Walk Through Fire (Chaos #4)(35)

In that speech, I’d lied.

It mattered.

Logan using me, taking advantage for his revenge f*ck, then speaking to me the way he did, killing what we had, turning love to hate.

That mattered.

But it was done.

He hated me and there was nothing I could say that would change that. And the way he’d treated me—like what we had never happened, like what we shared wasn’t everything, like all of that didn’t buy me some kindness or at least some patience or at the very least some silence so I could share what I needed to share—it was inexcusable.

So it was over.

I was done walking through fire for that man.

And I wasn’t wasting another moment of my life on him.

I was going to change.

Finally.

I’d made that decision after the debacle at Wild Bill’s and that decision was cemented after what happened Saturday morning before the King’s Shelter event.

I was all in.

My larder was stocked.

I’d gone to the mall and bought clothes for inside and outside workouts.

I’d also bought a little black dress.

And the aforementioned speaker dock.

And the night before, I’d given myself a luxurious pedicure, unearthing my foot tub out of its box to do it.

My five-session pass for the Pilates center was purchased.

My first session was under my belt.

I was making fabulous-smelling, and I hoped would be fabulous-tasting, beef Stroganoff.

And I was thinking of getting a cat (or two) for company.

Yes, I was all in.

New life.

New me.

New beginning.

All to write a new future.

Out of the rut.

And on to something good.

(I hoped.)

“I don’t know what to say,” Dottie said in my ear.

“Nothing to say anymore.” I dropped my voice and kept stirring my sauce. “You’ve said it all, babe. I just never listened. Or if I did, it just didn’t sink in. It’s sunk in.”

“It’s seeing Logan,” she guessed.

“Yes.”

I did not lie about that, just my answer encompassed a whole truth she didn’t know.

Her voice was stronger when she said, “Then it’s good that happened. It didn’t seem good at the time but every woman has her limits. Every woman finds her time. You seeing him, hearing him, knowing he moved on, has kids, is doing okay, that was it for you. So that’s good.”

She was right. That part was good.

For Logan.

But I didn’t care or, more aptly, was determined to move toward not caring.

However, that thought was a good one to have.

I’d think of him that way, rather than the total * he’d been.

I’d think of him doing okay. Enjoying his kids. Being with his brothers.

And I’d find my things to enjoy.

Like beef Stroganoff.

“You’re right, Dottie,” I replied. “Now, I gotta add the mushrooms and steak to the sauce before it gets too thick.”

“You’re cooking?” She sounded shocked.

“New leaf, haven’t you heard?” I teased. “I mean, I did just mention it two seconds ago.”

“Kiss my butt,” she retorted, as she’d done since I was six and she was eight.

“Show it, I’ll kiss it,” I replied, as I’d done since she was eight and I was six.

“Whatever. If that stuff you’re making is good, then you’re making it for Alan, the kids, and me.”

“You’re on.”

“Awesome. Later, Mill.”

“Later, Dot. Love you.”

“Love you too, babe.”

She rang off.

I set my phone aside and picked up the platter with the seared beef and sautéed mushrooms.

I added it to the sauce.

I stirred.

I tipped it over the drained noodles and ate it with a delicious glass of red wine poured into one of my fabulous red wineglasses that I hadn’t pulled out in probably three years.

And it was divine.

*  *  *

“Holy crap, this is Dynasty except British with a better wardrobe and set in the early 1900s,” I whispered to the TV.

My kitchen was clean. My candles still burning. Only one lamp was lit, along with my gas fireplace, giving the room a warm, cozy glow.

And I was sitting, curled up on my couch, wineglass in hand, into my third episode of Downton Abbey.

Violet was a stitch.

And I was so organizing a party where people had to wear clothes from the early 1900s.

The costumes were amazing!

Violet had just drolly let out another humdinger and I was giggling at it when my doorbell rang.

I turned and looked over my shoulder toward the hall that led to the rest of my house, including my foyer.

It was late but I was not surprised my bell had sounded.

This happened. It happened when Dottie got fed up with Alan thinking that being a stay-at-home mom was a cushy job so he could come home, watch TV, scratch his crotch, and leave her on duty. She’d teach him by coming to my place, bitching, leaving him home on duty with the kids.

He’d learn.

Then he’d forget.

As was, according to Dottie, her lot since he was a man. They forgot stuff like that.