merit of his musical skills, but when she called him a pedophile, he quit on the spot.”
“Oh my God,” he said on a laugh.
“They’re a nightmare. During a cover of a Four Tops song, Natasha hitched up her skirt and twerked for the cameras. To ‘Baby, I Need Your Loving,’ for God’s sake. I would have been impressed if I hadn’t been horrified. On TV, her snatch will be blurred out, but in real life, I had a front row seat to two of her orifices I never wanted to see. Which is especially mortifying, given that my ex is intimately familiar with that particular region of her body.”
The truth of it stung the second I spoke the words.
Kash’s face darkened, his lips uncharacteristically flat, brows serious. “She’s got to know what she’s doing to you.”
“Oh, I’m sure she’s aware.” I took a sip of my tea.
A noisy, angry breath through his nose. “Why would she do that? Why would she torture you that way?”
“Because that’s what she does. She’s the youngest of four attention whores. They’re a circus, four gorgeous clowns with gags galore. Except instead of squirting flowers and hand buzzers, it’s exhibitionism and insults. They’re in constant competition with each other, and Natasha is queen. I suppose it’s her right as the youngest. And they’re rewarded constantly on social media and through their show for their shitty behavior.”
“I’ve never watched it,” he admitted. “Just never sounded interesting to me.”
“Me neither. I mean, I’ve watched a few episodes because they’re my clients and I thought I should give them a fair shake since everybody knows they’re a shitshow. I wanted to judge them on their own merit. But I think the show has created a drama machine. Their audience craves it, and so they keep delivering. I just don’t think assholes are funny. It’s why I hate Seinfeld.”
I watched him for a reaction. There was always a reaction—the admittance was blasphemy in some circles.
But Kash only smirked. “Well, they are all assholes.”
“Thank you,” I said, gesturing to him. “I just don’t think it’s funny to be a jerk. Call me crazy.”
“I don’t think you’re crazy. Not about Seinfeld and not about the Felix Femmes.” He paused. “How’s everything else going?”
Brock. He meant Brock, and I let loose another sigh. “I don’t know. I’ve got it all packed up in boxes where I can’t see it in the hopes that I’ll forget about it.”
“And how’s that working out?”
“Terrible. But what else can I do? Wallowing won’t do any good. I’d rather keep trucking in the hopes that, at some point, it won’t hurt so bad.”
A flash of emotion shot behind his eyes, there and then gone. “What’s been the hardest part?” he asked honestly, so sincere.
I answered instantly, before I had time to think, having already dissected and cataloged the entire affair. “The hardest part is being wrong. I was stupid to trust him. I should have known better. I could have avoided all this if I’d been smarter. If I’d paid more attention.”
He waited for me to continue, but when I didn’t, he said, “I think it’s worth noting that the hardest part isn’t losing him.”
“It’s not,” I answered definitively. “I’m more confused about how I dated a guy with calf implants.”
A laugh burst out of him, and I smiled at the sound, though my heart twisted.
“It just seemed right, you know? In my grand master plan of life, he was exactly the right man for me.” My mind pulled that thread, adding, “Maybe that’s been the real hard part, the truth under the truth. Realizing that the infallible plan was in fact fallible. That what I thought I wanted isn’t what I wanted after all.”
“As someone who seems to operate strictly by rule and plan, I can imagine that’d be hard,” he said simply.
I was struck by the truth of his statement, a flick of a tether in my heart. It wasn’t so much what he’d said, his observance no revelation, but in the way he’d said it. In the soft assurance of his face and his solid presence. For the first time in a very long time, I felt understood and heard, and by a man who didn’t know me at all.
It was safety, I realized, and the feeling struck another chord.
“Ivy said I should find myself a rebound.” It was a test, a gentle probing for a reaction.
It was offered by way of the warming of his eyes and the ticking up of one corner