“Want to step outside a minute?” Suze asks me. Her pursed lips have that je ne sais quois quality that says ‘Do it or I’ll drag you.’ We duck into the hallway, closing the door so Juan can work in peace. “So. How’ve you been?” Suze doesn’t ask what the hell is wrong with me, or why I’m ranting about housewives killing people, both of which she’s entitled to do. Instead she eyes me carefully, smiling gently, being a good, conscientious friend. Which is lovely. Except that good, conscientious people are kind of my kryptonite right now. Kindness makes my throat swell up, like shellfish.
“Well, Valentine’s Day has come and gone, and I didn’t implode or go on a chainsaw rampage or adopt twenty-seven cats,” I say, crossing my arms.
“Always a plus.” Suze sighs. “Look, what happened just now…”
“I’m not at my best,” I mutter, cheeks heating up. She nods.
“I’d have to agree with that statement.” Trust Suze to be blunt. It’s what I love about her. “Look, if there’s anything we can do—”
“My best was a few months ago,” I interrupt harshly. God, it’s almost the beginning of March. Three months have passed since I last saw Flint. Since I found out our entire relationship had existed for the sole purpose of keeping his bed warm until Charlotte, my doppelganger and his ex-girlfriend—wait, no, his ex-fiancée, how on Earth could I forget that tasty little detail—came back into his life. Until she responded to the siren song of the gorgeous house he’d designed and built just for her, which he’d used my show to get done.
Used me to get done.
Maybe twenty-seven cats isn’t a terrible idea after all.
“Laurel? Come back to me,” Suze says, snapping her fingers in my face, making me blink. “See, this is what worries me.” She sighs. “I say something, you look off into the middle distance and think, and then I have to wait in this awkward silence. This time I think you were even mumbling to yourself.”
Was I? Okay, that’s not good. No need to go full Hollywood crazy before I’ve reached the executive pay grade. I sigh and push my hair out of my face.
“Anything you’re burning to know?” I ask as I lean my shoulder against the wall and itch the back of my thigh with my stiletto heel. I think I’m getting a blister, too. Maybe I should just call it a year and go home.
“Have you talked to Flint? Since…” Suze trails off, waiting for me to fill in the blank. Oh, I can fill it. I can fill it with a lot of curse words and kicking the shit out of the walls, but I don’t think that’s what she wants right now.
“Since I got my bags and made it out of his house in Olympic record time? Like, faster than a Jamaican short sprinter record?” What is it with my sports metaphors today? “No, Suze. I have not. And he hasn’t reached out to me, either. I think he’s been pretty busy.” Probably busy with Charlotte, picking the first wildflowers of Spring and calling each other ‘darling’ and having hot sex on a bearskin rug, or whatever it is you do year round on the east coast. I keep remembering Charlotte, standing in that house in the early morning light. Her face was so open and amazed. He’d built this for her, she’d said. He’d even carved their two lovey-dovey bullshit matching sunflowers in the corners of the house, some history-laden backstory that I’d never understand.
Point is, I was disposable. A distraction. Charlotte was the goal.
Well. Get your vuvuzelas out, because Flint McKay obviously made the World Cup of ‘long lost ex-girlfriend-winning’ goals.
Okay. Enough sports.
“Are you sure you didn’t overreact?” Suze asks. I can’t help bristling at her tone.
“You didn’t see her, Suze. The look on her face. You didn’t see how amazed and touched she was. Flint wanted her back, and I guess he got her. I was just a standin.” I rub my forehead. Great, a headache and I skipped breakfast. Is it possible to have a Tylenol omelet? Perhaps with a bit of fresh-ground Vicodin on top, and a side of—
“Point taken,” she says, putting her hands up. “Scum, thy name is Flint McKay.” After a semi-awkward moment, she says, “But today’s the day, isn’t it?” It’s kind of hard to look at the sympathy in her eyes. It reminds me how damn pathetic I must appear.
“Yep. The day.” Flint day. He’s arriving in town today for us to start promotion, since the show airs in exactly a month. Hopefully we won’t have to be crammed together too much, but given my producer status and the fact that Lady Luck enjoys giving me swirlies in the women’s restroom, I get the feeling I’m going to be seeing him. All six feet four inches of the glorious, muscled, pine-scented man who broke my heart.
Can’t. Fucking. Wait.
“I figured it had something to do with the extra bad mood.” Suze puts her arm around me and gives me a squeeze. “I wish there was something I could do to help.”