Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 88456 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 442(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88456 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 442(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
Twenty-Seven
Zoey
I pull out my chair and sit down, forcing myself not to look at his office because I know he’s still staring at me. My leg moves up and down with all the nerves going through me. When I got paged to go to the front, I thought it was for Nash to ask me what I wanted for lunch. What I wasn’t expecting was the big, beautiful flower bouquet. I looked over at Nash, thinking he sent it to me, but when I opened the card and read the words, I wanted to take the flowers and throw them across the room.
I was standing in front of Lulu, who thought Nash sent me the flowers. I was so embarrassed I wanted the earth to eat me up, and then he asked the loaded question. Who sent me the flowers? I should have lied and said it was my parents. I should have told myself I did nothing wrong, and it wasn’t my fault. But I felt like people would doubt me, or us for that matter. What married woman gets flowers from her ex-boyfriend? Or better yet, what married woman wanted to get flowers from her ex-boyfriend? I can tell you I’m not that person. I knew Nash was angry about it. I could feel the tension in the air after Lulu excused herself to not be in the middle of our argument.
I should have taken the time to calm down, but instead, I was pushed over the edge. Already feeling the way I felt, Nash’s tone sounded accusatory or at least that is what I thought it sounded like. So instead of making a joke of it, I threw last night in his face and even the shit with Kailyn. The minute the words came out of my mouth, I knew they shocked him. He looked like a deer in the headlights.
I look back down at the white envelope in my hands, pulling the card out and reading the fucking words again.
Zoey,
I miss you so much, it’s hard to comprehend.
Let’s fix this.
J.
I rip the card in half and then in half again until it is in tiny little pieces. Should I text him and tell him it’s never going to happen? Probably. Should I call him and tell him to fuck off? Yes. Will I give him the time of day? No. Because he’s a non-factor to my day. If I call him or text him, he wins. He will get what he wants, which puts me right back where it did when we were dating, where he got what he wanted, and now I see that I didn’t. I kept giving and giving and got nothing back. So I was not going to give him another thought more than he deserved.
I don’t have any more time to think of things when I get a call from one of my clients. Which lasts more than two hours as we go through everything he wants to focus on in the next quarter. Only when I hang up the phone, I see Nash sent me a text.
Nash: Have to run an errand. Not sure what time I’ll be back. Let me know, and I’ll send a car for you.
I look over at his office door, seeing it open, and then look down to see it’s almost after four anyway. I try not to be pissed that he sent me a fucking text instead of coming to see me. But well, it doesn’t work. Instead, I open my Uber app and order my own car, packing up my stuff.
When I get a notification my ride is there in a minute, I grab my bag and head toward the door. “Good night, Lulu,” I say, smiling at her.
“See you tomorrow,” she replies, and I avoid looking at her eyes, wondering what the hell she must be thinking.
I get in the car and don’t even bother texting Nash back. I’m a grown-ass woman. I don’t need him to send a car for me. I sit in the back of the car stewing, which makes it even worse. Even getting into the house, I make my way upstairs and change out of my clothes, putting on shorts and a shirt. I avoid my phone the whole time. Instead, I go downstairs to watch television. I think about maybe calling Zara, but I’m not ready to let anyone in on what is going on, or better yet, what is not going on.
When six o’clock rolls around, and he’s not called nor texted, I’m past the point of being pissed. Like, what the actual fuck? I walk over to the kitchen and open the fridge. “He wants to play this game,” I say to myself, taking out the salmon we were going to eat for dinner. “He’s going to play this game by himself,” I mumble as I prepare the salmon, putting it in the oven before starting on the rice and then making a quick little salad. As the time ticks by, instead of me relaxing and going with it, I get angrier and angrier. I literally want to go upstairs, pack my shit, and take off, but that would be immature of me.