Spider

“Pity.”

“Sod off, wanker.”

“You sod off,” he says.

I laugh. “You don’t even know what sod off means.”

“It doesn’t mean grass?” he asks with a twinkle in his eye.

“No, arsehole.”

Mila takes the seat next to me. “I love all your bad words, but wanker is my favorite,” she says.

I chuckle and she gives me a fist bump.

She wraps an arm around me and gives me a side hug. “I’m happy you saw her. Have you decided what’s next? Are you going to invite her to your art opening?” She smiles.

I hug her back and kiss her on the cheek. “Yeah.”

I don’t see Rose come into the bar and watch us.

I don’t see her when she leaves.

Rose

I’M ALMOST BACK TO THE apartment when my gaze goes to the lights from the bar and bookstore across the street. A favorite hangout, I usually stop by after classes to check out their books and baked goods. Not your typical bookstore, it’s dark and cozy and serves awesome baked pretzels.

I decide to pop in and grab a pretzel . . . or two. Maybe Spider is home and I will share with him. I know his concert is tomorrow night, so it’s possible he’s practicing late, but you never know. My phone is dead or I’d text and ask him.

I go inside and make it to the bar as a familiar laugh catches my attention. Taking my pretzel to-go from the cashier, I turn, my eyes landing squarely on Spider’s back and shoulders. A ball cap mostly hides his hair, but I know that laugh. A pretty brunette in a super short skirt is leaned over in his space. Another guy sits a bit away from them, also in a ball cap.

The girl . . .

I know her.

My stomach drops and nausea swirls as I watch her hug Spider. He puts his hands on her shoulders and kisses her cheek.

My breath stops—hell, the whole world stops.

There’s something between them, an easiness that speaks to many years together.

I lick my lips, feeling lightheaded, my heart open and bleeding.

I play back the memory I have of her . . . she comes out of his building with her skirt on backward . . . he tells me he just fucked her.

“Hey, you okay?” asks the cashier who handed over my pretzel.

I swallow and nod, tears pricking at my eyes, words sticking in my throat as I lean back against the wall. In a blur of motion, I dash out the door and into the night.

I come home in a daze. By nine, my phone is charging and has pinged with texts from Trenton asking if I’m coming over and several from Spider wanting to know where I am.

I ignore them all.

Anne tries to call me and I hit decline.

A few minutes later she sends me a text that they are coming to New York in a few days.

I don’t care. I just want to wallow and forget what I saw tonight.

I force the pretzel down and drink a glass of wine . . . and then another. Pretty soon I have the bottle sitting on the coffee table so I can drink straight from it.

By the time Oscar arrives home around ten, I’m piled up on the couch with a fur blanket over me, propped up on pillows, crying over a movie on Lifetime.

He sits down and puts his arm around me. I called him earlier on his break and told him everything. “I’m here, baby girl. It’s time for an Oscar Intervention.”

I wave at him to be quiet, although I really don’t want him to. I need someone to talk to, but I’m scared to face the truth: Spider was hanging out with the girl from Dallas. Who is she to him? Why did he kiss her? Why did they look like they’ve been together for a long time? He always told me he didn’t do long term with girls . . . but obviously she’s different.

Oscar considers me. “I think you need to stop hiding over here and get your big girl panties on.”

I sniff. “Can it wait? The hero’s about to find out that the girl had his secret baby ten years ago.”

“You’re watching shit TV to avoid your problems. I believe in your psychology classes they call it classic avoidance.”

I grab a tissue and huff. “You’ve been reading my textbooks again.”

He shrugs. “He’s right next door. You need to march over to that apartment and ask him what’s going on.”

“But shouldn’t I finish My Secret Billionaire Baby Daddy?”

He snatches the remote from the coffee table, clicks off the TV, and gives me a serious look.

“Now I’ll never know what happens!”

Oscar is having none of it. “Maybe what you saw isn’t the way it really is.”

“She was hugging all over him,” I say. “And he was looking at her like he cared about her.” My voice cracks.

God. I have to know. I need to get to the bottom of this.

With a deep exhale, I stand, straightening my yoga pants and wrinkled shirt. I’m not wearing much makeup and my hair is up in a loose topknot that has long since decided to slide off to the side.

I head to the door.

“Wait!” Oscar screeches. “You can’t go over there like that. At least put on some shoes and brush out your hair.”

“Why?”

“Because you smell like stale wine and look like a homeless person.” He flicks his eyes at the bottle of chardonnay in my hand. “At least leave the wine here.”

I take a swig. “I don’t want to lose my buzz.”

He fusses around me, tightening my hair and wiping at my eyes. “Just let me blot this mascara.”

I put on my Converse and stumble out the door, stabilizing myself against the hallway walls. I’m a bit drunk and I don’t care.

I knock on his door and it flies open.

It’s her.

At ten o’clock at night.

In his apartment.

If that isn’t more clear than before, then I don’t know what is.

She opens the door about two feet then slowly eases it shut as she eyes me warily.

I snort. Clearly she is leery of me.

Her eyes sweep over me, widening on the bottle clutched in my hand. “You delivering the Chinese food?”

“Do I look like I have Chinese food?” I slur, the word food coming out as lood.

Her brow furrows, but it doesn’t take away from her prettiness. “Do I know you?”

I flip her off. She should know me from Dallas, but it’s likely I look different with my copper hair up in a knot and my frumpy hanging out clothes. Also, she probably didn’t pay as much attention to me as I did her.

She cranes her neck out into the hall and checks it out carefully. “How did you get up to this floor?”

I ignore that and wipe at my mouth, squinting in dismay at the bit of crumbs that come off on my hand. Oscar was right—I look like a hobo.

But I don’t give a shit, my head screams.

I point my finger at her, using the hand holding the bottle. “I want to see Spider. Now.”

She scrunches her forehead up as if she’s confused and scoots farther over to block my vision into the apartment. “I don’t know who that is.”

“Liar. I know he’s staying here.”

She narrows her eyes at me. “I suggest you leave before I call the police.”

I laugh. “The last thing he wants is a police report about a chick fight inside his building.”

She cocks her head. “You look very familiar—”

I don’t let her finish, instead shoving the door. She pushes back and we tussle back and forth.

I briefly think I’ll probably regret this in the morning, but right now, I don’t care.