CHAPTER 1
Palmer
One Week Later
“P. Hey. Palmer, wake up. Where’s the serving spoon? You said it was in the kitchen, and it’s not there.”
I’m shaken awake by Clay jostling my leg and his less-than-quiet whisper, which is anything but.
I roll onto my stomach, grumbling about the overhead light being on.
He knows I hate when he does that, but at this point I’m not surprised.
It would honestly be shocking if I considered everything Clay has put me through in the past week let alone the past five years.
Yet he continues to find excuses not to fully move out.
His favorite excuse has been it’s hard to find a place that fast. Not sure why, considering I’ve footed all our bills this whole time.
In the past week alone, I’ve been cheated on, made up with, broken up with (all within twenty-four hours, mind you), told that he’d stay with me to “make it easier on me,” shared a bed every night, and been kissed goodbye every morning while being told “I love you,” even as he talks to other girls in front of me and tells me about them and the dates they’re planning to go on.
So, Clay being a dick about the simplest thing I’ve ever asked of him is pretty par for the course. I bury my face in my pillow to block out the harsh light.
“Hello? Earth to Palmer? Are you deaf?”
His tone and the comment get under my skin quickly.
He knows I hate it when he makes comments like that. I told him it was insensitive when I started working with my first deaf student three years ago, but that never stopped him.
Inconsiderate fucking prick.
Slamming my hands on the bed, I sit upright and swing my feet over the side, pinning his blurry silhouette with as much of a glare as I can muster. I really ought to look into LASIK surgery. It’s kind of hard to look pissed off when I first have to search the nightstand for my glasses.
Sliding the frames onto my nose, I snap, “What, Clay. What do you want? What is so fucking urgent that I have to get up this early on the Thursday of my spring break because you didn’t do the one thing I asked you to do last night: Get all your things for the potluck together.”
He throws his hands up defensively. “Jeez, P. No need to jump down my throat. You’re the one who said the serving spoon was in the kitchen, and it’s not. It’s not my fault you don’t pay attention. Who pissed in your post toasties?”
Anger flares in my chest, blood rushing to my cheeks.
Normally, I would let his shitty comments slide, but I’m so done with him and all his…
this, that I can’t. Throwing the blankets off, I stomp toward the kitchen to the soundtrack of Clay mumbling snotty comments behind me.
I stalk straight to the drawer I’d told him the spoon was in last night, yank it open, and pull out the spoon.
I march across the kitchen and slam the spoon against his chest before brushing past him.
“Exactly where I fucking said it was. You think you can find it now? Wouldn’t want you to lose it in your left hand. ”
“You know I don’t really know where things are in the kitchen, P,” he whines. “I do all the grilling, so if I don’t normally use it, then why would I know where it is?”
I wheel around to face him, fists balled at my sides.
Maybe it’s the fact that it’s six a.m.
Maybe it’s the fact that I’m supposed to be on vacation.
Or maybe it’s the fact that my ex-boyfriend—who refuses to move out of my house or listen to anything I tell him—has woken me up at six a.m. on what is supposed to be my vacation, but whatever the reason, my patience has run out.
Any thought of self-preservation leaves my brain, and I blurt without thinking, “Because you fucking live here, Clay. You’ve lived here for almost five years, and you’re not fucking stupid.
Maybe if you’d paid attention and stopped acting like a giant man-child for the first time in your life, you would’ve known.
But no. Instead, you try to pull your weaponized incompetence act just like you always do, and I’m done with it. Grow up.”
“Are you serious? You’re calling me a child?”
I can tell that I struck a nerve; he’s clenching his jaw in the way that I’ve come to recognize means that shit’s about to go down. After dealing with his blow-ups for as long as I have, I can read him like a book. Instead of engaging, I walk back toward my bedroom.
“If the shoe fits,” I throw over my shoulder.
Venom drips from his words. “I’ll fucking leave, Palmer.
I swear to god, I will. No one is ever going to want you, especially with your weight.
You’re not worth the trouble. The only reason I stayed is so you wouldn’t feel so bad about yourself, but maybe I shouldn’t put myself through this abuse. Keep it up, and I’ll fucking go.”
