Page 212 of Unhinged

“I’ll miss you so much. It’ll be the longest and worst four months of my life.” He squeezes my arm. I agree with him.

We sit in silence with our breaths nearly syncing together as I stare into his watery red eyes. Without thinking, I lean over and kiss his lips. It’s slow, bittersweet, and broken, with us stopping to cry and then kissing again until I stupidly kiss him faster. Greg pulls away, catching his breath as he pleads, “It’s torture. I can’t.”

I cover my face as I fight more tears. When I regain my bearings, he continues staring at the steering wheel. I turn to leave, but Greg pulls on my arm again to kiss my cheek. He goes to my ear and whispers, “I love you, Simone Rodwell. You’re my one and only forever.”

I wipe my nose on the back of my hand before going to his ear. “I love you too, swizzle stick. Always. Never forget that.”

Greg whispers, “Then don’t leave me.”

I scoot closer to the door and blurt, “This was supposed to be temporary! I didn’t come to Durham to fucking mess up our lives! We should never have done this!”

“I wanted to!”

“Without the last name issue, would you have asked me out?”

His gaze dives, and he mumbles, “Eventually.”

“You wouldn’t have because you hated me. So go back to that.”

I then get out of the truck and go to Val, who envelops me in a hug as I crumble in her arms.

“Shh. It’s okay, honey,” she says, but her voice breaks, making me cry harder. I hear my husband’s truck leaving, and I want to stop him, but I don’t. And I bury my face more into Val’s shoulder until I don’t hear his truck anymore.

Goodbye, Greg. I’ll forever love you. I only wish you loved me as much.

Chapter 30

“Look who decided to finally show up for work. Must be nice being the owner’s nephew.”

I ignore Harold as I concentrate on my next step. My next word. My next breath. Without asking, I grab Clive’s glass to refill it. When I don’t respond to Harold, he keeps spouting. “You’ve skipped the last two days. I had to work part of your shifts. You and the missus just gonna take off whenever you feel like it now?”

I slide Clive’s glass to him along the counter, and for a relic, he catches it fast. I then grab a dishcloth and busy myself with wiping empty tables. Harold bitches about me not answering him, but it’s none of his business, and I don’t have any damn answers.

After I left Amos’s, I went to bed, and that’s where I’ve been until two hours ago when I finally took a shower. Nothing my mom said, or Jimmy Don’s crowing mattered. She brought me food, which I only ate enough to keep away the dry heaves. At least she didn’t psychoanalyze my situation again. I tried listening to music, but every fucking song reminded me of Simone and ripped me to shreds, so I wallowed in silence. I can no longer wear my Evil Woman or Hotel California shirts.

I’ve never felt this low in my life. And then the happy memories creep in, and they’re worse than the bad. They remind me of what I miss the most about her. I ruined that happiness. Four months is too much time for her to ponder our future together. I promised I’d not harass her, but I’m desperate to hear her voice and her laughter. What I would give to be the reason she laughs again.

“What are you doing?” Candi’s twangy voice cuts through my moping.

“Burning this place to the ground.”

She sighs as more people arrive and the music gets dumber. I should’ve stayed home today, but I need an apartment or a burial plot. Yeah, sure. As much as I hate myself and my life, I couldn’t do what Wilder almost did. No, they put me on this earth to suffer hard. Now I’m just living the dream.

Stepping closer to me, I smell her perfume more. It’s a scent trying way too hard and is familiar and retro-smelling like Electric Youth. My stepsister Mazie used to wear the hell out of that shit when her older cousin didn’t want it anymore. Candi smells like a Saturday night slut who hangs out at McDonald’s at two in the morning.

With that perfume and Candi’s frizzy hair bouncing in my face, I step back from her, more annoyed. “What do you want?”

“Just checkin’ on ya,” she says, thickening her accent more to provoke me. When I started working here, she asked about my lame Southern drawl while I accused her of pouring it on too thick. This is what I get for accusing people of anything. Yeah. A brilliant lawyer I will not make.

I return to wiping and grumble, “Don’t act like you know nothing. She had to have told you.”

“Told me what?”

I glance up at her, deepening my frown. “Everything.”

“It ain’t my place to say anything.”

“It’s my life, though.”

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