Dumpster Fire (Life Sucks Book 3)

by Elise Faber

  All fiction.

  Every last tear and lovestruck sigh and passionate kiss.

  Even with Finn—who was definitely not the co-star who’d had the fish.

  Shudder.

  “I can’t take it,” he whispered, his eyes sliding from hers, locking on something over her shoulder with such intensity that she nearly spun around to check. Then she realized he was less observing and more . . . deep in thought. “Everyone looks at me and only sees her,” he whispered. “Which would be fine, if only I didn’t miss her so fucking much.” He dropped his head into his hands, lightly massaging his temples. “But fuck, I do miss her. So much.”

  The pain in him called to the pain in her, slicing her to the quick, making her remember all too much.

  Frantically, she shoved down the memories, the hurt, the agony of knowing that life would never be the same because while the rest of the world went on, her world hadn’t.

  Just as this man’s wouldn’t.

  His eyes flashed up to hers, and that pain inside her slipped its hold, escaped the box, and flooded out.

  God, it hurt.

  God, it made her furious.

  Why had she come here? Why had she allowed this man to make her feel? He was a fucking stranger, who had absolutely no bearing on her life and—

  Something inside her snapped.

  Not control, since that had already slipped its hold, freeing those thoughts she’d purposefully locked away nearly twenty years before, but her . . . civility, she supposed, her sympathy, her pity.

  That band holding tight to everything that was human inside her gave way.

  She crossed her arms, leaned back against the porch post, and smirked down at him. “Why would I apologize to the dumbass who all but jumped in front of my car?” she sneered. “I should have run you over and saved the world the trouble of erasing you from its surface.”

  That fury gripping her was gone by the time she’d finished the words, like a wave sucked out to sea, and in the flow of the next one crashing ashore, colliding with her skin and cooling her to her core, it brought with it . . . shame.

  And fuck, that burned, scalding her insides and somehow turning them to frost.

  But then he smiled.

  Or if not smiled, then at least one half of his mouth curved up, tilting in, revealing a tiny dimple in his cheek.

  Would he have a pair if he smiled fully?

  Would she ever have the chance to see it?

  No.

  No, of course, she wouldn’t. She didn’t deserve it, certainly, because insulting this man was like kicking a puppy and made her no better than—

  No.

  She’d thought that same word seconds before, hundreds if not thousands of times in the course of her life, but never with that amount of intensity, as though it had been torn from the very innards of her soul.

  No, she could never be like them.

  Never.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I shouldn’t have—” Shaking her head as she spun around, she hurried down the three steps that led to the walkway, her heels clicking along the way, rushed along that straight shot of concrete, and turned—

  Then was hauled to a stop, her hair flying forward to cover her face, a male chest very close to her spine, his spicy scent surrounding her.

  “Wait,” he said, his hot breath blowing against the back of her ear.

  She shivered but didn’t wait, just yanked her arm from his grip and started walking to her car.

  He appeared in front of her a moment later, not touching her but definitely blocking her path. And stealing her breath because he was tall, rugged, and looking at her with his pretty eyes.

  Her fucking kryptonite—a pair of eyes that held so many secrets.

  “Wait,” he said again.

  She took a step, stopped.

  But that only brought her in contact with him, with his chest, with his maleness, with . . . her guilt.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered again. “I shouldn’t have said that. Please forgive me.”

  An apology, not because she was worried about her brand or felt pity for this man. An apology because she felt like a caustic shrew who was taking out whatever nonsense was in her head on this man, who absolutely didn’t deserve it.

  Because he was nice and kind and sad, and the hurt little girl in her wanted to ruin that.

  To cut it to shreds, to eviscerate that niceness, to make him pay just because he was a nice person.

  And she was not.

  Rob studied her for a long moment then his hand lifted.

  Suddenly, abruptly, jerking up toward her face.

  Sophie flinched.

  Twenty years free of her nightmare didn’t mean that her instincts were gone completely, no matter how carefully and deeply she had buried them. Twenty years didn’t mean she’d forgotten what it felt like to have a palm cracking against her jaw, the sting that always followed, but on a one-second delay. Nothing but shock before that hurt bloomed on her cheek, burning along her nerves and spreading out like a flood.

  His fingers had brushed her jaw, lightly, oh so lightly, before he appeared to register her reaction.

  But she knew the moment he did, because those tiger’s eyes darkened, and his hand slowly dropped to his side.

  Slowly. Carefully.

  Sympathetically.

  Pityingly.

  “Don’t,” she whispered, the word almost a hiss of sound. “Don’t,” she said again, echoing his earlier words. “I can’t take it when—”

  She bit down hard on her tongue, sucked in a breath.

  Then lifted her chin, forced her tone to be neutral, if a little formal. “I apologize for nearly hitting you with my car.” Soph sidestepped him, took one stride past his muscled form, past the man who’d seemed to become a statue, then she remembered what was in her purse and paused. Reaching inside, it took her fingers a moment to find the small package she’d wrapped carefully that morning. “Happy Birthday,” she said, her tone deliberately cheerful, even as she didn’t move from her position facing away from him, and he didn’t move from his position facing away from her.