Without turning around, I gesture in his general direction. “You know where the door is.” I walk through the doorway into my bedroom, grab my cell phone, then lock myself in the bathroom. I hear Clay shout something that sounds remarkably like “fuck you” and the sound of the front door slamming.
Instead of getting in to take a shower, I start running a bath. I connect wirelessly to my speaker, mix in the bubble bath, and grab my favorite body scrubs and soaps. After stripping off my clothes, I stare at the figure in the mirror.
The stretchmarks lining my belly.
My sagging breasts.
The cellulite pockmarking my ass and legs.
The soft waves in my messy blond hair.
The freckles across my face and down my body.
The tattoos enveloping my torso and upper legs.
Fuck.
Him.
Clay might not want me or like me, and he might not ever have, but someone will.
And even if they don’t, I don’t need a man to like me.
I like me (at least, I’m really trying to), and that’s more than he can say for himself.
I’m done waiting for Clay to decide I’m worth trying for.
In fact, I’m done waiting for anyone to decide I’m worth trying for.
I’m done with mediocre sex with less-than-mediocre men who only give a shit about getting themselves off.
From now on, the only thing I care about is me, myself, and the copious orgasms I’ve missed out on.
After the shit Clay has put me through, I deserve a Nobel Peace Prize.
That being said, putting up with borderline narcissistic abuse isn’t one of the qualifiers for the award, so I’ll settle for good sex.
Or, honestly, sex in general, considering it’s been eight months since I had sex, period. Because that’s what I want.
That’s not necessarily true.
I want love. I want romance and being swept off my feet.
I want to come home every day to my best friend and dance in the kitchen while the rest of the world fades away, the only thing that matters being the two of us.
That once-in-a-lifetime kind of love you see in the movies.
I want a love so big and beautiful that our future kids cringe at how often their parents flirt and tell their friends just to ignore us because we’re weird, even though they secretly hope to, one day, find a love just like ours.
I’d thought I had it. For a little while at least. Now I know it’s not realistic.
Because even though I want my big, epic love story, I don’t think I’ll survive going through all this again.
I can’t. Instead, I’ll settle for the sex and at least part of me getting to be wanted, even if it’s not the parts I want.
Aim low, avoid disappointment.
After a final appraising once-over, I give the girl in the mirror a decisive nod then step into the bubbles. I slide down into the water and crank up my favorite Taylor Swift album, then I download the best-rated dating app and click Create Profile.
* * *
Clay sounds pretty chipper when he walks in the door at 5:45 p.m., whistling an off-key rendition of some jingle he’s got stuck in his head. Probably just got done getting his dick sucked, considering he was supposed to be off at four today.
Oh, well. Not my problem anymore.
“Hey, P!” he calls out. I can hear him rustling with his bag in the entryway. “I’m home.”
I don’t correct him. Instead, I keep my concentration on the wing I’m drawing in the mirror, trying to ensure that it matches the one lining my other eye. “’Kay.”
“Where are you?”
“Bathroom.”
Clay steps into the bathroom and leans on the doorframe. “You look nice. Got a meeting or something tonight?”
“Something like that.” I don’t break the eye contact with my reflection and keep my thoughts to myself. Yeah, dumbass. A meeting. On spring break. Right. His lack of consideration affirms the decision I’ve already made. “I made an online dating profile today.”
His brows disappear into his receding hairline. “Oh, really?”
“Yep.”
“Well, that’s great! I’m glad you’re putting yourself out there and checking out your options.”
“Mm-hmm.” I can feel his gaze burning into my face, but I continue to apply the makeup, blotting away the extra and setting it in the areas where I tend to get oily.
“So… you get any bites?”
I shrug. “Yeah, a few.” Lipstick in hand, I apply my last bit of war paint and blot it with a tissue. Turning from the mirror, I avoid his eye contact and try to slide by him.
Clay stops me with a hand on my waist and lifts my gaze to meet his. “You good?”
Apart from wanting to hurl at his touch, yep, so good.
Smiling, I reply, “Yes. I’m good.”
His hazel eyes appraise my face then linger on my lips. “Isn’t that the lipstick that makes you look like a clown?”
I nonchalantly step out of his hold then walk to the clothes I’ve laid out on the bed.
I won’t rise to the bait. Not tonight. Never again.
