Chapter 19
Aubergine.
Sunday night, true to Nicola’s word, was radio silence.
He was a busy man. He’d told me everything he was dealing with over breakfast.
I wished he would let me help somehow, but this was where our worlds couldn’t cross. The don did not hang out with Aubergine Martin.
Nicola did. And he was nowhere to be found.
Monday.
I heard nothing.
Not a single text. Not a single call.
But I wasn’t clingy, I was a grown-ass woman.
I let the don work.
Tuesday.
I came home from work mad.
Forty-eight hours and nothing.
Every time my phone lit up, I scrambled to look at it, only for my hopes to be dashed every fucking time.
It was always a friend. A coworker. Or, worse, it was Pierce.
He was messaging me a lot. My responses were hit-or-miss, depending on my mood.
And my mood was declining. Fast.
Wednesday.
I made a promise to myself.
I wasn’t going to call or text Nicola until I got home from work. I was going to keep it casual. Easy breezy.
“Hey, how’s it going?” I practiced in the car on the way home, waving a hand out. “Just wanted to see what’s new with you and if you’re coming back. Or, I'm fine if you don't. We never clarified what we were.”
“Because I’m a fucking—” I hit my car horn several times for emphasis. “Idiot!”
Freshly showered, I sat on my bed and summoned courage. My finger hit the green call button.
He didn’t answer.
When the woman’s robotic voice told me to leave a voicemail, I quickly hung up.
I threw my towel aside and glanced up, seeing the stupid paper figurines I’d kept on my shelf.
The ones he’d smiled at like they actually meant something.
“Fucking asshole,” I muttered for what had to be the hundredth time.
I slept on my side of the bed and left enough space for him to slip in if he needed to.
He’d smell like cologne. He’d wrap an arm around me. He’d hold me while he slept.
I didn’t give a shit that it was summer and we’d both be sweating.
I wanted to be held, goddamnit.
Thursday.
Same routine.
I pumped myself up on the way home. Practiced what I was going to say in the shower.
The phone rang.
But this time, he picked up.
“Yeah.”
My head reared back. What a greeting. My entire monologue, the sass, the fury, it all melted.
“Hi. Um, are you... doing okay?”
“Yeah. Why?”
I blinked several times and held a hand out as I peered around this apartment he’d embedded himself into. I angrily gestured to it like he could see me.
Why? What do you fucking mean, 'why'?!
“I just... haven’t heard from you in a while." I sounded surprisingly chill despite the roiling, mounting fury brewing inside me. "I wanted to check in."
He exhaled hard, making a static sound. “There’s a lot going on here. I need to focus on this. But I’m fine.”
The apartment suddenly felt very quiet. I stared at the wall across from me, waiting.
For... something.
An ’I miss you’.
He’d said that when we were only apart for one day.
An ’I’ll be home soon.’
Anything. Nothing came.
Tears welled up.
But did we ever sit down and clarify anything?
No.
Because I was scared of losing him. Because I was dreading this exact fucking moment—when I became like all the other girls:
Irrelevant.
I had known from the start this was where we were headed.
I’m sure the others thought they were special, too. I licked my lips.
“Okay. Thanks for the update.” My throat tightened. “See you around.”
I hung up and threw the phone across the room. It clattered to the ground.
I pulled my knees up to my chest.
In every mafia film… did the girl end up with the guy? Did she get her happily ever after?
No.
The mafioso ends up dead.
The wife dies. Or she’s a drug addict. Or she’s divorced.
Just… miserable. Miserable. Miserable.
Michelle Pfeiffer, Sharon Stone, and Diane Keaton could’ve told me that.
Friday.
Unannounced, Pierce brought me iced coffee on my lunch break. He just showed up and placed the cup in front of me.
Apparently the security guard didn't find him threatening like he did with Nicola, which should have been my first clue about this entire ordeal.
I sighed, looking up from my desk. “Why did you do that?”
“I was thinking of you and wanted to do something nice, is all."
Pierce glanced around before bracing his hands on my desk and leaned forward. “Look, I know I’m a fuck-up, Abby. And a loser. But... you have to tell me. Please. It's driving me insane. Do I have a chance?”
I stared listlessly at my keyboard. “I think... I can be your friend. Maybe. But I can’t do more than that.”
“That’s—hey, that’s okay.” He smiled softly, though wasn't able to hide his disappointment well. “You can throw me out of here if you want.”
I waved a hand weakly, dismissing that suggestion.
“You look really tired.”
I lifted my gaze to him. “How would you know?”
“We were married, remember?”
“Oh, yeah.” I huffed a humorless laugh. “That’s right. Sorry. I’m having a hard time sleeping lately. My mind just... drifts in and out.”
“Hm. Maybe you should take a sip of that coffee. Get a jolt to your system.”
I smiled a little and indulged him, bending forward to take a sip through a black straw He remembered the sugars again.
