The Real

Smell dredges up memory, moron.

“And all I could think of when I met him and spoke to him for the first time was you and how you would get a kick out of his jokes and the fact that he loves to travel. All of the things you would adore about him. It’s weird, right? It was intuition.”

“Well, I’d say it paid off,” she said, turning to look in the mirror.

Not for me.

Intuition was one thing. Confusion still had me reeling. Everything from the moment I stood on that curb at Preston Corp, to the moment I slapped him, and the anger and hurt in Cameron’s features. It was like I’d shot him. Any explanation I could have gotten, I’d screwed myself out of with my anger. And I was still doing it.

“He’ll come back.”

Bree eyed me from the mirror, and I shook my head. “I told you it’s over. There’s no way we’re coming back from that. Any of it.”

“Why can’t you come back?” she challenged. “Why? Because he’s not perfect? He told you he wasn’t. He also told you he wasn’t divorced because of her mental state and kept it from you because he wanted to start fresh with you, not on the end of his horrible marriage. They were your rules.”

“He. Was. Married.”

“She is an addict. And you told me that she did act skittish when you started working for her and throughout. You just got used to her. I work on and with drug addicts every day. Most hide it like professionals. And in case you didn’t know it, there’s an epidemic going on. I’ve called time of death on soccer moms who have had their pain prescriptions taken away and started to shoot up heroin instead. It’s not a fucking joke.”

“I know Kat. I believe that part of it.” I adjusted my dress and whirled on her. “Nope, nuh-uh, we aren’t talking about this today. This is your wedding day,” I reminded.

“And I intend to get married. And it will be perfect, but right now I’m being cruel and distracting myself with your issues so I don’t get nervous. Now, before I go get married, let’s fix you.”

“I don’t want to be fixed.”

“Before you move to finish the final stages of grieving,” she said, turning to look at me, “I only think it’s fair I point out now that this is your man, Abbie.”

Stunned, I looked at her.

“I knew it from the beginning and I am still certain of it, just as I’m sure you’re going to let him go, and it’s going to be the biggest mistake of your life.”

“He was fucking married, Bree. And he was when he slept with me. Am I next?”

Bree walked over the plush gold carpet and stood in front of me.

“Sixty seconds of truth. I mean it, no holding back.”

“Bree, please, I don’t want to be upset.” I’d just gotten to the point where I could function. Work was my refuge, and as much as I hated to admit it, I’d gone right back into spending my nights with Mrs. Zingaro. Nothing had changed. It was as if he had never existed, except he did. His tux was still hanging in my closet. I could still smell a hint of his cologne, a haunting reminder.

“We’re doing it. Right now. Sixty seconds.”

I shook my head. “Don’t. Or I swear to God, I’m going to ruin your wedding photos. I’ll photoshop a dildo in every single one.”

“I’ll marry Anthony again next year and take new pictures.”

“I hate you,” I said as she gripped my hands.

Prompting brown eyes commanded mine. “Sixty seconds starts now.”

“No.”

“Do you love him?”

We were both short in stature, but she may as well have stood ten feet tall. We used the same technique in college to get to the bottom of things. But it usually had to do with whether or not I ate her nana’s baked goods. What can I say? The woman was a goddess in the kitchen.

“Stay with me,” she said, jerking me into the moment. “Do you love him?”

“Yes, so much. You know I do.”