by Abby Jimenez
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2020 by Abby Jimenez
Cover design by Elizabeth Turner Stokes
Cover illustration by Jenny Carrow
Cover copyright © 2020 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
Hachette Book Group supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
Forever
Hachette Book Group
1290 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10104
read-forever.com
twitter.com/readforeverpub
First Edition: April 2020
Forever is an imprint of Grand Central Publishing. The Forever name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.
The Hachette Speakers Bureau provides a wide range of authors for speaking events. To find out more, go to www.hachettespeakersbureau.com or call (866) 376-6591.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Jimenez, Abby, author.
Title: The happy ever after playlist / Abby Jimenez.
Identifiers: LCCN 2019026595 | ISBN 9781538715642 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9781538715635 (ebook)
Subjects: GSAFD: Love stories.
Classification: LCC PS3610.I47 H37 2020 | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019026595
ISBN: 978-1-5387-1564-2 (trade paperback), 978-1-5387-1563-5 (ebook)
E3020200227-DA-NF-ORI
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Also by Abby Jimenez
Dedication
Chapter 1: Sloan
Chapter 2: Sloan
Chapter 3: Jason
Chapter 4: Sloan
Chapter 5: Jason
Chapter 6: Sloan
Chapter 7: Jason
Chapter 8: Sloan
Chapter 9: Sloan
Chapter 10: Jason
Chapter 11: Sloan
Chapter 12: Jason
Chapter 13: Jason
Chapter 14: Sloan
Chapter 15: Jason
Chapter 16: Sloan
Chapter 17: Jason
Chapter 18: Sloan
Chapter 19: Jason
Chapter 20: Jason
Chapter 21: Sloan
Chapter 22: Jason
Chapter 23: Sloan
Chapter 24: Jason
Chapter 25: Sloan
Chapter 26: Jason
Chapter 27: Jason
Chapter 28: Sloan
Chapter 29: Jason
Chapter 30: Sloan
Chapter 31: Jason
Chapter 32: Sloan
Chapter 33: Jason
Chapter 34: Sloan
Chapter 35: Sloan
Chapter 36: Jason
Chapter 37: Sloan
Chapter 38: Jason
Chapter 39: Sloan
Chapter 40: Jason
Chapter 41: Sloan
Chapter 42: Sloan
Chapter 43: Jason
Chapter 44: Jason
Chapter 45: Sloan
Epilogue: Sloan
A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
♫THE HAPPY EVER AFTER PLAYLIST
Acknowledgments
Discover More Abby Jimenez
ACCLAIM FOR ABBY JIMENEZ AND THE FRIEND ZONE
About the Author
Also by Abby Jimenez
The Friend Zone
This book is dedicated to my husband and kids.
Thank you for being my happy ever after.
Explore book giveaways, sneak peeks, deals, and more.
Tap here to learn more.
Chapter 1
Sloan
Playlist: ♪ In the Mourning | Paramore
Do you want me to meet you at the cemetery, Sloan?”
Kristen was worried about me.
I shook my head at my car’s center console, where my phone sat on speaker. “I’m fine. I’m going to the farmers’ market afterward,” I said, hoping that would placate her.
My car idled at the red light next to a sidewalk lined with worn-out businesses and thirsty, drought-resistant oaks that looked like the lack of rain had finally broken their spirit. I baked in the blazing sun. My open sunroof had broken over Easter weekend a few weeks ago and I’d never fixed it, part of my time-honored tradition of not repairing things in my crappy car.
“The farmers’ market? Are you going to cook?” Kristen’s voice lit up with hope.
“No. A salad maybe,” I said as the light turned green. I didn’t cook anymore. Everyone knew that.
I didn’t do a lot of things anymore.
“Oh. Well, do you want me to come over later?” she asked. “I’ll bring cookie dough and liquor.”
“No. I’ll be— Oh my God!” A furry, copper-colored blur darted into the road, and I slammed on the brakes. My phone became a projectile into the dash and my purse dumped over the passenger seat, spilling tampons and single-serve flavored creamers.
“Sloan! What happened?”
I clutched the wheel, my heart pounding. “Kristen, I gotta go. I…I think I just killed a dog.” I hit the End Call button and unbuckled myself, threw the car in park, and put a trembling hand on the door to wait for a break in traffic to get out.
Please let it have been quick and painless. Please.
This would destroy me. This was just what it would take. The limp body of somebody’s poor pet under the tires of my shitty car on this particular cursed day, and what little joy I had left would just pop out and float off.
I hate my life.
My throat tightened. I promised myself I wouldn’t cry today. I promised…
Barking.
A floppy-eared dog head popped up over my bumper, sniffing the air. I barely had time to process that this animal was still alive before it leapt up onto the hood. He yapped at me through the glass and then grabbed my windshield wiper and started tugging on it.
“What the…” I tilted my head, actually laughing a little. The muscles involved felt weak from disuse, and for a heartbeat, just a flicker of a moment, I forgot what today was.
