“What do you need?” Dottie asked.
“Okay, listen,” I began. “I went to that Pilates place and don’t let the pictures of people sitting on their asses bending around fool you. That shit is hard. But I got a wild hair, bought a five-session pass. I will not go again...?ever...?if you aren’t here in workout clothes, guilting me into doing it. So the favor is, I need you to bring the guilt. Don’t make me waste four sessions.”
I finished talking, asking this favor knowing it wouldn’t be hard. Dottie was a mother. Guilt, I suspected, for women was a specialty that was latent until you birthed your first baby. Then it kicked in full-force. I suspected this because it had happened with Dot.
But even though I stopped talking, Dottie didn’t start.
“Dot?” I called, pinching some salt and pepper into my sauce.
“You went to that Pilates place?” she asked softly.
I stopped moving and stared at my counter.
“Yeah,” I replied softly.
“I...” I heard her clear her throat. “Sure, I’ll do Pilates with you.”
Her tone was hesitant. Hopeful, but hesitant.
She knew what Pilates meant.
She knew what anything outside of me snarfing down fast food and watching reality TV meant.
“I’m done, Dot,” I told her.
“Done?” she asked, still hesitant, still hopeful.
Damn, but I’d put her through the wringer.
I needed to stop doing that.
And finally, I was going to.
“It’s time to move on.”
She said nothing.
I was sure she was shocked. This had never happened. I might have talked about it. I definitely thought about it (daily).
But I’d never done a thing about it.
“Did...?something happen?” she queried.
“Yeah,” I gave her the truth. “A lot, actually. And I’ll explain it later. I don’t...” I shook my head even if she couldn’t see me. “I don’t wanna get into it. I’ll share it one day but in the end, it doesn’t really matter. In the end, it’s just time. Long past time. So there it is.”
In that speech, I’d lied.
It mattered.
Logan using me, taking advantage for his revenge fuck, then speaking to me the way he did, killing what we had, turning love to hate.
That mattered.
But it was done.
He hated me and there was nothing I could say that would change that. And the way he’d treated me—like what we had never happened, like what we shared wasn’t everything, like all of that didn’t buy me some kindness or at least some patience or at the very least some silence so I could share what I needed to share—it was inexcusable.
So it was over.
I was done walking through fire for that man.
And I wasn’t wasting another moment of my life on him.
I was going to change.
Finally.
I’d made that decision after the debacle at Wild Bill’s and that decision was cemented after what happened Saturday morning before the King’s Shelter event.
I was all in.
My larder was stocked.
I’d gone to the mall and bought clothes for inside and outside workouts.
I’d also bought a little black dress.
And the aforementioned speaker dock.
And the night before, I’d given myself a luxurious pedicure, unearthing my foot tub out of its box to do it.
My five-session pass for the Pilates center was purchased.
My first session was under my belt.
I was making fabulous-smelling, and I hoped would be fabulous-tasting, beef Stroganoff.
And I was thinking of getting a cat (or two) for company.
Yes, I was all in.
New life.
New me.
New beginning.
All to write a new future.
Out of the rut.
And on to something good.
(I hoped.)
“I don’t know what to say,” Dottie said in my ear.
“Nothing to say anymore.” I dropped my voice and kept stirring my sauce. “You’ve said it all, babe. I just never listened. Or if I did, it just didn’t sink in. It’s sunk in.”
“It’s seeing Logan,” she guessed.
“Yes.”
I did not lie about that, just my answer encompassed a whole truth she didn’t know.
Her voice was stronger when she said, “Then it’s good that happened. It didn’t seem good at the time but every woman has her limits. Every woman finds her time. You seeing him, hearing him, knowing he moved on, has kids, is doing okay, that was it for you. So that’s good.”
She was right. That part was good.
For Logan.
But I didn’t care or, more aptly, was determined to move toward not caring.
However, that thought was a good one to have.
I’d think of him that way, rather than the total asshole he’d been.
I’d think of him doing okay. Enjoying his kids. Being with his brothers.
And I’d find my things to enjoy.
Like beef Stroganoff.
“You’re right, Dottie,” I replied. “Now, I gotta add the mushrooms and steak to the sauce before it gets too thick.”
“You’re cooking?” She sounded shocked.
“New leaf, haven’t you heard?” I teased. “I mean, I did just mention it two seconds ago.”
“Kiss my butt,” she retorted, as she’d done since I was six and she was eight.
“Show it, I’ll kiss it,” I replied, as I’d done since she was eight and I was six.
“Whatever. If that stuff you’re making is good, then you’re making it for Alan, the kids, and me.”
“You’re on.”
“Awesome. Later, Mill.”
“Later, Dot. Love you.”
“Love you too, babe.”
She rang off.
I set my phone aside and picked up the platter with the seared beef and sautéed mushrooms.
I added it to the sauce.
I stirred.
I tipped it over the drained noodles and ate it with a delicious glass of red wine poured into one of my fabulous red wineglasses that I hadn’t pulled out in probably three years.
And it was divine.
*??*??*
“Holy crap, this is Dynasty except British with a better wardrobe and set in the early 1900s,” I whispered to the TV.
My kitchen was clean. My candles still burning. Only one lamp was lit, along with my gas fireplace, giving the room a warm, cozy glow.