“Maybe. I’m not sure. It might be a different one.
” Holding his gaze, I begin to take off the outfit I’m wearing and change into the black skirt with white polka dots and a denim top.
There’s nothing sensual about it, but I make a point of leaving my top as the last thing I put on.
The voice in my head screams to turn away and cover myself, but I don’t. I won’t.
I want him to see. I want him to see and know he’s not in control anymore. Not of me.
I am.
As I slide the shirt over my head, I catch him glancing at my bra. It looks like he’s finally realized that I’m wearing matching lingerie. I tuck the top into my skirt and slide my feet into my sandals. I’m glad it started getting warm early this year.
Clay watches me roll the sleeves on my shirt before he finally asks, “So where are you going?”
Keeping my voice as even as possible, I respond, “On a date.”
I watch as the mask slips from his face, and the corners of his mouth turn up into the cruel, mocking grin that I’m so familiar with. “A date, huh? Dressed like that?”
His gaze slithers over my body before making its way back to my eyes, and I’m more uncomfortable than I was, fully naked, just moments ago. Probably because he didn’t see me as a threat then.
I keep my response short and sweet. “Yep.”
Like a big cat stalking its prey, Clay moves smoothly around to my side of the bed, his eyes never leaving mine. He stops in front of me, his eyes and smile taunting. “I mean, if that’s what you think you look best in, I guess.”
Before I can register what’s happening, Clay is kissing me. His tongue slides through my lips, and his hand cups the back of my neck, and I feel…
Nothing.
What once would have had me weak in the knees and begging for more makes me feel nothing. I don’t kiss him back, but he steps closer to deepen the kiss. His erection presses against me. I know what he’s trying to say: “I don’t want you, but they can’t have you either.”
But for once, I don’t give a shit if he wants me.
I can’t stop myself, whether it’s impulse or poor self-control. Laughter bubbles up, and I giggle against his lips. He withdraws his tongue from my mouth, and I bite my lip to maintain my composure, but that doesn’t hide the smile.
Clay pulls back, breathless, eyes hooded, thumb rubbing my cheek. “You like that, honey?”
This time, I don’t try to stop the laugh. “Get the fuck out of my house.”
He jerks back as if I’ve slapped him, dumbfounded. “What?”
“You heard me,” I say, stepping out of his arms and around him. “Get the fuck out of my house.” I traipse toward the bathroom and touch up my lipstick in the mirror.
“P. Wait, why? We can talk about this. I thought you needed me to stay. You know, to make this easier on you. Why do you want me to leave now, all of a sudden?”
Clay trips over his words. I know he hates doing that, so it gives a sick sense of satisfaction knowing that even though he was the one trying to get me off my game, in the end, I’m the one who has him flustered.
I turn back toward him and level my gaze on him. “Honestly?”
“Yeah, that would be nice.”
Fighting the urge to giggle again, I say, “Well, Clay, because this guy I’m going on a date with is super-hot. And I want to have the option to bring him back home and fuck him. I can’t exactly do that if you’re here.” I shrug matter-of-factly. “So, like I said, get out.”
The look of utter surprise on his face is well worth the kiss I just had to endure. Without another word, I leave the room, gathering my stuff to go to my car. Clay follows behind me.
“What the fuck, Palmer. I won’t even be able to get all my stuff. What am I even supposed to do?”
Hand resting on the handle of the front door, I turn back toward him. “That’s not my problem. Figure it out.”
Clay looks like he’s about to argue with me, but I put a hand up to stop him.
“Chase will be on his way shortly to ensure all your stuff is gone and to take your key, so don’t even think about fucking with my stuff.
He’ll know. And I think he’s bringing backup, so I would advise against doing anything stupid…
or I guess stupider than you already have.
There are several boxes on the kitchen island, so help yourself.
” I point to the coffee table. “That stack is yours from stuff we’ve gotten since being together.
If you want something else, write it on a list, and I’ll see what I can do.
” After patting my pockets and checking my purse, I say with an upbeat shrug, “I think that’s everything.
Have a lovely evening. Or don’t. I don’t actually care. ”
Without another glance or chance for Clay to chime in, I turn and walk out the door. As I skip my way down the steps, I dial Chase’s number, feeling lighter than I have in years.