Chapter 2
two
OVER
LARISSA
The Not-Too-Distant Past
If someone had told me months ago that I would’ve kicked my husband Rick out of our marital home, I would’ve slapped them in their muthafuckin’ mouth.
Four months ago, I was planning our third anniversary, a trip to Aruba. All-inclusive resort, drinks on our private cabana, sex on the beach, and more importantly, uninterrupted time together.
Eight months ago, after being relegated to the background of his life for too long, I demanded that he fulfill his promises to me. Not just his constituents.
Seven months ago, I sat at the doctor’s office by myself, reeling from the devastating news that the pap smear I thought was routine was anything normal.
Six months ago, I had to make a life-altering decision. The high-grade, precancerous cells were very far up in the cervical canal, and my doctor recommended a hysterectomy. The gut punch was so visceral that I collapsed onto the floor and cried until I lost consciousness.
When I woke up, I was surrounded by my family.
My sister, my mother . . . Where was Rick?
Probably meeting with state government, corporate donors, or his bitchy, blonde campaign manager.
I wasn’t insecure. I knew Rick loved me, but I couldn’t stand her.
That sickly sweet smile, her nice-nasty comments, the way she never failed to touch him when she talked . . . Scratch that. I hated her.
I hated her perky breasts.
I hated her green eyes.
I hated her voice.
But most of all, I hated that she still had her uterus. And I wouldn’t have mine in a couple of months.
Since I wanted to live though, I scheduled the procedure.
June fourteenth, the day before our anniversary.
Devastated, I canceled the trip I thought would heal the part of our marriage that seemed damaged beyond repair.
Because now I didn’t want it anymore, now I couldn’t trust him to be there for me, with me, and now there was no love to save.
Only pain.
Only resentment.
After we left the doctor’s office, my lawyer filed the divorce complaint. That same day, I moved his shit out of the house.
Last month . . . the divorce was finalized, the judgement signed, the decree tucked away in my locked file cabinet. The ring was sitting in a drawer. The house sold in three days. And now, I was surrounded by bittersweet memories, an empty house full of promises that had never been kept.
After nine years together, we were just done.
When I met him, I thought he was my forever. He made me feel like a princess, a priceless artifact covered in bubble wrap. He was gentle, giving, sweet.
Our wedding was beautiful. I still remembered the way the sun felt on my skin, the smell of the flowers, the sound of the harp playing as I walked down the aisle escorted by Jax.
I could still see his handsome face, saying my vows in front of everyone and our mamas.
It was the beginning of a lifetime together full of firsts as a married couple. First house. First . . .
I swallowed hard as tears streamed down my cheeks.
I meant every word of those vows. I never expected it to be temporary. I imagined growing old with him, raising kids together, retiring to sit on a wraparound porch watching our grandkids run in the yard. Now, he was just my past. A dream deferred.
Urick Roberts.
Heir to the Spencer Fortune. All around good guy. Sweet boyfriend. Devoted son, brother, and friend. Committed community organizer. Soon to be ex-husband.
I finished my glass of wine and poured another. Taking a sip, I padded to the bedroom. The room swayed around me, but I didn’t care. Because drunk was on the menu. Drowning my sorrows was in my immediate future.
I needed to forget.
Yes, I was that girl. On the outside, I looked like a boss bitch. Career. Check. Family. Check. Friends. Check. Money. I had my own shit before I married the wealthy son of one of the most powerful men in the state.
And shit, I fielded offers from headhunters every single day looking to poach me to run their HR divisions.
My employer offered me a C-suite position.
If I took it, my official title would be VP of Organizational Development.
Higher salary. Stock options. Executive benefits.
A vehicle allowance. And a significant retention bonus.
Rick told me to turn it down, to prioritize home, to think of our future family.
Grumbling a curse, I stepped into the master bathroom, pausing when I noticed my reflection. Most days I couldn’t look at myself without seeing my failures, my losses.
I glared at the mirror, taking in my puffy eyes, dull hair, and frumpy attire.
Rolling my eyes at myself, I walked to the closet. I struggled to pull the door open. For some reason, it wouldn’t budge. Was it locked? Or was I too drunk?
Oh shit . . . I had to push, not pull.
With a heavy sigh, I finally pushed my way in. The only thing inside was my wedding dress. The original plan was to donate it. Then, that morphed into delivering it to his mother with a letter saying, “Fuck you and your limp dick son.”
Except, he had a beautiful dick, a working one.
The sex was amazing, but good dick never made every trouble fade away.
