands me the drink menu, and I scan it once before placing my order.
“Hi!” I bat my lashes, ignoring Lauren snickering next to me, hoping between the shameless flirting and the cash I brought to tip that he’ll continue this quick service throughout the night. “Can we get two shots of vodka, two Lolitas, and two shots of tequila . . . since this is a party.”
Lauren’s laughing stops as abruptly as it started.
“What the hell, Jude!” Her hand latches onto my wrist like I just ordered her death. “You know I can’t drink that much!”
“Relax.” I peel her fingers off me. “One Lolita is for you, the rest is for me.”
I thought this would help her relax, but for some reason, her eyes narrow even further and seem to get even more serious.
“Jude . . . that’s a lot.” Her somber tone is even more noticeable in such a festive environment. I thought taking her out with me would negate the lectures, not bring them along. “Are you—”
“Jude!” Spencer screeches my name in a stroke of luck I’ve come to never expect. “You finally made it!”
She wraps her long arms around me, and I can smell that I’m not the only one indulging in tequila tonight. Her hair’s piled into her trademark high ponytail, and her sweater has a picture of Santa doing a dead lift with the words Merry Liftmas framing it. I’m highly impressed she managed to find a sweater so on brand.
“Sorry I’m late, but look, I brought Lauren.”
Spencer and Lauren have met a few times, but for obvious reasons, this is the first time we’ve all been out together.
“Oh my god! Lauren! How are you? I’m so happy you came out with Jude for once! She told me all about your dickbag ex and how you finally kicked his ass.” Spencer, who’s extremely friendly after a few drinks, launches herself toward Lauren and wraps her in a hug just like she did to me. “Now we can make tonight a celebration!”
“Ummm . . . thanks?” Poor Lauren is staring at me over Spencer’s shoulder, obviously unsure as to how to react to the physical affection being shown to her, the fact that Spencer wants to celebrate her kicking Ben’s ass, or both.
Probably both.
“Us girls have to stick together, you know?” Spencer lets her go and takes a step back at the same time the bartender slides my final shot to the front of the bar.
“Two vodka shots, two shots of tequila, and two Lolitas.” He maintains eye contact with me, and his deep voice does things to me that hint at my night ending in whatever apartment he’s renting.
“Thanks.” I wink and put some cash down. I’m not the best at flirting, but I’m decent.
I grab a cocktail and hand it to Lauren before double fisting both shots of vodka and throwing them back . . . a drinking appetizer, if you will. And like the fucking champ that I am, I don’t even fucking flinch.
“She’s a beast!” Spencer’s voice is a few octaves lower as she cheers me on. “Do the tequila next!”
This is why I love Spencer. She’s the bad influence I need, while Lauren will make sure I make it home safely. This is my idea of a balanced life.
Well, that and also a shot in each hand.
I ignore the limes next to the tequila shots and pick up the glasses, tossing them back with the same proficiency as the vodka. No training wheels for me, thank you very much.
“Ahhh!” I cringe a little as the burn travels down my throat and warms up my stomach. I fucking love that feeling.
Spencer is still clapping, but Lauren’s noticeably silent, the frown on her face saying everything she isn’t.
“Oh, come on, Lauren. It’s a party. This is what you’re supposed to do!” I grab my glass off the bar and tap it against hers. “Live a little, I thought that’s why you came. Ben’s in the past, we’re celebrating tonight!”
She doesn’t look totally convinced, but she does take a sip of her drink, and at least that’s a step in the right direction.
Her frown finally disappears, and a smile tugs at the corners of her mouth, which is the power of a well-crafted cocktail. “Is there cucumber in here?”
“Yup.” I nod my head up and down. “See? You’re good at sneaking veggies in food, but I get them in drinks. We’re like a fucking power team.”
She throws her head back and laughs . . . like really laughs. “Oh my god, that has to be our next podcast!” She wipes at the corners of her eyes. “Spencer, you have to try one of these!”
