Misadventures of a Curvy Girl (Misadventures #18)(52)

Chapter Eighteen





Ireland





Two Weeks Later

“Ireland, there’s someone here to see you.”

I look up from my desk to see Drew standing next to it, looking mildly uncomfortable. My heart seizes at the same time as my stomach clenches. “Is it Caleb?” I whisper, hoping for it to be and also dreading it at the same time. It’s been two weeks since I left the farm, two weeks of nonstop calls and texts and voicemails from my boys. Caleb’s resorted to trying to get a message to me through Drew.

And Ben…he’s mailed me letters. In his heart-wrenchingly precise print, he begs me to come home, tells me he loves me over and over again, will sleep the whole night through with me every night for the rest of our lives…

I’ve broken their hearts by leaving, but what could I have done? What could I have said? I have objective proof that I’ll ruin your lives if I let you love me? The world will never accept that you love me and my body….and I don’t know that I can accept it either?

They would have tried to talk me out of these conclusions, they would have fought for me to stay, and I wouldn’t have been able to bear it. I would have caved and stayed and then hated myself for my weakness as the months dragged on and their lives became worse and worse.

No, this was for their own good, and my own good as well. I needed a harsh dose of reality.

That doesn’t make it any easier, though. Drew has found me crying in the break room more than once, and I’ve fallen asleep at night only by drinking way too many vodka lemonades and sleeping on the couch.

It’s too hard to sleep alone in a bed now that I know what it feels like to sleep tangled and warm with two other people.

But I did the right thing. Of that, I’m certain.

So I push away my disappointment when Drew shakes his head. “No, it’s a woman. But Caleb did call again this morning. Are you sure you can’t—?”

“I’m sure,” I interrupt, the lie stinging my lips as it comes out. “As sure as sure can be.”





Typeset is a very typical kind of marketing office—it’s almost insufferably trendy, with exposed brick and an open workroom with rows of shared desks. Only the meeting rooms provide any modicum of privacy, and even then the privacy is fairly notional, given the walls and doors are made of glass.

This is where I meet my visitor, a young woman standing by the window looking out over the skyline. She’s wearing jeans and a tight T-shirt, so she’s not the typical Typeset client or the kind of young professional who haunts this part of the city. She turns to face me, and I realize two things at once.

First, she’s got the kind of body I long to have. Small breasts, model height, the majority of her weight around her hips and in her thighs. Pear-shaped, but the sexiest fucking pear in the world. Even though she probably weighs as much as me or more, she looks like she belongs in a catalog or on a runway, whereas I look like an extra bar wench on a medieval film set.

The second thing I realize is that she’s also staggeringly beautiful. No makeup. Simple clothes. She’s flawlessly skinned and glowing, gorgeous without all the things I use as a mask—the lipsticks and the bright colors. She’s effortless and easy and perfect. Damn her.

“Hello,” she says, picking a chair and sitting down, as if this is her meeting room and not mine. “You Ireland?”

“Um, yes,” I say. “I’m sorry, have we—?”

She waves a hand. “No, but why would we have? I’m Mackenna.”

“Okay…” I say hesitantly, feeling like I should be able to infer more from her name than I am.

“Caleb and Ben’s ex-girlfriend,” she supplies.

“Oh,” I say, surprised, and then, “Oh,” as I realize I have no idea why she’s here, but it can’t be good. “Look,” I say, trying to head off any ex drama at the pass, “we’re actually not together anymore—”

Another hand wave. She’s got the Deathly Hallows symbol tattooed on her wrist and an old-fashioned Mom tattoo splashing across her upper arm. She has gold-brown skin, coffee-colored eyes that gleam in the hot sunlight coming in through the window, and glossy, thick hair that looks so good I want to bite my knuckle in jealousy.

Impatient. That’s what Caleb had said about her, and as I look at her now, I can see it. In the way she shakes her silky hair out of her eyes and sucks the front of her teeth, in the tapping of her foot and the quick smooths over her clothes.

“Caleb said you’d left them when I called,” she explains. “You don’t have to walk me through the timeline.”

“Caleb said—wait, what? When you called?” Jealousy more bitter and distinct than body envy scratches at the inside of my chest. “Do you call Caleb a lot?”

Mackenna rolls her eyes. “It’s not like that, princess. I saw your article in the paper. I was already meaning to call after the storm—to check in and all that. See if my favorite tree was still there by the creek. Anyway,” she says loudly, as if bored by her own story, “after I saw the picture of you three, I really wanted to call and tell them, well, you know.” She stares at me as if the end of her explanation is obvious.

I feel silly. Abashed. Significantly less pretty and interesting than she is.