Sometimes, but never for long. Because once the heated glances, the wet kisses, the deeper-longer of it all passed .
. . All we had was silence. Bitterness where there used to be grace.
Anger where there used to be peace. Hate where there used to be love.
I finished the glass of wine and dropped it on the carpeted floor. Unzipping the garment bag, I stared at my one-of-a-kind, Allina Smith original. I’d traveled all the way to Michigan to get this shit. It was stunning, elegant, and fit me like a glove.
“I’ll miss you,” I whispered to the dress. “Thank you for making me feel beautiful.”
“Girl!” My sister Zara dropped her purse on the floor. “I know you’re not talking to that damn dress.”
“Shut up,” I muttered. “Leave me alone.”
She walked over to me and zipped up the bag. “Remember when I quit my job and moved to Atlanta? I wanted to wallow and eat my Orange Chicken in peace, but noooo. Your ass barged in with your own food and made me talk to you.”
Zara was a sports agent. The time in question, the realization that a coworker took her ideas and passed them off as his own, led her to quit her job at the Huntington Agency and take a job at Pure Talent Agency.
I giggled. “That was fun.”
“It wasn’t fun for me.”
“But you got a whole husband out of it,” I pointed out.
She smirked. “But I didn’t know that would happen at the time.” She brushed my hair out of my face. “So the way I see it, turnabout?”
My chin trembled. “Zara,” I whispered.
Her expression softened and she pulled me into a tight hug. “It’s okay, Sissy. You’re going to be okay.”
We stood like that for a few minutes. “Promise?” I asked.
Pulling back, she offered me a sad smile. “Not today. Maybe not tomorrow or even next month. But you will be okay. Promise.”
I nodded. “I’ll try to believe you.”
“X told me to give you an awkward side hug for him.”
Unable to help myself, I laughed. “Tell my brother I appreciate it.”
When Zara went to work for Jax Starks, she was forced to compete against his son, former child star Xavier Starks, for director of the sports division.
Since we grew up next door to the Starks family, we were all friends.
Eventually, their friendship turned into something more, something permanent.
Now, she had two kids, a big house, and drove an SUV with a third row.
“He also said he was willing to kick Rick’s ass.”
Chuckling, I shook my head. “No need. I already know X would win.”
“I don’t know, I kind of want to see it happen. Because what the fuck? I loved Rick. Mom loved him, too.”
“Everybody did,” I grumbled.
“I still can’t believe he didn’t fight for you. Punk muthafucka.”
“I have the divorce decree to prove that he didn’t. And, honestly, it wouldn’t have mattered. By the time I filed, there was nothing he could do to change my mind.”
She sighed. “I just hate to see you like this.”
“Did I tell you he wrote me a letter?” I offered, changing the subject.
“What?”
I grabbed the crumpled piece of paper from my pocket. I must’ve read it a thousand times since he’d left it on my pillow like a fucking punk-ass nigga. How did I not know that about him?
Clearing my throat, I read it aloud, using my mopey Rick voice.
“I’m sorry,” I mocked. “I can’t do this anymore.
And you’re right, we both know this isn’t going to work.
I should’ve said this to your face, but I can’t.
I fucked up, I destroyed your trust, I wasn’t there for you.
I can’t take it back, so I signed the papers. Be well.”
Zara raised a brow. “Be well? Be well!”
A hard lump formed in my throat. “I know. I wanted to go to his office and bop him on the head and,”—my voice cracked—“and throw all his sharp pencils at him.”
“This nigga,” she muttered in disbelief. “You wouldn’t even know he was the same man who bought you a car for your engagement gift.”
“I sold that shit yesterday,” I admitted.
“Damn, boo.”
“I don’t want any reminders.” I walked out of the closet. “I need more wine.” She followed me through the house to the kitchen. Shit, I left my glass upstairs. Fuck it. I drank from the bottle. “I’m thinking about moving.”
I felt her next to me. “Well, I hope so. The house sold.”
“Out of the state.” I shot her a sideways glance. “There’s nothing here for me anymore. You’re in Atlanta. Mom is in Paris. You’re living your best lives hundreds of miles away from me. And I’m stuck.”
I never thought I would leave Cali. I never wanted to. But it didn’t feel like home anymore. Every time I went out to dinner, jogged on the beach, or walked in my neighborhood, it was a bleak reminder that I was alone.
“Rissa, you have to do what’s best for you. If that means moving, I’ll help you pack. I’ll drive your ass across the country just like you did for me.”