I forgot I was on my way to visit a grave.
My cell phone pinged with a quick succession of texts. Probably Kristen, losing her shit.
This was why I never got up this early. Nothing but mayhem. Was this what went on in Canoga Park at 9:00 a.m. on a Friday? Dogs running all willy-nilly in the streets?
A horn blared and a middle finger shot up from a passing convertible. My car sat parked in the road with a dog on the hood.
I leapt into action to stage a mid-street rescue. I didn’t want him to bolt and get hit in the road. I waited again for a pause in the cars while the dog crouched on his haunches and barked at me through the glass. I was shaking my head at him when he backed up, gave me one more smiling head cock, scaled my windshield, and dove through my sunroof.
He landed on top of me in a wallop of flying fur and legs. The air was pushed from my lungs in an oomph as a foot slid right down my tank
top into my cleavage, sticking the landing and scratching me from collarbone to belly button. Then he was on me, paws on my shoulders, licking my face and whining like we’d grown up together and I’d just gotten home from college.
I screamed like I was being eaten alive.
I wrestled him off me into the passenger seat, gasping and disheveled, dog drool on my face, and when my cell phone rang I grabbed for it reflexively.
“Sloan, are you okay?” Kristen asked before I even got the phone to my ear.
“A dog just jumped through my sunroof!”
“What?”
“Yeah.” I wiped my cheek with the bottom of my tank top. “It’s…it’s in my front seat.”
The dog smiled at me. He actually grinned as his tail whacked back and forth. Then he lowered his head and made a single cacking noise. I watched in horror as he hacked up a slimy ball of grass right into my drink holder over my untouched latte.
Aaaaand police lights fired up in my rearview.
“You have got to be kidding me,” I breathed, looking back and forth between the barf, the dog, and the lights in my mirror.
I started to giggle. It was my stress response. That and a twitching eyelid. Both of which made me look insane.
This cop was in for a show.
“Kristen, I need to call you back. I’m getting pulled over.” I laughed.
“Wait, what?”
“Yeah. I know. I’m parked in the middle of the street and now the cops are here.”
I hung up and the police car made an impatient siren whoop behind me. I crawled along until I could pull into a mini mall. I looked down, fixing my tank top and shaking my head, alternating between grumbling to myself about irresponsible dog owners and giggling like a lunatic.
I considered whether I looked cute enough to get out of a ticket.
All evidence pointed to no.
There was a time, in another universe, when this face had won beauty pageants. Now I looked like I’d been in a fight with a raccoon over a pizza crust—and lost.
Scratches streaked my arms from the dog’s nails, and I was covered in enough orange fur to make a puppy. My blond hair was pulled up in a messy bun that had been half yanked loose in the melee, and my yoga pants and paint-stained tank top weren’t doing me any favors. My bare face looked pale and tired.
I’d looked tired for two years.
“We’ll have to ride this one out on personality alone,” I mumbled to the dog. He smiled with that lolled-out tongue, and I gave him a reproachful look. “Your parents have a lot of explaining to do.”
I rolled my window down and handed over my license and registration to the cop before he asked for it.
“That was quite the scene back there, Miss”—the officer glanced down at my information—“Sloan Monroe. It’s illegal to obstruct traffic,” he said, his tone bored.
“Officer, this wasn’t my fault. This dog bolted into the street and then he just jumped through my sunroof.”
I could see my reflection in his aviator sunglasses. My eyelid twitched and I squeezed it shut, squinting up at him with one eye. God, I looked nuts.
“This isn’t my first rodeo, young lady. Find something that doesn’t require you to block traffic for your next YouTube video and just be glad you’re only getting an obstruction ticket and not one for letting an unleashed animal run around.”
“Wait. You think he’s mine?” I plucked a long piece of fur from my mouth. “I get that nothing says dog ownership more than one diving through the top of your car, but I’ve never seen this guy before in my life.” Then I looked down and started to giggle. The dog had his head on my lap doing an Oscar-worthy performance of being-my-dog. He looked up at me with “Hi, Mommy” eyes.
I snorted and descended into manic laughter again, putting a finger to my twitching eyelid.
Today. Of all days, this happens today.
The cop stared at me for a solid half a minute, soaking in all my crazy. I’m sure the dog barf in the cup holder didn’t help. Not that it did much to take away from the original ambiance of my dilapidated car. I hadn’t washed it in two years. Still, he must have seen something he believed on my face because he entertained my story for a moment.
“Okay. Well, I’ll just put a call in to animal control.” He leaned toward the radio mic on his shoulder. “Get this dangerous stray off your hands.”
I sobered in a second, dropping my finger from my eye. “No! You can’t send him to the shelter!”
His hand froze on the mic, and he arched an eyebrow. “Because this is your dog?”
“No, because he’d be terrified. Haven’t you seen those ASPCA commercials? With the sad dogs in cages? And the Sarah McLachlan song?”
