“I pulled a lot of favors to make you happen,” Ray says. “You can’t just brush me off with a no thank you."
"Watch me." Ty’s takes a few steps toward the gym.
“Don’t walk away from me.” Ray slams a fist on the hood of the Hummer. "Goddammit, what makes you think you're better than you were six months ago? You're not. Same guy, same thing. You've slept with hundreds of women but you can't even do this one favor for me?"
"I was young and fucking stupid. I'm older now and would like to think of myself as slightly less of an idiot. I’m done. Sorry, Ray, I'm forever out."
And that's it. Ty’s feet disappear, and a minute later I hear the back door of the gym slam. I shut my eyes, waiting until Ray's engine roars. Once he finally drives away, I stand and fish my phone out of my pocket.
Should I call him?
Should I confront him?
Should I spare myself the drama and just slink away to wallow in my pain? Because there's seriously no way I'll ever get over this in this lifetime.
I smash my phone against his Hummer and watch as the hardware flies to all directions. Much like my soul, there’s nothing left of the phone.
Now he can't contact me either.
Shit, I realize that his favorite song—the freaking ringtone I put him under on my phone—was a song called “My Soul is Empty and Full of White Girls.” The writing wasn't only on the wall, it was on a giant billboard in Times Square.
God, this hurts.
Izzy doesn’t ask me how it went. She takes one look at me and gets the full picture. My face tripled its size in a matter of minutes. I’m not just crying, I’m shooting fluids from every hole in my face. My eyes are streaming tears, my nose is leaking gooey snot, and my mouth is dripping drool. This is the ugliest of the ugly-crying faces known to mankind.
“What a prick,” Izzy declares, not even knowing what he’s done. She reaches for her bag in the backseat and hands me some tissue.
I blow my nose loudly and pat my damp eyes with the same wet tissue. "Take me back to the hotel, please.”
My sister is driving as fast as Ray, weaving through traffic with no thoughts of caution. She is not asking any questions, though, which I’m grateful for. When we pass a giant accident, with two very smashed cars and three ambulances lining on the shoulder of the road, she shoves more tissues at me and says, “And you thought you were having a bad day, huh?”
As weird as it sounds, she is right. I’ve just found out my boyfriend was a man-whore for a few years and that he has only recently stopped after screwing hundreds of girls. Brain reminds me I’m still alive. Still in one piece. It’s Heart that’s in pain.
We get back to the hotel and Izzy throws the rental car keys to the valet. I unfasten my seatbelt as she opens the door for me and offers her hand.
“Come on, sissy. Let’s get minibar-drunk and hate on Ty in detail.”
I let her swoop me out of the car, nuzzling into her hair so no one will see just how messed up my face is. I hear Izzy’s cell pinging with a text, followed by another one.
Then another. Now it rings—and we’re not even halfway to the foyer. Izzy stops to inspect the number flashing on her screen with a frown.
“Should I answer?”
“Don’t answer any unknown numbers until we leave Vegas,” I plead quietly.
“Bitch, I’m a supermodel. I don’t do unknown numbers, in or outside of Vegas.”
I force my lips into a smile and let my twin usher me to the elevators.
“Nana Marty, brace yourself. The Stern sisters are coming to your wedding.” She presses her lips into my ear, her arm hooked around my shoulders. “And we’re going to be oh so drunk.”
***
Dearly beloved, we’re gathered here today to pay our final tribute of respect to my deceased Heart. Heart started off as a casual dude not ready for commitment. It was often bullied by Hormones and pushed aside by Brain. But once Ty took over it, I knew we were both fucked.
A flashback of Ty standing in the empty XWL classroom, telling me he’s not going to hit me, but still going to hurt me, gives me goose bumps.
I drain another plastic cup of whatever-the-heck alcohol Izzy has placed in my hand. Nana Marty is getting married tomorrow evening, and I’m getting shitfaced in my hotel room, crying uncontrollably like I just found out my family died in a grotesque plane crash.
Izzy tries to lift my spirits by playing wedding dress-up. She puts me into a vintage Valentino peacock-green dress, with a sweetheart neckline top and matching, emerald heels, and arranges my hair in a French twist. I should feel like Beyonce, but instead, I feel like St. Paddy’s Day.