Gen realized she wasn’t going to get away with not letting Meg get her hands in all the new plans.
“Sisters forever,” she agreed.
“But first, you promised to go to my convention with me,” Meg reminded her.
Gen hesitated.
“Don’t tell me you forgot. New York City? Spa days, shopping—you need a new wardrobe, sis—and nights on the town. You promised.”
Gen paused again, and Meghan cajoled, “Pleassssse. We need this. You need this. It can be your divorce party.”
“Okay,” Gen found herself saying. “Fine. I’ll still come.”
Her sister squealed and Gen hung up before Meg could get too excited. She was moving away from everything she’d known for over a decade. Even though the world seemed unsettled and uncertain, for the first time in at least five years, she felt at peace.
2
The airport was busy today, which was fine. Gen was used to busy. Chicago teemed with life, with people, with traffic. Soon, though, she’d have to acclimate to rural living again. The slowdown, take-a-minute-and-chat kind of life. So, yeah, it would be an adjustment.
But first... New York City.
She hefted her battered leather laptop bag over her shoulder. She’d packed everything else into a moving truck, and she had one suitcase checked in for the plane, but she would never trust anyone else to transport her laptop. It was the instrument she worked with. It was how she lived. It was more precious to her than gold. She’d be leaving directly from NYC to her new home. She already had a farmhouse out in the country bought and paid for, sitting at the end of a little one-lane road in Cedarburg.
She wove in and out among the people crowded in O’Hare’s corridors now, and made her way to a bar. Flight delays sucked, but at least she could have a drink while she waited.
She pulled up a stool at the far end of the bar, and ordered a Long Island iced tea, her drink of choice. The bartender didn’t even blink.
“Sure thing, little lady.” Being five-seven, she wasn’t little, although she was slender. But she smiled anyway.
She set her laptop at her feet and watched the people.
Being a writer, her favorite game was to make up a story for everyone.
“See that lady over there?” she asked the bartender as he set her drink on a napkin in front of her. She motioned toward a heavily made-up woman standing in the middle of the flow of people, talking on her cell phone. “I think she’s breaking up with her boyfriend because she works too much.”
He lifted an eyebrow, examining the woman. “Oh, really? What makes you think that?”
Gen examined her, too. “Well, check out her pricey shoes. They indicate that she’s not married. Husbands tend to throw fits about shoes that expensive. She’s not wearing a wedding ring, and her suit is super expensive. Also, she’s been crying.”
Her eyes were red, and the bartender nodded. “You could be right.”
Gen sipped her drink. “I probably am. But either way, that’s what is happening with her in my head.”
“Okay, what about him?” the bartender gestured toward an elderly man in the back corner, nursing a beer. “He’s been there for at least an hour.”
“Him? He’s waiting on his mail-order bride, of course,” Gen said immediately. “That’s still a thing, you know. She’s coming in from the Czech Republic and her flight was delayed.”
He chuckled, and his eyes crinkled as he laughed. “You’ve got friendly eyes,” Gen observed. “You like your job.”
“I do,” he agreed.
“You must see all kinds of stories here.”
He nodded. “Yeah.”
Gen sipped again. “Wanna share? I’m a writer. I can always use new material.”
“What do you write?” he asked with interest. “Because I’ve been working on a sci-fi novel for a couple of years now.”
Gen tried not to cringe. That was inevitably something she heard from strangers. Oh, you’re a writer? Awesome, I’m writing a book, too! How do I get it published?
“I don’t know much about sci-fi,” she admitted to him. “I write romance.”
He looked down at her. “Oh, you’re one of those writers.” She could hear the disapproval in his voice and it made her want to whip out her tax returns from last year and wave them under his nose for validation.
But, of course, she didn’t. That was considered socially unacceptable.
Instead, she smirked. “Yeah. I write about sex. They say to write what you know.”
Then she winked.
Because fuck him.
He didn’t have to know that she hadn’t had sex in months.
He seemed intrigued now, at the very least. Mention sex, and you get a man’s attention. It wasn’t always the attention you wanted, though.
He stared at her. “So, what’s your story?”
Gen paused, taking another sip of her drink. It was perfectly mixed with the right amount of sour and liquor. “Me? I’m not that interesting.”
“Are you running from something?”
Her head snapped back. “Why would you say that?”
He shrugged. “You’ve just got the look.”
“I most certainly do not,” she said, as indignantly as she could. “My sister is a surgeon, and I’m going to spend the weekend with her while she’s at a convention.”
He nodded. “Uh-huh.”
“It’s true,” Gen insisted. “And then I’m moving to a new life. I’m not running from anything.”
He stared, unconvinced.
“Damn, bartenders are intuitive,” she said finally, drumming her fingers on the bar top. He grinned at that. She glared. “But I’m not running. I just lost two-hundred pounds of cheating husband. I’m divorcing his ass.”
He eyed her up and down. “What kind of idiot would cheat on you?” he asked, and she couldn’t decide if she was flattered or unnerved at the way he was looking through her. She shrugged.
“My ex, I guess.”
“What did the chick look like?” he asked, still incredulous.
She shrugged again. “Does it matter? I don’t even know how many there were. My ex is a lawyer, so he knew all the tricks to avoid a paper trail.”
The bartender cocked an eyebrow. “So how did you find out?”