Even though I hoped Lauren would let loose and just enjoy tonight—aka not harass me about my alcohol consumption—I didn’t think she actually would. But as she takes a giant sip of her cocktail and a smile I haven’t seen since we were teenagers crosses her face, that hope blossoms, and I almost can’t believe it. I watch as she leans against the bar and gets Mr. Deep Voice’s attention.
“Can we get two more?” she asks before shouting, “Wait!” Looking over her shoulder at me, she says, “Do you want another one too?” I’d honestly rather have another shot, but this is the first time I’ve seen her just enjoy the moment and not worry about tomorrow, so I can’t help but say yes. “Okay, three more of these,” she looks at the bartender and corrects herself.
He flashes her his most dazzling smile, but she’s not paying attention to him at all. She’s taking another sip of her drink and looking straight at me. “Thank you for convincing me to come out tonight. I don’t think I even knew how much I needed this after these last few months.”
I shove down the guilt threatening to bubble to the surface for how I’ve been avoiding her. Sure, part of the avoidance goes hand in hand with my mom putting me in yet another situation, and some is also because I’m closing in on thirty and still don’t have my shit together. But, if I’m really honest with myself, I’ve resented her newfound happiness. It was easy for me when we were both going through shit, but now? With her life going up and mine nosediving back to shit? I didn’t know how to be around her. I thought it was hard to lay my burdens on her when she was going through problems of her own, but it’s even harder to do it when she’s finally getting some relief.
The bartender puts our glasses in front of her, and Spencer doesn’t hesitate to grab one, lifting it straight in the air before she takes a sip. “To a night out with friends and without the dickbags who tried, and failed, to bring us down!”
Only Spencer could put the word dickbag in a motivational toast.
It’s why I love her.
Lauren laughs and touches her glass to Spencer’s, and I follow suit . . . ignoring the buzzing in my purse . . . and slamming the rest of my cocktail.
Lauren grabs her new drink and looks around the roof. “Can we go find a place to sit? If I’m going to have more than one drink, I’m going to need to be stationary.”
I try not to laugh, but fail miserably. And even though I don’t mutter a word, Lauren’s still glaring at me because she knows exactly why I’m laughing. T
he first time she got drunk, we were seventeen and at Gina Robert’s house, whose parents were loaded and always on vacation. Lauren went to town on the sweet wine they had. Then, as we were leaving, she tripped on a shoe and ended up putting an elbow-sized hole in the wall. She never spoke to Gina again. It’s still fucking hilarious.
Spencer, either too drunk or too uninterested to care what I’m laughing at, points to the exit in the far corner of the rooftop. “If you want to go downstairs, I claimed a table on the patio down there.”
I look at Lauren, who just shrugs. She’s along for the ride and doesn’t care where we sit . . . as long as we’re sitting.
“Downstairs sounds good to me.” I drop my empty glass on the bar and grab my new one before we follow Spencer to the elevator. The trip from the sixteenth to the fifteenth floor goes by in a blink and makes me feel extremely lazy, but since I didn’t know where the staircase was, it was our only option. Plus, I don’t trust Lauren with stairs and booze.
The doors open and Spencer leads the way to the table on the wraparound patio. The views one level down are no less spectacular. I take in downtown Los Angeles, feeling a spark of gratitude that has been noticeably missing from my life for the last few weeks. But tonight, I’m at this amazing party, taking in gorgeous views, drinking delicious—and free—cocktails, while spending time with two of my favorite people.
The rest of my life might be a total fucking disaster, but at least in this moment, I can appreciate the few good things I have left.
A waiter stops by our table, and Spencer orders a round of shots for me and her, and Lauren asks for water. Boring, but I’m still proud she went for a second drink. Getting a tolerance like mine takes patience and hard-core training.
“While we wait . . .” I reach into the stocking I sewed onto my sweater and pull out my favorite flask, which has a collapsible shot glass that screws into the side. “How about a shot while we wait for our shots?”