Not You It's Me (Boston Love #1) - Julie Johnson Page 0,63

life has (for the most part) gone to shit, seeing as there are dozens of reporters camped outside my apartment and the guy I’m falling for is engaged to another woman, I flip on some music, grinning as I recognize the familiar strains of Tom Petty and The Heartbreakers’ American Girl, and start to spin around the apartment in crazy, happy circles, until the world turns to blurry smears of color around me.

***

Bag slung over one shoulder, I back out of my apartment and shut the door behind me, wiggling the knob once to ensure it’s locked. The duffle is heavy enough to test my balance as I walk down the five flights of stairs — I’ve packed only enough clothes for a few days away, but the two large bottles of wine I stashed inside are weighing things down a bit.

When I hit ground level, I pause in the hallway for a moment and pull my hair around the sides of my face so it cascades down in a dark curtain, covering everything except my eyes. Reaching into the duffle, I grab the ratty Red Sox cap one of my ex-boyfriends (a term I use loosely) left at my apartment after a drunken overnighter a few years back, tug its brim low over my forehead, and slip a pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses over my eyes.

Totally incognito.

Okay, so I know it’s not exactly a perfect disguise, but it’s the best I could come up with on such short notice. And, anyway, now that it’s dark out, most of the reporters have gone home for the night, so I should be able to make the dash to my car without any problems.

I haul a deep breath into my lungs, telling myself there’s no reason to freak out. I’ll just throw open the door and make a run for it, before the few remaining hold-outs have a chance to stop me or get any good pictures.

Easy as pie.

Actually, come to think of it, not easy as pie.

Easy as something else. Like ramen noodles. Or microwave popcorn.

Because, what exactly about pie is easy?

The one and only time I tried to bake one, it bubbled over and I ended up with a sticky, noxious layer of blueberry goop charred onto the bottom of my oven that no amount of scraping will ever remove, and set off every smoke detector in the building. The fire department actually came and evacuated everyone, it was so bad.

But I digress.

I’m nearly to the back hallway when a voice echoes through the empty passage, stopping me in my tracks.

“Going to stay at your new boyfriend’s place?”

I freeze as the sheer venom in those words hits my back and washes over me.

Ralph.

Damn.

I knew it was inevitable that we’d bump into one another — we’re neighbors, after all — but somehow, I’ve managed to avoid seeing him since the moment I ran out of the stadium the other night. I should’ve known my good luck couldn’t hold forever. Though I can’t help but think, if given the choice, I’d pick a stampede of relentless reporters over a conversation with Ralph any day of the week.

“Or did he dump you already?” he spits, his voice coming closer.

I tense, every muscle in my body poised for action as I turn to look at him. The scowl on his face intensifies as soon as our eyes catch, and I see anger flash like lightning across his features when I don’t give him the satisfaction of a response.

“What, too good to talk to me now, Gemma?” He laughs bitterly. “Think you’re better than me, because you’re letting Croft bone you?”

My hands curl into fists around the straps of my duffle. Through clenched teeth, I bite out a few angry words. “Let’s be honest, Ralph. I was always better than you. Who I’m boning has very little to do with it.”

“Bitch,” he snarls, stepping closer. “You’ll pay for what you did to me.”

An incredulous laugh pops from my mouth. “For what I did to you? Are you delusional? You’re the one who cheated on me, ignored me, pushed me around, and subjected me to quite possibly the most boring sex in the history of sex.” My voice gets louder as my words run away with me. “Quick tip for whatever girl you decide to subject to your considerable lack of charms next: there are positions other than missionary, Ralph! Many of them. And here’s another pointer, free of charge: treating sex like it’s a race