Don't Look Down

thirty: don't apologize

As presumed, Clive doesn't call. What's worse-I've been blacklisted. Nobody in the publishing industry will take my calls, nobody will respond to my emails, and nobody will speak my name.

I've become the editor version of Voldemort.

Throughout the week, I've visited every publishing house in this city and as soon as I utter my name I can't even be looked in the eyes as I'm told to leave. One receptionist pointed her finger toward the door instead of verbally acknowledging my existence.

I'm a pariah, and it sucks.

Thankfully, I have first-rate friends to help me through this.

When he isn't working, Seth's keeping me occupied, both mentally and physically. He pulls me away from the distracting tasks of constant cleaning and reading by offering me a more suitable means of distraction. That means sex. Lots of it. And before I'm given the opportunity to slip into the reality of what my life has become once we both drift down from our post-orgasmic highs, he's sparking up conversation.

Marsha has been bypassing time with her secret lover to make frequent visits before work, even going so far as to show up with Seth last night with bags of groceries. Seth prepared our dinner, of course, but my bombshell paid for it and offered her sparkling conversation. As well as a satisfying bottle of blush wine, which we forced Seth to reluctantly drink with us.

I even had a visit from Rita, who-despite missing me in the office-pulled me into a tight hug and expressed how proud she was for me finally sticking it to the man.

They've successfully kept me pre-occupied, preventing my mind from drifting to nasty thoughts of regret, and since I'm headed to Lancerfield for my mother's wedding today, my job is the furthest from my focus.

"You ready for this?" Seth asks over the rush of wind streaming through the open windows.

He's in the driver's seat and we've just made it out of the city in our rental car packed with our suitcase and formal wear.

Am I ready to see my mother after nine years? No. I'd always assumed this day would come, I just haven't prepared for it. What do I say when I come face to face with the woman who mentally and physically abused me my entire childhood? Do I let her touch me? Do I accept a hug if she offers? Will I be able to muster up a fake smile on her behalf?

The questions spiral in my head, creating a dangerous whirlpool I can easily be sucked into. Reaching into my purse, I pull out my bottle of nail polish and lift my bare feet onto the dashboard. It's the distraction I need to keep safely beyond the vicious clutches of my mind.

"Would you judge me if I said I wasn't sure?"

He shoots me an understanding grin. "Nah."

I unscrew the top off my bottle and lean forward to swipe the brush over my big toe. Lilac nail polish covers the area. I hate that I instantly think of my mother's approval when she notices how well I've coordinated it with my outfit.