Something dawned on me, and I lifted my head again. “Hey, Pierce?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re a guy.”
“Last time I checked.”
“I mean... you think like a guy," I said with a laugh. "I don’t.”
I hesitated. “Theoretically speaking... why would a man go through all the motions of a relationship, but not actually want to be in a relationship?”
“Oh.” His arms crossed. “Um... I don’t know. Maybe he’s scared of commitment. Or scared of fucking up.”
I nodded.
“He could be married already and just didn't tell you.”
“No... I don’t think that’s it.” I rubbed the back of my neck. “His job is unusual. I don’t blame him for not wanting labels.”
It still hurt, though.
“Hey, do you remember what you said to me the day you asked for a divorce?” he asked.
I groaned. “Come on, Pierce. I already feel like shit—”
He laughed, holding up a hand. "Just listen. You told me, ‘It shouldn’t be this hard.’ And you know, that’s haunted me.”
He shrugged. “It doesn’t really sound like he’s giving you that same respect or effort.”
I stared at him.
A recovering cokehead had perfectly sound fucking logic.
God help me, this was where my life was at.
“Yeah. Maybe. Um, thanks for listening.”
“No problem. You can ask for my input anytime.” He grinned. “I think like a guy twenty-four seven. Occupational hazard.”
I snorted. "And thanks for the coffee."
He gave me a little wave before disappearing down the hallway. I watched him go for a second before turning back to my computer.
The coffee sat beside my keyboard.
Still exactly how I liked it.
The second I got home from work, I didn’t bother changing. I burst into my bedroom.
Nicola’s luggage was under my bed and I pulled it out. Zipped it open.
In the bathroom, I grabbed his stupidly expensive hair products, and launched them into the bag.
I moved to the dresser, yanking open his drawer. I angrily pulled out his crisp, perfect shirts and stuff them into the luggage. I grabbed his suits next and piled them in, coat hanger and all.
By the time it was cleared out, I was crying. I crawled into bed and squeezed my eyes closed.
I fell asleep right there.
The door opened. Then shut.
I shot upright.
My phone sat on the edge of the bed, and I quickly reached for it. 10:00 p.m.
I flew into the living room.
“Nic–”
Thomas Moretti stood in the tiny foyer with an apologetic smile. “Sorry. Just me.”
I took an extra moment to process what I was seeing, double checked that I wasn't dreaming. “How the fuck did you get in? I locked the door."
“Aw, Aubergine.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t be silly. Locked doors don’t keep Morettis out.”
“That’s not really a saying you should be proud of.” I deflated onto the couch. “Just come in, already. What are you doing here?”
“Thanks!” He looked around like he’d just been invited into Buckingham Palace, then his gaze settled on the kitchen. “Ooh, is that cake?"
He pointed at the large pink box on the counter.
“Chocolate.” It had been my dinner for the past three days. “Help yourself.”
I dropped onto my side while I listened to him rummaging around for a plate and fork. Thomas loudly deposited himself into the recliner.
“Man. I couldn’t live here.”
Half my face was smushed on the couch cushion, but I still looked over. “What?”
“You probably cook all the time, right? Homemade meals every night? I’d gain a hundred pounds in no time.” He took another bite and sighed happily. “Nicola’s gonna look like Tony Soprano in a few months if he’s not careful.”
My eyes drifted shut. “No, he won’t.”
“What do you mean?”
I grabbed my accent pillow that had blue embroidered doves on it and dropped it over my face.
It was quiet for a moment.
“Oh my God.” It finally dawned on Thomas. “Nicky dumped you?”
“I don’t know,” I replied, my voice muffled by the pillow. “I think you’d have to actually be dating to be dumped.”
Thomas made a sharp hissing sound like I’d physically wounded him. “Ouch. That’s rough.”
The plate was carefully set onto the coffee table. Thomas plucked the pillow off my face.
A handsome, golden-haired man grinned down at me. He and Nicky had the same fucking smile.
“This is perfect,” he murmured to himself, biting excitedly into his bottom lip.
“Oh, is my misery amusing for you?”
He laughed. “No, no. Look, you’re mad at Nicky for blowing you off. And the reason I came over... I was thinking we could go out.”
I stared at him wearily, already preparing to say ’no’ in my head. “Go out where?”
“Nicky’s club. He’s there now. You can get your answers.”
"First of all, that’s the last fucking place I want to be, Thomas. Secondly, why on earth would you want me there with you?”
“There’s a girl I’ve been trying to piss off. Veronica. She keeps showing up with guys, thinking she’s making me jealous.”
“So...” He gestured toward me. “I’m gonna fight fire with fire.”
“That sounds...”
“Complicated?”
“I was going to say insanely stupid. But, sure.”
“So you’ll come?” His whole face brightened. “Drinks are free for family, you know.”
I sighed. “I’m not family, though.”
“Come onnnn. It’ll be great.” He shook my shoulder. “Please, Abby?"