“Are you seriously hitting on me right now?” I asked, venom saturating my tone.
He blinked, stuttered for some half-assed excuse.
I didn’t give him the chance. “You played golf with David once a week. And you’re hitting on his widow at a parent-teacher conference. Jesus Christ.”
He looked around. Now there were people leaving classrooms, within earshot. His ears turned red and his eyes narrowed. Ah, an embarrassed and rejected misogynist was a dangerous creature, and he didn’t scare me one bit.
“I was asking you to dinner,” he hissed. “Being polite.”
I rolled my eyes. “You were trying to see if you could figure out a way to fuck a vulnerable woman, since I know you’ve wanted to screw me since the second we met,” I said. “That is not going to happen literally over David’s dead body. It will have to be over mine, and I wouldn’t be surprised if you were into that, you snivelly little shit.” I delivered the last part loud enough for my former group of friends to hear before turning on my heel and walking toward the exit.
It was a long walk with a lot of eyes and whispers, but it didn’t bother me. Not until the cool night air rushed to meet me. It may as well have punched me in the nose.
My car was on the other side of the lot. A long way to walk. Throngs of parents milled around their hundred-thousand-dollar cars, as if they were tailgating a fucking parent-teacher conference.
No, I couldn’t make it that far. Through them. Keep my head held high. So instead I turned left, laid my back against the cool brick, and closed my eyes.
My chest constricted, heart thick and heavy in my throat. My skin was hot and cold at the same time. I knew I was close to a panic attack. I’d had these episodes on and off since I got a phone call from the doctor at the hospital informing me David had had a heart attack at the convenience store.
At forty years old. The man that ran five miles a day and cut red meat out of his diet five years ago.
This feeling, this unyielding sense of panic and despair, was the exact same thing I’d felt when the doctor uttered, “I’m sorry, but he didn’t make it.”
Would it ever go away? Or was I doomed to feel like I was dying forever?
The door opened and closed beside me and I braced for Wendy or a member of my former bitch pack.
Instead, bright red heels clicked along the concrete.
“Girl, that was amazing,” Marley said, grinning from ear to ear. Her lips were painted the same red as her shoes. The rest of her outfit was in keeping with the uniform of the New York elite. All black, exquisitely tailored, incredibly expensive. Her purse was the same. She looked glamorous, effortless, and definitely like she didn’t belong here. She also looked incredibly satisfied.
“You heard that?”
She nodded. “Every damn word. And fuck if that asshole didn’t deserve that plus a knee in the balls. He’s been trying to pick me up since I got here. And even if I did date rich white guys, I wouldn’t go anywhere near that.”
I laughed. The sound was somewhat genuine but hollow as the rest of the panic attack slowly retreated.
Marley’s eyes flickered over my outfit, then my face. “You look good. No, scratch that, you look great.”
I smiled weakly. “I’m trying this new ‘fake it till you make it,’ deal, in Jimmy Choos, of course. Thank you for the booze by the way. And the skincare. It’s some of the best I’ve used. Sorry I haven’t taken you up on the offer for company. I haven’t been very good at it lately.”
“Of course it is. I won’t put my name on anything but the best,” she replied. “And I figured you’d be getting a barrage of lasagnas, as if they do anything to quell the grief. Carbs do a lot, but they don’t even touch the sides of what you’ve gone through. Booze doesn’t help you heal, but it numbs the pain. And you don’t have to apologize for not having someone you barely know over to your house while you’re grieving the loss of your husband.” She said all of this in that quick, brash way New Yorkers had, but there was a gentleness to it.
“I forgot how much I like you,” I said with a grin.
She grinned back and moved to link her arms with mine. “Ah, you’re one of the smart people that find me likeable instead of the throngs of dummies who think I’m a crass bitch and are also threatened by the fact I’m single with a great ass.” She started forward, me in tow. “Now, let me escort you to your car lest you be attacked by the moms en masse.”
We got some more stares, but it seemed Marley was my knight in Prada stilettos, since no one dared approach.
So I managed. Got hit on. Insulted one of David’s friends. Maybe made a new one of my own.
Nothing would be okay, but I’d survive. I had no other choice.
4
“How was the teacher conference?” Alexis asked as I walked into the kitchen.
I answered with a raise of my brows, snatching her wine glass.
She chuckled, reaching up to the cabinet to grab another glass. “That bad?”
I nodded. “That bad. Fuck, I hate some of those bitchy, judgy, rich-bitch moms.” I took a sip. “I also hate that I’d still be one of them if David were still alive.”
“Well, look at it this way. You’re still rich, and you’re definitely still a bitch.” Alexis winked.
I smiled at her. “Thank god for that.”
Jax entered the room wearing suspenders and a Fedora complete with a feather. “Mom!” he said, running over to me.
I put the glass down in time to pick up my son, squeeze him tight, and revel in the fact he still came running to me. I could still pick him up, smell his hair. There was a ticking time bomb on this whole deal. Sure, Ryder still let me hug him and kissed my cheek when I dropped him off at school, but nothing like when we was Jax’s age.
“Hey, little man,” I said, setting him down. “Did you miss me?”
He held his finger and thumb barely apart. “Just a little.”
Cue the emotional punch in the stomach. “Oh, is my little boy growing up and getting too cool for his mother?”
“First, I’m a young man, not a boy,” he said. “Second, I’m definitely cool, but I’ll never be too cool for my mom. I’ll even let you live with me when I get my place in L.A. after I sell my first screenplay, of course.”
Alexis hid her smile behind her glass and I bit my lip to stop mine.
Ryder walked into the room, glancing up from his phone.
“Did you hear that, Ryder, or were you too busy sending ab photos to Jake?” I asked sweetly.
My oldest rolled his eyes at this statement, far too used to me saying such things and no longer even trying to fight me on them. No fun. “Hear what? That we’re finally getting you into the mental institution I emailed?”
I smiled at him. “No, your little brother is planning on moving me to L.A. to live with him when he’s a rich and famous screenwriter. You’re going to have to get creative if you want that coveted favorite son title.”
He snatched a carrot from the board Alexis was chopping them on. “Totally okay with being number two. Less responsibility,” he replied dryly.
I shrugged. “Okay, well I’d remember such things with a birthday coming up.”