The Has-Been and the Hot Mess - Isabel Jordan Page 0,56

(aka: the only furniture not currently on a truck) in her empty living room, with a bottle of cheap wine on the floor at her feet, and a pint of Chunky Monkey clasped in her hands like a security blanket.

Time to party like only the completely lovelorn could.

And she was most certainly not going to stalk Jackson’s social media. No way, no siree.

Not again, anyway.

Grudgingly, she was willing to admit that Ray was doing a nice job of keeping the social media machine churning. Jackson was popping up everywhere and trending almost every day. To anyone who didn’t know him, Jackson looked happy, too.

But Kendall did know him.

She knew the difference between his real smile and his let’s-just-take-the-picture-so-I-can-go-back-and-hide-in-the-background smile. His real smile lit up the room. The smile he was wearing in last week’s Instagram photos, and the one he sported while visiting a shelter in Cheyenne to pick up a van full of new strays?

Fake. Totally, utterly fake. And he had shadows under his eyes that suggested he wasn’t sleeping any better than Kendall was.

But she was doing the right thing, she told herself over and over again. It had to be this way. If he passed on that job because of her, it would come up every time they fought or disagreed about anything for years to come. She couldn’t let him give up something so important because of her.

Better that they go through a little misery now, then wait until they were married—or, God forbid, had kids—to decide their love wasn’t worth salvaging. And maybe someday, if she was really, really lucky, long after he’d won an Oscar for his score and soundtrack work, he’d come back to her.

Kendall grabbed the wine and took a deep swallow to wash down her mouthful of ice cream.

She’d done the right thing when she’d walked away from the best man she’d ever known.

And apparently, the way you knew you were doing the right thing was if you were completely and utterly miserable.

A knock on her door startled her so badly she almost dropped the wine and ice cream. Thankfully, she managed to clutch the Chunky Monkey between her knees to keep it from hitting the floor. She needed that ice cream. No way was she going to spill even one drop.

Kendall was ready to tell whoever it was to piss off when Ray let himself into her soon-to-be ex townhouse.

His gaze traveled from the roots of her dirty hair that was pinned up in a half-assed bun, down the length of her Strawberry Shortcake flannel pajama pants (they were comfortable, OK?), then back up to the pizza stain on her white T-shirt.

Ray’s nose wrinkled up. “You know when the news interviews a tragic natural disaster survivor? You’d have to take two showers before you could even aspire to look that good.”

She held up her wine bottle in a mock toast. “Thanks. You look pretty, too.”

He brushed a hand over his impeccably styled hair. “I know I do. But seriously, Ken Doll, what the actual fuck? What’s the matter with you?”

Kendall gaped at him for a few seconds. “What the hell do you think is the matter with me? The fucking ghost of relationships past came back and took a giant shit on my current relationship, which also ruined my career. Again. Not to mention that I’m jobless and prospect-less—again. So, excuse the fuck out of me for taking a minute to wallow.”

He stepped around a discarded Wendy’s bag and glared down at her. “No, I will not. You broke my brother’s heart. Jackson is the best guy you’ll ever meet in your life. He’s smart and funny and talented—not to mention tall, hot, rich, and famous. But best of all? He loves you. And you ran out on him at the first sign of trouble. So, no, I will not excuse you.”

Kendall felt her eyes fill with tears. Ray had never yelled at her before. Anytime anything had gone wrong in their lives, he’d always been her biggest supporter and cheerleader. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I never wanted to hurt him.” Even the thought of hurting him made her chest ache. “But I couldn’t let him pass up that job. Not for me.”

“Oh, what a load of horseshit,” he snapped. “He would’ve happily passed on that job if taking it meant losing you. And I’m pretty sure he told you as much.”

“Well, yes, but—”

He gave her the stop-in-the-name-of-love hand. “There’s no excuse. He told you he cared more about you