“Yes! Something is wrong with you. But I have no time nor the desire to figure it out. If you want to see a therapist, by all means … go for it. In fact, I encourage it. But I’m done. We are over. Get that through your thick head.”
Jimmy scoffs. “I don’t have insurance or a job. How exactly do you expect me to pay for therapy?”
“Holy shit! So this couple’s therapy … you want me to pay for it? You want me to pay to save a relationship I want nothing to do with? Are you out of your mind? This is what I’m talking about. Who are you? The Jimmy I met online was not stupid. He was smart and charming. He was funny. He used to crack jokes at other people’s ignorance. You are officially the butt of your own jokes.”
He bites his lips together and closes his eyes while sighing. “I looked in the trash … in the bathroom.” He shakes his head. “You’re late. You haven’t started your period. No tampons or wrappers. Are you pregnant? Are we having a baby?” Jimmy sounds pathetically hopeful, like the answer to all relationship issues is a baby.
I keep waiting for someone to jump out of the corner and yell, “Gotcha!” This is a joke. A prank. Any minute he’s going to grin and put an end to it. He’s going to laugh at me while packing his bags. He wants the last laugh. I broke up with him, so he’s making me pay by putting on this act and driving me insane.
Fine.
I’ll accept his win. Bravo, Jimmy. You did it. You drove me to complete insanity. Made me look like a fool, AGAIN. Now get the hell out.
“That’s messed up, Jimmy. Who riffles through the trash looking for tampons? That’s not even something that a married man should do. There are lines in relationships. Lines of decency and personal privacy that should never be crossed.”
“Just answer me. Are you pregnant?”
“Sorry to disappoint you, Jimmy. No. I’m not having your baby.”
He nods slowly, his expression wilting into something pathetic and sad—but mostly just pathetic. “Sophie, they repossessed my car today. Did you even notice that? Did you take two goddamn seconds to think about someone besides yourself? You’re preaching about human decency. Well, where’s yours? What kind of monster kicks someone while they’re down? Haven’t you heard the saying that you should never look down on someone unless you’re offering them a helping hand?”
I let him live with me because he needed help. I didn’t break up with him when I wanted to break up because he was in a low spot—he’d lost his job—but Jimmy is living in a chronic state of need. If I wait for him to be in a better place, he will never leave my house.
“Four days, Jimmy. Or I’m calling the police.” I snap my fingers and Cersei follows me to my bedroom, where I change into shorts, a white tank top, and sandals before taking my dog and leaving the house again.
It’s my house, yet I’m the one who’s always leaving to avoid spending any more time than necessary with the biggest mistake of my life—okay, one of three.
CHAPTER FIVE
SHEP
It’s pack day. After I leave the shop, my six best friends and I head to an old park that’s rarely occupied by more than birds and occasionally a homeless person or two. Today, however, we have company. A white poodle and a dark-haired woman in really short shorts, a tank, and chunky, clear-framed glasses. I can barely hide my grin, anticipating the level of awkwardness she’ll display when I catch her attention.
On a weathered wood bench, Sophie You-Can’t-Have-My-Phone-Number Ryan has her nose buried in her phone screen while Cersei runs free until she notices us and freezes with a little growl.
“Cersei, come,” Sophie calls her just before glancing over her shoulder at me and my pack.
Her eyes bulge behind her glasses. “Cersei, come!” Jolting to her feet, she shoves her phone in her back pocket. “You,” she says a little out of breath while attaching a leash to Cersei.
“Me.” I grin. “I know … I know. I took your number, but I never called. Such a dick move on my part.”
She presses her lips together, but it doesn’t hide her smile. “That’s a … lot of dogs.”
“They’re not all mine.” I release their leashes. Sophie tightens her grip on Cersei and curls her shoulders inward as my pack runs past her toward a mucky pond. “The two greyhounds are mine: Julia Roberts and George Clooney.”
She snorts. “Seriously?” Her delicate fingers curl her sun-bleached brown hair behind her ears. It’s a blunt cut that juts below her chin with bangs that like to tease her eyelashes behind her glasses. No long wavy locks to toss over her shoulder. It’s basic.