My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon

I sigh. “Yeah, let’s do this. Might as well get it over with so you can tell me ‘I told you so’ and we can move on.”

My whole body feels tingly, full of jangly nerves and jittery confusion, so I get up, needing to pace for this. “I get there, and literally at check-in, I see Emily Jones.”

Violet makes a spitting noise, aiming toward the floor. I’m assuming it was spitless because she bought me this rug and loves it as much as I do.

“And there’s your ‘divorce waiting to happen’, Archie. She was whining about having to wait in line and wanted to cut in front of me. She realized it was me and was all fake ‘Abi!’ like we’re buds,” I say, going full Mean Girls dramatic.

I pause in my tracks as I see Archie trying to sneak a penny on his bingo card and doing a tiny, silent shout out, “Bingo!” When he sees that I’ve caught him, he doesn’t miss a beat, waving his hand expectantly. “Well, go on. Maybe I’ll get a blackout bingo by the end.”

I sigh, annoyed, but fuck, I love him. The entire world could be falling to shambles in fiery flames of destruction, and he’d be the one roasting marshmallows and hot dogs while singing anarchy limericks.

“So, Emily was being Emily and made a comment about my being alone. And out of nowhere, Lorenzo showed up.”

“We know this part. Violet told us everything. Get to the later stuff and the good stuff,” Archie directs.

“And the bad stuff,” Courtney adds levelly.

Somehow, I do. I tell them about yoga and boat cruises, dinners, and breakfasts in bed, and though it’s hard, I follow Courtney’s orders and tell them about how I’d fallen for Lorenzo bit by bit, day by day, poetic word by poetic word.

“Yep, I’m going to kill him,” Violet declares.

Archie puts a staying hand on her arm, not to stop her but because he’s a great assistant and an even better friend. “Let me know the bare bones of when and I’ll make sure you have an iron-clad alibi with witnesses. And this conversation . . . it never happened.” He looks to Courtney and me pointedly, thinking we’re the weak links in the room.

I relish in the thought for point-oh-three seconds and then shake my head. “No, no. I don’t want you to kill him. He didn’t make any promises other than the crazy scheme I got him mixed up in, and he held up that bargain and then some. And let’s be real, that was a big ask. I can understand why he’d want to skip out on dealing with someone . . . like me.”

I’m a lot. I know this. I’ve been told that by more than one boyfriend in the past, and I always soothe that sting by reminding myself that I don’t have to be for everyone. I only have to be right for one person.

No, not a guy.

Myself!

And if I’m good, then Mr. Right will come around, see how amazing I am, and want to join the ‘Abigail Andrews is Awesome’ party. Even with the mess of glitter, fireworks, and midnight runs for Chinese food that pretty make up my existence.

I just got a little carried away and thought Lorenzo was RSVPing to more than this week. But that’s on me, not him. He never said otherwise. I just hoped, and wanted, and wished.

“Someone like you? You mean the best thing that could ever happen to him?” Violet summarizes, ever my cheerleader. She’s got a lifetime membership to my crazy, weird parties, and I love her for it.

“What happened today?” Courtney asks, still gathering data.

I look at my hands, twisting them as I walk another lap around my living room. “He booked us couple’s massages this morning, we had sex, took showers, and packed. And then I left for the airport. His flight was a few hours after mine, so he was going to say goodbye to Esmar, the restaurant chef who offered him a job.”

“What?” Violet screeches. “I didn’t know that part! I thought this was just getting you two idiots transitioned back to the real world. Is he really going to cook in Aruba?”

I shrug. “That’s what Meredith said.”

Archie’s perfectly micro-bladed brows lift and he presses a hand to his chest as he clarifies, “The bitchy wedding planner?”

“Yeah,” I say glumly.

“Well, what did Lorenzo say about it when you asked him?” Courtney asks.

“I didn’t ask. It’s not my place. I know who he is, what he is, and that living here is temporary for him. He even told me how much he hates working at Avanti, so why wouldn’t he go somewhere he loved the crew, the cuisine, and the weather?”

“The weather,” Archie says dryly. “Girl, are you so bad in the sack that you think this man is going to trade an all-access pass to the Abi-Promised-land for ninety-degree sunshine? If so, we have bigger problems than I thought. Let’s start with blowjob techniques. You’re not a spitter, are you? Spitters are quitters.”