I’m torn between grateful and annoyed that Palmer is here. She insisted on helping me drive out and get settled, but she had an audition yesterday. Waiting on Palmer meant me missing Dex before he left. He texted me instructions and left a key under the mat for me. Apparently, the fish guy will be here on Monday to teach me how to feed the fish. I mean, it’s fish in tanks…I’m fully capable of sprinkling flakes into water, but whatever makes Dex feel more comfortable, I’m happy to oblige.
“The ‘dibs’ wasn’t about Dex, by the way.” Palmer immediately finds and opens the hidden fridge that matches the sleek black cabinetry with gold handles. She pulls out two beers, but I shake my head.
“It’s ten in the morning on a Friday.” I grab one beer and then place it back into the beverage compartment of the fancy fridge. “And I need to get a little work done this afternoon.”
“Ugh,” she responds, rolling her eyes. “How come you work for yourself, from home in your pajamas most days, but you still have that stick wedged firmly up your asshole? If I made the money you do, with the schedule you have, I’d be enjoying my life thoroughly.”
“Yeah, and how do you think that money is earned, Palmer? I work in my pajamas because not worrying about getting fixed up for the day gives me an extra hour of work time in front of the screen before my brain melts.”
She twists the cap off her beer. It’s a foreign label I don’t recognize, but it certainly looks upmarket. I knew Dex was well-off…I didn’t know he was this well-off. Of course he drinks lavish beer. “I’m a small business owner too, and yet I still find a way to have fun.”
Palmer’s a part-time influencer, part-time makeup artist, and full-time desperately-want-to-be-famous, struggling actress. It’s not quite the same. And maybe that’s the problem. Maybe I’m not fun. Maybe that’s part of the reason Mason saw our relationship as a duty and a chore.
Fuck. Mason.
It’s been a little over a week since my birthday. I am trying to be numb. I would rather be numb than collapse. I am trying not to let the demons in my mind sneak up on me and tell me that somehow the man I loved for almost half a decade lost his way because I wasn’t doing my part in the relationship.
It’s not just the weight. It’s how you dress…or don’t. You never put on makeup. We live off of garbage takeout food. We’re sloppy. There’s nothing sexy or appealing about the way we are around each other…
I can’t stop replaying that night in my head. Over and over. Mason is an ass…he’s a no-good shallow ass…a fucking worthless asshole…
But did I play a part?
Did I push him to be the worst version of himself?
Stop. Don’t go there. Stay numb.
“What were you saying about a dibs?”
She takes another swig from her beer and sets the glass bottle down on the counter too hard. The loud clink makes me flinch.
“Be careful,” I hiss. “This is not my home.” I place her bottle in the large trough sink before running my fingers over the kitchen island granite, worried Palmer chipped it.
Paying me no mind, she says, “The runner from before. Whoever that is—dibs.”
A ripple of annoyance flows through me. Palmer gets every man she wants, and once she sets her sights on something, I know better than to try and compete. I noticed him too. I’ve never seen a man that good-looking in my life. Tall, tan, strong jawline, with perfectly styled jet-black hair. But when I close my eyes, all I see is the smile he flashed me. It looked so sweet and innocent. It didn’t match his body, which screamed dirty lust. Perhaps because his pecs and six-pack were glistening with sweat while he stood in the near-blinding sunlight.
Beautiful people. I swear they glow even when they aren’t trying to.
“Palmer, you can’t dibs him. He’s not the front seat of a car or the first pick from a litter of golden doodles.”
She cocks one eyebrow. “How do I put this delicately?” Rolling her wrist, she says, “I want that man to wear me like a condom that’s one size too small and let me choke the life out of his dick.”
“Wow.”
“Unless you’re”—with her palm facing up, she points her index finger at me—“interested?”
I shake my head aggressively and laugh. “No. Definitely not.”
“Um, do you have eyes?” she asks.
I blow out a breath. “I didn’t say he wasn’t attractive. I said I’m not interested. I’m a realist. He’s a little too hot for me, don’t you think?”
She finds the curve of her hip with her hand. “Excuse me?”
Uh-oh. Palmer’s a lot of things. A hot mess. A mooch. The person who reminds me that I should probably get a pedicure more than once a year and that my favorite bra gives me major uniboob. But she’s the only person who can say it because she loves me. She protects me. She does not tolerate when I’m self-deprecating.
She’s stoic as she glares at me, so I continue, “Oh, come on. Be realistic. That man we saw jogging is ten times sexier than Mason, and I can’t even keep the one I have interested.” I suck in a breath as the pang in my chest gets dangerously close to the wall I’ve built around my heart. Stop it. I am numb. “Had. I mean had.”
Palmer lowers her voice. “Avery Leigh Scott.” She narrows her eyes. “You are beautiful. Yes, you need new clothes, new shoes, and for the love of God, let me teach you how to contour your face properly, but you are a fucking ten inside and out and could pull any man you want.” She closes the space between us and yanks me into what can only be called an aggressive hug. “I love you.”
“I know,” I mumble into a mouthful of her hair.
She sniffles as she pulls away and looks directly into my eyes. I fight the urge to look away from her intense stare. “I know you agreed to stay here to run away from me.”
“Palmer…” I let out an exasperated sigh. She’s half right. Why lie? “I need a summer to find myself.”
“I’m your best friend,” she says with a disingenuous smile. “You can’t find yourself around me?”
“I need space to figure out…” What do I need to figure out? It’s really hard to solve a problem when you refuse to let yourself face it.
“Please, please, tell me you’re not considering trying to get him back. This isn’t even about your feminine power, okay? You guys aren’t—” She buries her face in both hands and shakes her head in frustration. Taking a deep breath, she drops her arms to her side and pleads with me. “You deserve better. You deserve a man who doesn’t think being with you is settling.”
Her words sting. This is why I needed to spend my summer here, away from it all. I need a break from the truth Mason shoved down my throat. The worst part is he almost went through with it. Apparently, I’m good enough to marry, but not intriguing enough to fuck. I wish it didn’t bother me, but it does…
So much.
What woman doesn’t want to be treated as beautiful, desirable, and tempting? Part of intimacy is sex. How is it possible I’m so good at one but lacking miserably at the other?