The cop laughed the whole way back to his squad car to write me a ticket.
When the dog and I got home, I stuck my ticket to the fridge with the flip-flop magnet Brandon and I had picked up in Maui. Both the ticket and the magnet made the lump rise in my throat, but the dog pushed his head under my hand and I somehow muscled down the urge to sob. It was 10:00 a.m. on The Day, and I’d so far kept my vow not to ugly-cry.
Yay me.
I called Kristen, who was probably freaking out and gathering a search party since I hadn’t answered her last five calls. She picked up on the first ring. “What the hell happened? Are you okay?”
“Yes, I’m okay. I have the dog. He’s at my house. I got a ticket for stopping in the middle of the street.”
“Are you fucking serious?”
“Unfortunately, I am,” I said tiredly.
She made a tsking noise. “You didn’t push your boobs up, did you? Next time use your boobs.”
I pulled my tank top out and rolled my eyes at the scratches between my breasts. “I think I’d rather have the ticket and what’s left of my dignity, thank you very much.”
I grabbed a blue plastic bowl from the cabinet, filled it from the tap, and watched as the dog drank like he hadn’t had water in days. He pushed the bowl across the tile of my dated kitchen, sloshing as he went, and I pinched my temples.
Ugh, today sucks.
This was way too much excitement for me. Most days I didn’t even leave the house. This was why I didn’t leave the house. Too many people and things. I wanted to hiss at the sun and go back to sleep.
“I’m gonna call the number on his collar. Let me call you back.”
I hung up and looked at his tag. Weird area code. Tucker, A Good Boy.
“A good boy, huh? That’s debatable. Well, Tucker, let’s see what excuse your people have for letting you run around in traffic,” I muttered as I punched the number into my cell phone.
The call went right to voicemail and a deep male voice said, “Jason. Leave a message.”
I left my contact information, hung up, and shook my head at the dog sloshing water all over my kitchen floor. “You’re probably hungry too. Well, I don’t have any dog food, so we need to go to PetSmart.”
I might have a half-eaten Starbucks lemon loaf in the car, but it was probably petrified.
I didn’t have a leash, so I made one from the belt of my black Victoria’s Secret robe, the one Brandon had given me the Christmas before his accident. Tucker immediately began to gnaw through it.
Just perfect.
When we got to PetSmart, I took him to the store vet to see if he was microchipped. He was, but the number on file was the same as the one on his tag. No address.
This was seriously so inconvenient. I kept checking my cell phone to make sure the volume was up.
No calls or texts.
I was contemplating my limited options when, like the cherry on top of the sundae, Tucker peed on the floor of the vet’s office.
The vet looked unfazed. She pulled paper towels from a dispenser without looking up from her chart and handed them to me. Tucker retreated under a chair and looked on with sorry puppy dog eyes.
“He was eating grass too.” I crouched and dropped towels on the mess. “I think he has a stom
achache.”
“He might have a bladder infection. We should test the urine.”
I whirled on her from my pee puddle. “Wait, me? You want me to pay for this test? Seriously? This isn’t even my dog.”
She shrugged over her clipboard. “Well, just be aware that if he has an infection he won’t be able to hold his urine. Tomorrow’s the weekend, so it’ll cost more to bring him in then if he doesn’t get picked up. Plus he’s likely in pain. If you can’t afford it, you could always take him to the Humane Society. They might treat him there.”
The shelter was out. And the pain thing bugged me. With my luck I would end up with him until tomorrow and I’d be back here paying double, begging them to make the peeing stop. I put a finger to my twitching eyelid. “Fine. Test him. Maybe the owner will pay me back?”
God, I was already tired tomorrow, just from today.
My cell phone pinged, and I looked at it wearily.
Kristen: Did the cop have that porn-stache they always have?
Ping.
Kristen: You should have cried. Machine gun sobbing always gets me out of tickets. Just sayin’.
I snorted. She was trying to make me smile. She and her husband, Josh, were on Sloan watch today. High alert, code red. Keeping an eye on me in case I flipped out or broke down.
It was probably a good idea.
Two hundred dollars and one expensive bladder infection later, we left with our dog antibiotics. On top of Tucker’s vet bill, I bought a leash and a small bag of dog food. I needed enough supplies to at least get me through tomorrow in case this ended up being a sleepover. I also grabbed a chew bone and a ball to keep him busy. I didn’t need this Tasmanian devil destroying my house.
I wasn’t familiar with his breed. I forgot to ask the vet. He looked sort of like a small golden retriever. It wouldn’t surprise me if he turned out to be half honey badger. He was a little wild. What dog jumps through a sunroof?
Whatever he was, he was not what I was supposed to be doing today.
Today I was supposed to be with Brandon.
Setting a bottle of Woodford Reserve against his headstone. Sitting on a blanket on the grass next to where we laid him to rest, telling him how much I missed him, how the world was worse for him not being in it, how hollow I was and it wasn’t getting better with time like they said it would.