Total pages in book: 155
Estimated words: 151333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 757(@200wpm)___ 605(@250wpm)___ 504(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 151333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 757(@200wpm)___ 605(@250wpm)___ 504(@300wpm)
I’m so distracted on the way to the park, I’m barely bothered by Megan’s bad driving, which seems to have gotten worse, if that’s possible.
“Can you try not to kill us?” I say as she swerves past a car making a left turn and almost drives us into a ditch.
“I’ve got this,” she says over the car horns blaring angrily behind us.
My thoughts shift back to wondering why Jude wants to meet at the park out of the blue.
Why there?
Shouldn’t he be working at the bar?
Why can’t he talk to me tonight at the house?
Megan attempts to distract me by babbling about a movie she and Erik watched last night, but I’m only half-listening.
I feel like a bad friend.
And most likely, Jude’s going to tell me I’m a bad wife and serve me with divorce papers in the middle of the park surrounded by trees and giggling toddlers.
The other real wives in the park will watch and whisper. Somehow, they’ll know I’ve just been dumped. They’ll gawk at his tattoos, and his hair, and his sexy ass, wishing they were single again.
Maybe I’m destined to be laughed at and tormented by others.
I’ll have to watch him walk away, and I’ll be left alone on a park bench with a broken heart and no car.
And even though I’ve got a ton of money in the bank right now, it can’t buy me the things I want most.
Sniffling, I rub my forehead, trying to quell the throbbing pain from all the emotions clashing inside me in a war of sadness, anger, fear, and disappointment. Why am I always the disposable one, and never the choice?
“Skylar, please stop thinking bad thoughts. I had no idea you’d be upset like this.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean just in general because a man wants to talk to you. You’re getting yourself all worked up and you have no reason to.”
I cough back tears. “I’m worried he’s going to have the divorce papers. It feels so final.”
“Are you nuts? Do you really think he’d do that to you? In a park? Or at all? The guy loves you and protects you like a rabid Doberman. Handle your shit, Sky.”
“My shit is handled.”
“It’s soooo not handled.”
Megan is right, I’m an emotional mess, and I don’t even know why.
We pull into the park’s parking lot on screeching wheels, and she idles in a parking spot.
I sigh with relief that we made it here alive, and unbuckle my seatbelt.
“I have to go.” Her fingers tap over her cell phone. “Call me tonight.”
I scan the parking lot. “Jude’s not even here yet.”
“I’m sure he’ll be here any minute.”
“You’re just going to leave me here?”
“I don’t want to be even later meeting Erik. Just wait over by the picnic tables. You’re not going to get dismembered. There’s a bunch of parents and kids right over there.”
I stare out the windshield, feeling even more abandoned. “How am I supposed to get home?”
“Jude’s going to drive you home, wackadoo. Will you relax?”
“Fine,” I huff. “I’ll relax.”
She leans across the car and kisses my cheek. “Please smile, chickie. You’re very loved. Have some faith, okay?”
Nodding, I force myself to smile at her, feeling very disconnected and not very loved at all. I feel like those dogs we see videos of on the internet, where their owners push them out of the car and drive off, and the dog sits on the side of the road—confused and hopeful—wondering when the hell they’re coming back.
After she drives away, I walk to the picnic tables and watch the little kids chase each other while their mothers chitchat.
The minutes tick by.
I chip at my nail polish, and a quick jolt of panic brings up a new worry: maybe he’s not coming.
I’m just about to text him to make sure he’s actually on his way when suddenly Cheap Trick’s I Want You to Want Me starts blasting from the parking lot. I turn my head to see a shiny, old silver Corvette pull into a spot. The engine rumbles so loud the ground vibrates.
Putting my hand up to block the sun, I squint at the car, and my chest clenches with grief.
It looks just like mine, only without the rust and dents. The chrome rims glint in the sun, the metallic paint sparkles like millions of tiny diamonds.
It’s absolutely beautiful—my dream car.
I watch with envy as a tall guy wearing sunglasses steps out of it. His muscular arms are sleeved with tats and his hair is tied back in a low ponytail, and oh my God, there’s no denying that familiar smirk as he leans back against the hood of the car and looks in my direction.
“Lucky?” I say to myself, swirling with confusion as I slowly walk across the park to him as if I’m in a dream.
“Sorry I’m late,” he says, holding up a spark plug. “I had to pull this out of your car while you were in the cafe so Megan could drive you here.”