  Two statues, or maybe like two runners, passing a baton. The air moved, his body shifted, and then his chest was once again at her back, taking up that baton-passing position in reality.

  She didn’t mirror him, didn’t turn to see him.

  She couldn’t.

  Instead, she fumbled for a moment, thrusting her arm back farther, jamming the present into his stomach, waiting for the weight to shift so she knew he’d grasped it, then releasing the small box and hurrying away.

  Escaping.

  Or maybe running. Either way, she’d gotten damned good at both over the years.

  Only this time, instead of hustling away from her past, from the memories and the hurt and the discomfort, with nothing but the clothes on her back, a broken arm, a broken body, and bruises along every inch of her, she was click-clicking away in heels, with a designer handbag, and professionally whitened teeth, cut and colored hair, makeup to perfectly complement her coloring.

  And still riddled with bruises.

  Only they didn’t show.

  Because they were on the inside.

  Five

  Erosion = Good

  Rob

  He stared at the package in his hand, gaily wrapped with bright-patterned birthday paper, then glanced up and watched the mystery woman walk away.

  Something jabbed at him inside his brain, prompting his lips to part, his throat to work, and his tongue to blurt out, “What’s your name?” And he thanked God when she stopped and turned around, when she glanced back and looked at him for a long moment, that his mouth had run away with him.

  Otherwise he wouldn’t have realized he didn’t know her name.

  Wouldn’t know the name of this tempest—wind flying and lightning sparking in all directions, and at the center . . . an emptiness that called to him.

  Because it was the same emptiness that was
inside him.

  And in a heartbeat, he knew he was forever changed, that like a storm bearing down on an island might wash away a beach, the land abutting the ocean irrevocably changed. This woman had done that to the very fabric of his being.

  Ridiculously poetic, he knew.

  But also . . . true.

  This woman was the first to smack him into reality.

  All because he’d had a glimpse of that hurt inside her, because it mirrored his, because it made him feel . . . because she’d all but smacked him alongside the head and made him remember that he wasn’t the only one who was in pain.

  Pathetic it had taken him so long.

  But then again, Carmella had always said he was as hardheaded as she was stubborn.

  Two peas in a pod.

  Surprisingly, the memory of his late wife didn’t hurt. It was warmth and comfort and . . . a relief to be able to think of her in that way.

  Not stubborn.

  But happy and teasing.

  “Soph,” the woman in front of him said, and he focused on her face, judging her expression, seeing that she had hidden her pain carefully away. “Sophie Jackson.”

  Their gazes held.

  Then with a small nod, she turned, got into her car, and drove away.

  Leaving him on the sidewalk, holding a birthday present.

  The first one he’d received since Carmella died.

  And also the first time since Carmella had died that he didn’t feel sliced clean down to the bone from the pain of his memories.

  Tearing his eyes from the now empty road, Rob turned for the house, grabbed his mug of tea—now also cold—and headed inside, not bothering to lock the door behind him (because Stoneybrook) as he went into the kitchen.

  He set the present on the counter, ignoring it for the time being, as he moved to the stove and turned on the kettle.

  Then ignored it some more as he washed his mug out, grabbed a fresh tea bag from the canister in the cupboard, and made himself another cup. He’d long since given up caring that it wasn’t a “manly” drink, and he certainly had enough hair on his chest to not need to drink coffee for that purpose. Ha. But truthfully, he couldn’t care less for the taste of the black brew and would take his tea any day of the week.

  Still ignoring the package as the tea bag soaked in hot water, he added a splash of milk then waited for it to cool down enough for him to drink.

  But eventually—halfway through that mug—he knew his curiosity was going to get the better of him. Or perhaps had gotten the better of him was more accurate. He moved back to the kitchen island, picked up the palm-sized present.

  It was light and small, and he wondered what the mystery woman, what Soph might have gotten for a man she didn’t know, their only interaction, short, drunk, and filled with vomit.

  Embarrassment hit like a Mack truck, reminding him that she’d done all the apologizing, that he hadn’t made amends for stepping out in front of her car.

  For not moving.

  More embarrassment.

  More shame.

  He’d thought it would be so easy, just to let things go, to slip into that peaceful oblivion of light and shadows and rest.

  Now, he knew differently.

  He would never be at peace unless he was able to say goodbye to his wife.

  Which meant he had some outstanding apologies stacking up.

  Slipping his finger under the edge of the paper, he tugged up on the corner, feeling tape give way, the wrapping tear.

  “Fuck,” he whispered.

  Inside that gaily covered present, the box was topped with a Post-It.

  I wasn’t sure what was your favorite. But this one’s mine.

  -S

  He peeled back the slip of paper, revealing a small box of tea. The brand, the flavor that also happened to be his favorite.

  Knees shaking, he sank onto a barstool, heart pounding, palms sweating.

  Tempest. Sweeping in. Changing the landscape.

  Changing him.

  She’s a good one, my love.

