Good Time(58)

“Every night at ten. We discuss the day and how it made us feel before planning our outfits for the next day.”

“He’s kinda moody on the phone,” I continue, ignoring Canon. “I think the husband thing might be too much for him. I’m hoping to convince him to boyfriend me, I just need a second chance.”

“How much do you know about Vince?”

“God, don’t nag me, Canon. I’ve known him for less than two weeks. I’ll admit we’re on the lower end of the getting-to-know you scale, but sometimes you just know. I mean other people, not you. You’re still single so obviously you haven’t you haven’t experienced what just knowing feels like.”

“Sometimes I meet a woman I just know I’m meant to have sex with once, then never see again. Does that count?”

“Sorta?” I scrunch my nose up while I think about it. “I’m not the just knowing police, but it sounds like you at least understand the concept. Don’t worry though, I didn’t believe in forever until I met Vince so there’s still hope for you. I used to believe that love only lasted for spans of one to ten years, but Vince changed that for me. He made me believe that shooting for forever is worth the risk.”

Canon stares at me from across the desk, his expression thoughtful.

“Let me tell you a few things about Vince Rossi.”





Chapter Twenty-Nine





In the end I decide that a hundred boxes of Cheez-Its is extreme. That’s a lie. I would have gotten a hundred boxes but there were only sixty-seven boxes of Cheez-Its on the store shelf and I decided sixty-seven wasn’t enough to fill the tub and it would be rude to wipe out the entire stock of Cheez-Its when some other girl may be having a crisis and need one of those boxes. So in order not to contribute to a cheese-flavored cracker shortage, I limited my purchase to three.

They’re lined up now on the edge of my tub. One box each of original cheese, extra-toasty cheese and white cheddar cheese. As for me, I’m in the tub, fully dressed. The tub is devoid of water but it’s still quite comforting, like a hug. The pillow helps, as does the blanket. The couch would admittedly have been more comfortable but it doesn’t have the same self-soothing appeal as the tub. The tub is like a nest where I can hole up while I reflect on my life choices.

I know it’s weird, but filling the entire tub with crackers would have been weirder, so I’m calling this a win because I really need a win. Fuck Carol and her essential oils.

It turns out that Vince is a bit of a do-gooder. It turns out that strippers aren’t his hobby, helping people is his hobby. I thought he was a bit of a bad boy—a strip-club-owning lawyer. A sexy rogue.

But he’s not. He’s perfect is what he is. My do-gooder husband. I know, I know. How much do-gooding could a strip club owner-slash-lawyer do?

A lot.

He’s on the board of directors at three local charities.

His law firm has done more pro bono work than any other law firm in Nevada for four years running.

He funnels every dollar of profit from the club into scholarships for the employees. All of them: the dancers, the bartenders, the servers. Anyone who wants an education gets one. In fact, every employee is hired with the understanding that they will take advantage of it and move on. That it’s a stepping stone, not a career.

So yeah, I guess attempting to learn how to pole-dance wasn’t that impressive, and was possibly offensive.

And we already know that the sum total of my volunteering is returning the grocery cart to the cart corral.

My husband is so far out of my league.

The real problem? He didn’t tell me any of this himself, I heard it all from Canon.

Why wouldn’t he tell me all those good things about himself? Why wouldn’t he share that? That’s what stings. We talked all week. Talked and ate and talked and played games and talked and fucked.

But how much did he really share? How much did he open up? I thought it was a lot. We talked about his mom and growing up in Vegas and so many things. We talked about where he went to school and his hobbies. We specifically talked about the strip club and he never corrected me when I called it a hobby.

He sent me annulment paperwork without talking to me about it.

He didn’t say he loved me back.

But then I remind myself of the way he acted, the way he made me feel. His actions tell me that he cares about me. That he’s interested in me, that he likes me. He spent every single day with me until his business trip—and that wasn’t just sex. It was so far from just sex. Maybe he’s not ready to admit that he loves me yet, but he’s well on his way. I’m sure of it. Mostly sure. Sure enough?

I never once saw where he lived. I asked him when I was going to see his place and he said it was a shithole. I asked him what he did with his seven-hundred-dollar-an-hour income if he lived in a shithole and he laughed. Said he had a condo downtown near his office. An expensive condo that was lifeless and cold compared to my apartment, but that I was welcome to see it anytime.

But then he sent me annulment paperwork, so maybe he didn’t mean anytime. Maybe he meant he didn’t want me to know where he lived.

They say that love conquers all, but that’s a lie. Love fucks up all the time. I’ve seen firsthand how much love cannot conquer.

Love is an asshole.