Chapter 4 Lexi #2
Nope. Pickles it is. I twist open the jar and gag. Gross. Who knew pickles could expire?
The freezer is more depressing, holding nothing but frozen bananas for my morning smoothies.
Sure, I have a stash of glucose sticks for emergencies and a container of protein powder I can mix with water, but that doesn’t count as dinner.
It feels like a ramen kind of night. I grab a package down from the cupboard and add water to a pot.
The irony is not lost on me that the meal I ate growing up because we lacked finances, I now eat for pleasure.
As the crunchy noodles sink into the bubbling water, I picture Mom frying up eggs from our chickens to add to the pot while my brothers and I chased each other around the kitchen table.
God, I miss them. No more excuses. When this job is over, I’m gonna fly back home to Minnesota for a week, sleep in my old bedroom, eat Mom’s famous tater tot hotdish, and play a fierce game of one-on-one with my dad who can still hold his own even in his late sixties.
I give the noodles a quick stir, check my numbers, then measure and inject my insulin.
I toss the syringe into the sharps container at the edge of the countertop and scan my apartment.
This place seriously needs a little pick me up.
Maybe a plant for the corner. Or a painting above the TV, or something. Anything.
Yep, there it goes again. I’ve had this same thought every week for the last four years since I moved here after my divorce.
So, I do the same thing every time this pops up – I push it away.
Besides, the solitude has grown on me. For every hour I either spend alone, or protecting someone, it’s an hour of repentance that chips away at the debt of what I destroyed.
When Katey and I split after The Incident, the crushing shame of what happened, mixed with the guilt of abandoning Katey, consumed every pore.
I left Katey with everything except my clothes.
And once I left, I never looked back. My face burns thinking of how I ignored her cries of ‘things will get better’ and ‘we can get through this’.
Back then, I prayed that by leaving, somehow, I’d atone for my sins.
By giving up Katey, giving her the chance to find someone better, more deserving, worthy, maybe I’d eventually feel some sort of redemption.
After the split, I moved to this place because it was close to the firm, cheap and temporary. At least I thought it was temporary. Four years later, I haven’t so much as bought a kitchen table. Seems like overkill when I know I’ll be the only one eating here.
I tear the seasoning pack with my teeth, grab the pot and hot pad, and move to the couch. Right as I sink down into the cushions, my phone buzzes.
Mom: Hi honey. Your dad and I are watching Wheel of Fortune.
My mom. Queen of the random text messages.
Mom: I ran into your old basketball coach today. He said to tell his former star player hi. That’s you LOL!
Mom: He’s finally retiring!
Lexi: That’s awesome. Glad to hear Coach is doing well. He deserves some downtime.
Lexi: Tell Dad I passed a ’69 Ford Mustang Fastback with custom red stripes today. He’ll die.
Mom: OK. And don’t forget to send Aunt Megan a birthday card next week.
Lexi: I’ll send tomorrow. Love you.
Mom: Love you too pumpkin!
Mom ends the text with four full lines of heart emojis.
Once she learned emojis and what ‘LOL’ meant, she never sent a message without them.
After adding a note to my calendar to mail the card in the morning – which I one hundred per cent would’ve forgotten otherwise – I crack open my laptop, interlace my fingers, stretch and download the file Marcus’s assistant sent me on Justin.
My God, there’s a ton of information. Where do I even begin?
I twirl noodles onto my fork, slurp up the brothy goodness and scan the page.
Justin Greenwood, thirty-two years old. Featured in eleven films, all in the action or thriller genre.
Appears he dated multiple women before Willow.
Duh. It’s like telling a kid with unlimited funds to go into a candy store and only choose one.
The women looked to be from the business – a few actresses and a publicist. Based on the photo timelines, the relationships appeared to last no more than a few months.
I scribble down the names to follow up with the investigative team for a proper briefing on how the relationships ended.
I take a sip of water before diving back into my sodium-blasted dinner and continue reading.
Justin was born and raised in Nashville, Tennessee.
A high school star wide receiver who was offered a scholarship to the University of Southern California.
Played for three years until he caught the eye of a Hollywood talent scout who stumbled upon a YouTube video of him doing a backflip after a touchdown.
The scout flew him to Hollywood for headshots and set him up with acting coaches, Justin then quit school to pursue acting full time.
The salted ramen remnants stick on my tongue and I gulp back water. Shit like this shouldn’t bother me as much as it does, but it’s so unfair. This guy does a backflip and gets a golden ticket. Others bust their ass all their life and get nothing.
Even though I should stop and put on some crap TV, I keep searching.
I click on his family background, and my gut goes hard.
Because of course. His parents were wealthy real estate developers in Nashville.
Seriously, what exactly does someone have to do to win the trifecta lottery?
Good-looking, talented, born into wealth.
I’m gonna bet myself twenty bucks he can probably sing, too.
I’m so irritable that I check my blood sugar just to make sure it’s not going bananas.
Because this irritation isn’t logical. I know it’s not logical.
And yet my fingers twitch to hit a punching bag.
I push the empty ramen pot aside, stuff a pillow behind my back and continue clicking.
It’s after midnight when my eyes officially reach max dryness. I close my laptop and step into the bathroom. I scrub my face harder than needed and push out an exhale.
Tomorrow the countdown starts. No chance in a fiery hell can I handle being Justin’s bodyguard for six months. For everything holy in this world, it better end in less than three.