“You’re not even on your way, are you?”
“Mikel, can I just spare you the lame excuse and instead admit that I officially owe you one?”
“I appreciate the honesty. So let me be equally honest and tell you that in retaliation, I plan on eating this entire spinach artichoke dip appetizer by myself.” He forced a laugh, but Waggs could hear the annoyance in his voice.
“Mikel, you really are th—”
Click. He was gone.
There was a knock on the passenger window. “Everything okay?” a voice asked.
Waggs jumped at the sound, but it was just the security guard.
“Y’okay there?” he asked.
“Yeah. I’m great,” Waggs replied, eyeing her corsage, which was starting to wilt in the passenger seat.
You owe me for that one, too, Nola.
34
Fair Winds, Pennsylvania
Charmaine hadn’t bought cigarettes in a decade. She promised herself she’d smoke just one, but here she was, at nearly midnight, sneaking away in her own backyard, pacing around her patio furniture and puffing away, the pack already half-empty.
She hated to admit it, but she’d forgotten how much she liked the quick buzz—and the physical act of hiding, the smoke swirling through the darkness, a little treat for herself in the midst of so much heartache.
The taste of tobacco was an instant time machine, taking her back to a night in college when cheap beer and an overdose of Drakkar Noir got her to do things with a senior named Neil that she barely did with her current fiancé, except maybe on his birthday.
Dear Lord, am I really that cliché, reliving a wild night with an old flame? Undoubtedly. And proud of it, she decided, though like the cigarette, the buzz only lasted so long.
“C’mon, Ziggy, where are you?” she muttered, fingers swiping from email to texts and back again to voice mail.
No updates. She shouldn’t be surprised. It’d only been a few hours since she showed Zig the old videotape, asking him to find out why Maggie was crying at the modeling agency. Did she really think he’d have answers this quick?
The sad truth was, she did. Her ex could be a pain in the ass, but as she’d learned during divorce proceedings, once Zig had your scent, he wouldn’t sleep until he found what he was looking for.
Her phone buzzed. A text from her sister Deena. How’d it go?
Fine, Charmaine texted back.
Deena responded with the emoji face that looked upward, thumb and pointer finger on its chin.
Charmaine laughed. Her sister’s marriage had ended two years back, when she left her husband after realizing that he wanted a mother more than a wife. Charmaine knew what Deena was really asking: How’d he look?
Good. He looks good, Charmaine texted back, though that was a lie. Zig looked great—fantastic even, with his five-o’clock shadow and that little scar that always undid her.
He got hotter, huh?
Please. Stop, Charmaine texted.
Says the girl who went to see him face-to-face when a phone call would’ve been fine. You’re smoking, aren’t you?
Charmaine took a deep drag on her cigarette, hating herself for making the trip in person. And hating herself even more for how great it had felt to see him again.
You tell Warren? her sister texted.
Charmaine didn’t answer, which, to any sister, was enough of an answer.
When’s your next session? Deena added.
Tomorrow, Charmaine wrote, glancing over her shoulder at their model home, at the flickering light upstairs in the guest room, where Warren was watching a late baseball game—and where he’d been sleeping for nearly three weeks now. I figure we need something good to talk about in therapy.