More Than Sorry

4: She Gets a Delivery

EDEN

"Well, well, well," Yvette says. "Someone has some tea to spill."

Without looking up, I drop the white catering boxes onto the stainless-steel counter that runs the length of my salon's tiny kitchen. The high-end nibblies we serve our clients should be treated with more care, but I want to avoid Yvette at all costs.

There's a reason I hired her to manage the money side of my salon. That woman's brain is sharper than a razor, and even though she will neither confirm nor deny that she's actually a qualified lawyer, one thing's for sure—nothing gets past her.

But I'm still fragile as hell and not ready for her interrogation yet.

I wave a sorta hello and then escape out the door into the back alley. Instead of hauling up the case of champagne that needs to go inside, I fall against the brick wall.

This week is gonna be rough. 

I haven't figured out my script yet. You know, the way I tell people I was dumb and blind and fell for a cheating asshole. Bonus points if I can say something without bawling like a pathetic loser like I did all weekend. I spent two days wrapped in Andie's comforter. Cried my eyes out. Gorged myself on cheese and booze. Slept a lot. Watched terrible telenovelas and house renovation shows. Fell apart. I don't want to brag, but I'm kinda an expert in wallowing in self-pity now.

I also—kinda maybe—kept checking my phone, hoping Zach would call or message me and explain everything away. Rationally, I know there was no way he could have because I blocked him everywhere. Beyond blocked. That man's ability to contact me was sent packing to an internet wasteland.

But any dreams I had of Zach coming to me, begging on his knees for forgiveness, were squashed like a fat bug because he never came to Andie's place or reached out to any of my friends.

He did... Nothing.

Not gonna lie. It stung.

I don't regret leaving the apartment for even a second. That was absolutely the right choice. But without the confrontation—without telling Zach how much he hurt me—everything still feels up in the air somehow. Like we're not done... yet.

With a weary sigh like I'm a hundred years old, I bend down and haul up the champagne. I can't put this off forever. Time to face the music.

Yvette stalks out of nowhere the second I step back through the door. Her eyes narrow to slits, she pops out her hip and folds her arms over her chest—wowsers, that's a lot of boobs! The orange dress she's scraped herself into has puffed sleeves bigger than the moon, but there's not much fabric anywhere else.

"Andie's gonna flip when she sees that outfit," I tell Yvette as I slide the champagne crate on the counter.

"Don't even try to change the topic, Missy Moo." Yvette's eyes narrow into an even tighter line. "I am so on to you."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, don't you?" Yvette's head tilts to the side. She smirks. "Thought you'd avoid having to explain what happened this weekend by hiding out in the alley?"

"Nothing happened on the weekend," I lie. A blast of cold air hits me when I tug open the fridge door to avoid Yvette's suspicious glare. I duck out of her line of sight to stack the champagne in the fridge.

"Nothing happened, my hot ass. I didn't hear a peep from you all weekend, which must be the first time in history, and then this morning... These." Yvette's hand pops up, and she fans out a wad of heart-shaped sticky notes—the kind she uses to write phone messages. "What do you suppose these are?"