Heidi's Guide to Four Letter Words(60)

Everything I always wanted to hear, not just from any man, but from this man, and it doesn’t matter.

“That’s where you’re wrong,” I whisper, opening my eyes and lifting my chin to stare blindly at the door in front of me. “I didn’t do it all on my own, did I? You listened to everything. You knew what I wanted, and you made sure it happened. It’s like every woman’s fantasy come to life. A guy who can read her mind and give her what she wants. But you didn’t read my mind. You fucking listened to every word of it without telling me, and you used it to your advantage.”

“Heidi—”

I cut him off by shoving my shoulders back against his chest to push him away from me, yanking open the door when his hand drops from it. I walk right out into the early morning sunshine wearing nothing but his stupid sweatshirt and a face full of tears and humiliation as my fairytale turns into one giant lie and crumbles all around me.





Chapter 29





“What is that god-awful smell?”

I don’t even bother lifting my head from my parents’ couch. I just raise my hand in confirmation when Aunt Margie walks into the room, letting it flop right back down to the cushions. I’m pretty sure the smell she’s referring to is a leftover slice of pizza my dad put in the microwave for ten minutes because he’s useless in the kitchen, but I also haven’t showered in a week, so it could be either one. Thank God for paid vacation time at EdenMedia. I felt awful calling off when I haven’t been working there that long, but sometimes, you just needed a mental health day. Or seven.

“She’s been like that since she showed up here last week, crying and wearing nothing but a sweatshirt, and hasn’t moved from the couch except to shuffle to the bathroom,” my mom informs her, talking about me like I’m not even here.

Which I’m not. Mentally, at least.

“She wasn’t wearing any pants?” Aunt Margie asks in shock, because of course that’s what she focuses on.

Not the fact that I showed up here crying. Not the fact that I’ve been here for an entire week. Not the fact that I’m lying like a slug on the couch that has become my home for seven days, with greasy, frizzy, unwashed hair, because showering is pointless, still in the same sweatshirt, because even though I’ve been hurt by the man whom it belongs to, and who shall remain nameless, his sweatshirt still smells like him, and I can’t deny how good he smells, even if he broke my heart.

I pull the neck of it up to my nose and take a big whiff, dry heaving a little and immediately pulling it back down. Well, it did smell good. Now it smells a little bit like cheese. At least I’m wearing pants now. A pair of my dad’s sweatpants that are two sizes too big for me, but whatever.

“In this U.S. city, filled with stars and palm trees, it is illegal to lick a toad,” Alex Trebek questions on my parents’ television.

“What is Miami?” my dad shouts from his recliner in the corner of the room.

“It’s L.A., Dad,” I mumble from the couch sadly, feeling a sharp pain in my chest.

“What is Los Angeles?” contestant number two asks when he presses his button, the answer confirmed by good old Mr. Trebek, which makes my dad grumble in annoyance.

I only know that stupid, useless fact, because the man who shall remain nameless spent an evening googling random, stupid facts about the city he grew up in and reading them out loud to me, while I scrolled through the channels on his television, trying to find something for us to watch.

All of a sudden, my mom marches across the room, snatches the remote out of my dad’s hand, aims it at the TV, and turns it off.

“Hey! I was watching that!” my dad complains.

“We’re gonna miss the first Daily Double, Mom,” I add, my voice a little muffled since I pulled the blanket up over half my face, with just my eyes peeking out.

“No more Jeopardy, no more Wheel of Fortune, and no more lying around on the couch smelling like last week’s cheesy bacon hotdish, feeling sorry for yourself.”

“Why do I have to suffer just because she doesn’t feel like showering?” my dad complains, crossing his arms with a huff.

“Henry, go out in the garage and fix something,” Mom says with a roll of her eyes.

With some more grumbling, Dad pushes himself up from the recliner and stomps out of the living room. When he’s gone, my mom walks over and sits on the edge of the coffee table right in front of me. Aunt Margie lifts up my blanket-covered feet from the end of the couch, scooching under them and flopping down, placing my feet in her lap.

“Talk to us, sweetie. I know something happened between you and Brent. Just tell me what it is and I’ll fix it,” Mom says softly.

“Don’t say his name. His name is dumb and I never want to hear it again.”

“Fine. Tell me what happened with your neighbor,” she amends. “I can’t fix it if you don’t tell me what the problem is.”

I let out a huge sigh, knowing she won’t stop pestering me until I tell her everything. I should be thankful she hasn’t bugged me before now. As soon as I walked into the house last week with red and puffy eyes, she made up a bed for me on the couch, kissed me on the cheek, and never once asked what was wrong. She knew I needed time, and she gave it to me. But now my time is up.