  And somehow, Rob knew that would be the last time he heard his wife’s voice inside his mind.

  Because that tempest had shown him the way.

  Things needed to change.

  He needed to change.

  It was hard to pack up Carmella’s belongings.

  Painful to throw away her hairbrush, her makeup and brushes. Agony to clean out her nightstand and find all the little trinkets she’d kept.

  Notes from him, from her parents. Birthday and Christmas cards.

  A diamond necklace from her mom. A watch from her dad that had once belonged to her grandmother. Pictures of her from when she’d been a child.

  Those were a little easier to stow, because he knew he could set them aside and put them in the box he would deliver to her parents. The things he’d bought for her were more difficult.

  But the worst?

  The clothes.

  Because so many of his memories were tied up with the things she’d worn. Her prom dress, the sweater she’d worn when they’d finally gotten the keys to this place and had moved in, her wedding dress, the slinky black number she’d worn to celebrate them beginning to try to have kids.

  Each hanger seemed to bring a new remembrance, a new pin into his heart, a new ache in his soul.

  By the time he’d carefully packed her clothes away to donate, minus a few items he thought her parents would want, he felt wrung out but ready to tackle the next.

  Her jewelry.

  Or in reality, her engagement ring and wedding band.

  Probably, he should donate it, should pass it on to someone who might need it, or sell it and donate the money. But in the end, he decided to tuck it safely in with the single nice watch he owned.

  That was the piece of Carmella he’d keep.

  He glanced down at his hand, at the gold band on his ring finger, and heart heavy but finally healing after all this time, he tugged the metal circle free and placed it in between those glittering rings.

  Then he closed the drawer.

  The way was forward, not back.

  Six

  A Scarf and a Sweater

  Soph

  She hadn’t nearly run anyone over with her car in the last two weeks, so things were looking up.

  Or maybe that was just the power of this town, the ocean, the soft sand beneath her toes.

  Because she definitely saw the appeal that Finn had been droning on about while filming their movie and during the subsequent press tour. She’d chalked it up to him missing his wife, hadn’t quite believed in the magic of this quaint East Coast town. But she’d been wrong.

  It was absolutely magical.

  Take now, the streets she was walking down. They looked like something she’d find on a set. Small buildings clustered together, white Craftsman-style pillars in front of each store, cute wooden awnings, their fronts holding a sign for each restaurant or storefront.

  Bert’s Burgers

  Mocha’s Coffee and Bakery

  Tangled: Yarn Emporium

  Socks and Stuffies

  They all had cute names and adorable or tasty things inside she wanted to buy or eat. Or both. Hell, she wanted it all. But maybe first—she hesitated in front of the yarn store, her eyes drawn to a gorgeous sweater in the window, to the shades of purple changing from lavender to a deep purple in a striking ombre—she would take up knitting.

  She had time on her hands. She could make a sweater, right? Although, realistically, she supposed she should start with a scarf.

  But . . . maybe the sweater was on sale?

  Smiling and enjoying her mental back and forth, she pushed into the shop, the tinkling bell signaling her presence to the shopkeeper—and boy was that an old-fashioned name for the bright and vibrant woman sorting through yarn at the counter.

  “Hi, there,” she said to Sophie. “How can I help you?”

  “Hi,” Soph said, almost as brightly. “I was just admiring that sweater in t
he window and was wondering if you have any . . . patterns or kits, I guess, for beginners? I’m wanting to learn how to knit.”

  “Ooh,” the woman said, stepping out from behind the counter, her long blond ponytail giving weight to the shop’s name.

  Tangled.

  Rapunzel.

  Long, shining blond hair to match.

  “I’m Sophie,” she said, sticking out her hand, introducing herself, mostly in order to gain the woman’s name and to prevent an accidental blurting of “You remind me of Rapunzel.” Though, based on the tongue-in-cheek name of the store, it clearly wouldn’t be the first time that had happened.

  “Misty,” she said with a smile, shaking Soph’s outstretched hand. “You visiting?”

  Soph nodded. “Just in town seeing friends for a few weeks.”

  “How lovely.” Misty released her hand. “Let me show you around and get you set up.”

  “Thank you so much.” Sophie followed her to the far wall where the yarn was arranged in clear acrylic bins, grouped by color, and forming the most beautiful rainbow she had ever seen in her life. She didn’t know how to knit but was fighting the urge to go grabby hands on every roll of yarn she could reach as she listened to Misty tell her about the beginner patterns the store carried and the basic supplies she would need.

  Maybe she could buy another suitcase to bring home her spoils of yarn?

  There had to be a travel store in this town, what with all the cute shops selling their adorable wares, and she couldn’t be the first person wondering how she was going to bring home everything she was about to buy.

  “I think I like that one,” Sophie said when Misty held out a selection of scarf patterns.

  “Oh, that’s lucky,” Misty said, placing the chosen pattern in the basket she’d grabbed. “If you’re going to be in town for a couple of weeks, I’m teaching—”

  The bell rang, and they both turned to see . . .

  Soph’s heart squeezed hard, and the air froze in her lungs as Rob entered the store.