Until she got pregnant.
I’ve never been able to prove it one way or the other, but I’m ninety-nine percent sure she got pregnant on purpose to trap me. But before that thought ever entered my head, I wanted to do right by my kid, so like the fucking idiot I was, I married Corina. I mean, she was a nice girl—back then. She was sweet and hung on my every word, talked me up and made me think she believed I created the moon and stars. Although I didn’t love her, she was a fun companion.
Until that ring slid onto her fucking finger.
And then everything came to light.
She was a certified narcissist. Literally. She checked all the boxes, and if there were a cure for narcissistic personality disorder, I would’ve been the first to sign her up for it, at least for the sake of our son, because she’s to this day a wretched person to be around.
An inflated, grandiose sense of self-importance—check.
Preoccupation with fantasies of unlimited success, power, brilliance, beauty, or ideal love—check.
Belief they’re special and unique and can only be understood by or associate with other special or high-status people or institutions—check.
A deep need for excessive attention and admiration—check.
Sense of entitlement—dear God yes, check.
Interpersonally exploitative behavior—check. Ask anyone who has ever invited me over for a barbeque and she showed up without my bringing her, even after we separated.
A lack of empathy for others—check.
Envy of others or a belief that others are envious of them—check.
Demonstration of arrogant and haughty behaviors or attitudes—check and check. And I’m not talking about a sexy little sassy mouth. I’m saying she’s the definition of a bitch.
Often have troubled relationships—fucking check.
It’s not surprising Nick always asks to stay with me even on his mom’s weeks. The only consolation is most of the time he’s supposed to be with her, he’s actually at her parents’ house. And they’re pretty great people. It’s astonishing their daughter turned out the way she did; they’re nothing like her.
Yep, she truly had me fooled.
To the point that I swore off women ever since. They brought nothing but trouble. Sure, the nights I don’t have my son get lonely. But I’m married to my work. Nothing brings me the joy that my restaurant does, aside from Nick. And because of the way Corina basically traumatized me as far as relationships go, our arrangement hasn’t been all that bad. Sure, there haven’t been any booty calls and moments of sexual relief since she got pregnant all those years ago, but I’ll take blissful solitude over sex with a narcissistic bitch any day. My right hand works just fine, thank you.
Tired of giving Corina even a second of thought, I head upstairs to take a shower and get ready for the day. I’ve got some errands to run before I go to work this evening, and with any luck, Stephanie will have some new hires for me to train within the next couple of days.
4
Cece
“How about this one?” Mia asks, pointing to an ad on Facebook for our area. “I narrowed the search down to within ten miles so you won’t have to be too far from the girls, even while you’re working, just in case there’s an emergency. Plus, this one was just posted an hour ago.”
“Wait staff needed for all shifts. Family-owned bar and grill. Minimum wage plus tips,” I read aloud.
“That’s actually really good. Normally, restaurants don’t pay that much. They pay like two dollars and something, and then it’s up to the tips to meet minimum wage. There’s some law that makes it so if the tips don’t bring you up to that wage, then the restaurant has to pay you at least that. But for this place to start you out there and then you get the tips, that’s awesome,” she explains, something I never knew. It makes me glad I’ve always been a generous tipper.
“Family-owned. Kind of makes me like them before I even know them, if they’re that generous to their employees. Put them at the top of my list, please,” I tell her, and I see her copy the address and details to the spreadsheet she created for me. So far, it includes a couple waitressing positions, a receptionist for a car dealership, and a salesperson job at the same dealership. Everything else we’ve seen either required years of experience or at least an associate’s degree.
“Do you want to start with these and then if we get no bites, we’ll keep looking? You have about three hours before the girls get home from school, which should be plenty of time to show your face and ask for an application in person. That’ll look good in this era of technology.”
I blow out a breath and sit up straight from where I was leaning over her laptop. “Ready as I’ll ever be,” I reply, and she eyeballs me.