Wicked Love - Michelle Dare Page 0,97

away. Keeping up? Nothing changed. It just went more under my nose because I was in La La Land, picking out flowers and cake flavors.

The night of our rehearsal dinner was when our barely held together life snapped in half. That dam cracked and flooded my entire being, washing away my blinders. During dinner speeches, his mistress showed up, making a scene about him being a cheater and being caught. The ringer was: I wasn’t the other woman she was referring to. There were more. And more. I ran out of fingers and toes keeping track of all the names. He wasn’t just cheating on me, he was cheating on the whole damn town!

My dad took a swing at him. Go, Dad! My mom took a swing at the woman. Go, Mom! My bridesmaids huddled around me, ready to shank people, while the groomsmen protected their king. Needless to say, the wedding was off.

James was a lying, no-good, beating, cheating, horrible-taste-in-sports son of a bitch. My heart ached so bad, I thought the cracks would never repair. I would never feel whole again. Then I got my bank statement. That piece of shit had drained me dry. He had access to all my accounts. I saw no issue with it when he asked. We were about to be joined in marriage, why would it matter? My measly income was nothing compared to the big bucks he made.

Or what he told me he made.

Not only did I realize I was broke, but so was James. He never had this great, high-profile career he’d painted himself to have. More like admin status with a chip on his shoulder. He didn’t have money; he just had access to his mistresses’ bank accounts—me included.

He’d been bleeding me dry right under my nose for years. So now, six years later, I have no money, no fiancé, let alone husband, and a broken heart. But it’s not the pain inside my chest that irks me. I’ve exhausted all my tears already. Now, it’s pure anger. All I see is red. It may be because my eyes are severely bloodshot, but all I see is R.E.D. I hate him. And hate is a strong word—but too weak for how I feel for him.

So now, I lie in bed, soaking up the last moments before I’m forced out of our apartment because there’s no money to pay for it. In less than twenty-four hours, I’ll be moving back in with my parents. I clench my eyes shut before throwing my legs off our bed. After today, life is going to change.

“For the better. I can do this. I am worth it.”

2

“Hi, honey. How are you feeling? Would you like me to make you a sandwich?” My mom greets me at the door, acting like a peanut butter and Doritos sandwich—my favorite since I was five—will make everything better. Like it will glue the pieces of my life back together. To be honest, it does sound lovely. Maybe she’ll offer me a band aid for my heart like old times and this will all go away.

“No, Mom. I’m good.” Maybe if I wasn’t so full of self-pity. “Where can I put this stuff?” I ask, holding up a box of my things. My parents decided to turn my old room into their workout studio…even though they don’t workout—which means I’m stuck in a makeshift bed on the couch until they can figure out how to accommodate their twenty-seven-year-old daughter moving back home.

“Oh, just put it…um, over there. We’ll figure out what to do with it later.” Translation: How do I ask my daughter to put her things in the garage so it’s not an eyesore when I host my Bunko night?

I nod and tuck the box in a corner by the coat closet.

“Honey, did you ever give that woman a call? The one Aunt Shirley suggested?”

The number is for a therapist—one who specializes in anger management. So what if I lost my shit at a family barbeque last weekend, got drunker than necessary, cried to my aunt, confessing all the horrible things I’d like to do to James, then proceeded to legit lose my shit and kick the grill into the pool. Did people actually expect me not to be mad? Isn’t that the next stage of grief? I nailed denial. May have bypassed depression because when it came to anger? I was crushing it. Along with all of James’ things. I seem to have paid for it all,