Chapter 3
F inishing off the last of my chardonnay with a hefty gulp, I set my glass down on the counter and take in my new surroundings.
Home. I mean, sort of. It’s a rental, but it’s mine for the next year at least, and no one’s name is on the lease but mine.
And instead of feeling alone, or lonely, or lost, or miserable, I feel good.
Maybe even… happy? Sure. Let’s go with happy.
I totally deserve happy.
“We all do,” I tell my wineglass because right now, I feel like it truly understands me. Like we’re in this madness together.
I arrived here early this morning after very little sleep. My body is sore in an extremely intimate, wonderful way. In a way it hasn’t been sore in years. Luca was everything I never knew I was missing in a lover.
Confident. Attentive. Giving. Fun. Passionate.
He wasn’t kidding when he said he had all night to do it again. We did. Again and again and again. But then, around 4:00 a.m. or so, he snuck out on me while I pretended to sleep. I let him go, afraid of the awkward goodbye and how I’d feel about it.
Whatever. It’s done. And it was worth all the pesky feelings I immediately pushed away.
I checked out of the hotel and came straight here, met the owner, and got the keys. She recently refurnished it, and it’s an outstanding cross between Pottery Barn and Country Living. Fitting for my Texas girl heart.
But really, this place is the first thing that has felt right in my life since I married David.
Our house never felt like my home. Probably because he already owned it when we met, and we only lived there a few months out of the year.
We spent our lives existing out of suitcases, rental homes, or hotels.
Being the wife of a professional golfer is not an easy one.
Hardly as glamorous as it’s made out to be.
It was all sacrifice on my part. If I wanted to see my husband, that’s what it took.
Following him around from location to location, from tournament to tournament.
But that’s all behind me now.
I can finally find myself again. Live my own life by no one else’s dictation.
And just as that wondrous thought flitters through my head, my phone vibrates.
It’s face down on the counter, but instinctively I know who it is.
My beaten-down heart knows. It’s why my rhythm tumbled from regular to light speed.
I hesitate, staring at the now still rectangular device.
The one that’s seriously out to get me. Damn him!
Like a woman who absolutely knows better, I flip the fucking thing over and read.
I’m sitting here in our home, what was once our home, staring out at the remains of the sun over the intercoastal, and I know beyond a shadow of a doubt, I let the love of my life become my ex-wife.
How did this happen to us? When did I become so careless?
I’m sorry, Elle. It’s so late and probably means so little to you at this point, but I mean it.
Because I love you. I fucked up and I don’t know how to fix this because my mistakes were many and you were right to walk out the door.
But yesterday should’ve never happened. I should have stopped it.
Please call me. I’m dying here without you.
Staring at his words, I read them over and over and over again. And I wait for it. For that tidal wave of regret to hit me. For the urge to get up, leave this house, and hop on a flight back to Florida. It doesn’t come. Funny how insignificant words feel when it’s too late.
So empty.
A text, not even a call with a voicemail.
No action. That’s David. Passive. At least when it came to me.
Not his career—no, there he was all ambition.
Where were these words a year ago? Six months ago when I walked out that goddamn door?
Maybe if he had put up a proper fight, he could have stopped it.
I grin wickedly as the swell of true freedom comes curling its way up my belly.
I turn up the sound on my Alexa device. Kings of Leon blares out of the speaker, and I bop my head to and fro.
Only… it’s not really giving me what I want.
I have too much restless energy to burn off, and I’m in the mood to dance it off.
To shake my ass and pour myself another glass of wine because I don’t start my new job until Monday, and tonight is only Saturday.
I don’t even have to get up and exercise tomorrow if I don’t want to.
“Ha! How awesome is that sauce?” I ask the empty room of waiting boxes.
“Alexa, play…” Crap, nothing comes to mind.
“Something fun I can dance to?” I shrug at the tall black cylindrical device, curious to see what this wizard of modern machinery will come up with.
Two seconds later, Taylor Swift is singing her heart out to some song I’ve heard on the radio, and I laugh. Why not? I can’t tell if it’s the wine or the freedom giving me a nice warm tingly buzz, but suddenly, my robe is feeling like an extra layer I don’t need.
I shirk it off, tossing it over the back of the barstool in my kitchen as I make my way over to the refrigerator. I’m only in my bra, panties, and hot pink fuzzy knee socks because Massachusetts is cold this time of year at night, but it hardly matters at the moment.
I could dance around my kitchen naked, and no one would be the wiser.
Pouring myself another topper of Chardonnay, I close the fridge with my hip, causing the contents inside to rattle.
I take a sip, staring around my new digs with an analytical eye.
Boxes. I have like ten boxes and just how on earth did I accrue all this stuff?
Most of it is clothes, I know. Clothes I should have donated because I am one hundred percent positive I’ll never wear another collared golf shirt again.
Or a tiny tennis skirt. The designer yoga pants I’ll keep because let’s be honest, they’re damn comfortable.
But everything else from my former trophy-wife life?
Au revoir!
Turning the music up louder, I let myself go.
My hands fly above my head, my hips swaying back and forth.
I jump all around, sliding this way and that as my pink socks skid across the smooth wood floor.
I do my best to belt it out along with Tay-Sway, using my fist as an imaginary microphone, even though I don’t know the lyrics all that well.
I don’t care, and I doubt Tay does either.
We have something in common, she and I. Evidently, she’s never ever getting back together with her ex and that makes two of us.
I love it when things like this happen. When the perfect song comes on at the perfect moment, and you realize fate could be a real thing.
That maybe even though life kinda sucks, some higher force out there gets your misery, and they’re letting you know you’re not alone.
Or maybe I’m just a little drunk at this point.
Two nights in a row of drinking is not my usual thing, but again, whatever.
Lifting my glass of wine to my lips, I take a sip just as the doorbell rings. The unexpected sound startles me, jostling the glass in my hand and spilling about half its contents onto the hardwood floor.
“Shit,” I mutter. What a waste of wine.
Staring down at the mess on the floor, I decide to let it go when the ringing persists. Quickly throwing back on my bathrobe—since I’m practically naked—I abandon my spill and scurry over to the door.
“Who is it?” I call out because I’m not expecting anyone. My friend Bridget is home with her husband and kids right now, and she’s the only person I know in this town. Hell, she’s the reason I’m even here.
“Um. Yeah. My name is Landon Fritz. I live next door. I have one of your boxes, I think.”
Oh. I pause, my hand on the doorknob. The problem with this house I’m just now discovering is that there’s no window to peer out into the front porch, nor is there a peephole.
And the door is thick as hell—the man sounded like he was speaking to me from space.
I glance down at my purple robe and fuzzy pink socks.
This is not exactly how I wanted to meet any of my neighbors.
Too late now.
I flip the latch on the deadbolt, unlock the doorknob, and open the door against the cool Massachusetts wind.
My eyes land on the box first, which is nowhere even remotely close to the way it no doubt was when the shipping company picked it up.
The left side is completely dented in, the clear tape on top and bottom barely in place.
In fact, the bottom half must’ve been mangled up into a ball.
One corner of the box appears to have been… chewed on? And is also… wet?
“Did you kick it off a bridge before deciding to try and eat it for dinner?” I ask, tilting my head as I examine it further. The man does not laugh, though I can’t help my small incredulous chuckle at the state of my box.
Especially considering what’s in it.
Unfortunately, it’s labeled. My housekeeper in Miami was very literal and old-fashioned, and she always referred to my undergarments as unmentionables.
So that’s what this box says on the top of it in big bold black letters.
ELLERY’S UNMENTIONABLES. A box that I—and I’m positive this neighbor—now know contains all of my panties and bras.
Panties and bras I would rather this stranger not see.
“No,” is all he says, but the thickness of his rough, rumbling timbre mixed with a deep whiskey baritone has my eyes drawing up. And up. And oh my God. I stare at him, unable to blink. How much did I drink tonight? Or maybe I’m having a stroke? Or this is a dream, right?
This is obviously a dream.
Why else would Luca, my one-night stand, be here holding my box?
“Is this a joke?”
“No.” Again with that word.
“Why did you say your name is Landon?”He did say that, right? I’m nearly positive.
“I, um…”
Oh my holy hell, did he give me a fake name last night?
“Wait, are you Landon or Luca?”