Page 172 of Bona Fide

? Tainted Love — Marilyn Manson ?

Wade’skey card burned through the flesh of my palm all the way back up to my room. Marty wasn’t too happy for the rest of the night, grumbling over the rim of his Coke as I kept taking shot after shot of Jose Cuervo.

I was expecting for him to lay in on me. That he didn’t want me to speak to the man who deceived me and was linked to the woman who burnt Mama’s house to the ground.

But he remained silent, appearing worlds away in his own head, and I’m afraid I’ve upset him more than I expected.

Granted, I should know better. Mama was alone in Riverview without anyone caring for her while I’m in New York suffering out my exile until the waters clear for me to rebuild in Connecticut.

After Marty cut me off after the sixth shot, he brought me back up to my room with his adjoining it, and I’ve been pacing the carpet ever since.

Immediately, I toss the card key on the desk, contemplating. Then calling myself an idiot because he has his new mistress somewhere in this hotel.

He didn’t deny it.

I shouldn’t care. He’s not mine anymore.

I should be wishing her luck along with a business card to a therapist and a bag of weed.

Speaking of...I need some—badly.

Flicking on the TV, there isn’t shit to watch. The mini-fridge has waters and small liquor bottles, but I’m not looking to have a hangover the size ofthe Pacific Ocean when Marty and I go visit it tomorrow.

I sift out a pair of my pajamas from my suitcase. A light silk pink pair with stupid black hearts all over it. Black hearts, thought it was fitting since that’s the color it turned back into over a year ago. I feel like it’s been violated and in need of treatments to beat right again after Wade pulled his shit and left me to figure out how the hell I was going to get my life back on track. To be able to open up again or live alone with a dog and a hardcore fetish of gossip magazines and people watching.

Shit, I already do that minus the cute puppy.

I make up stories about the couples walking down a sidewalk or sitting in a park. One of them having a secret backstory because I’m scorned as fuck and can’t forgive and forget, so I think everyone else has something lurking in their past.

Maybe it’s a coping mechanism to feel like I’m not the only one going through something. That I’m not the only girl who’s been lied to and had her heart cracked open like an egg.

Donning my PJs, I sit on the edge of my bed and grab my phone, tempted to text Sadie to make sure she’s doing okay. To also make sure Mila is all set for the small brunch on Friday for a bunch of housewives, but I stop myself.

I’m not supposed to be thinking of work, per Marty’s orders. Sunny California and learning how to surf was on the agenda, and I can tell he wants me to be super stoked about this.

I was—up until about two hours ago.

Until I saw Wade brooding over the bar top with his famous whiskey in hand. No matter what he wore, I was magnetized to him. Something inside drew me to where he was and, low and behold, the last person I wanted to find moved me from being excited to nervous since leaving New York.

I’m like a damn moth wanting to get electrocuted by his bright and hot ambiance—over and over again.

If vacations involve running into my history, I’ll take a hard pass from now on.

Hauling my covers back on my bed, I jump into the cool sheets and straighten my spine.

Goals, I need more of them. I deserve to build something that I can actually look forward to. That’s why I never broke up my arrangement with Enzo. He was trying, we weren’t officially dating, but I’m thinking maybe I should give him a shot.

But him being my “person” hasn’t been settling in with me. He’s great, for the most part, however, I never feel completely comfortable with him. Like I could bare my whole soul and past without judgment.

This was a process, something I needed to grasp and understand because I wasn’t going to be the same overnight.

Or over a year, apparently.

The door to my room beeps and clicks open, exposing a tall figure illuminated by the hallway lights. I don’t have to ask myself whose shoulders block most of the doorway or the height of the man there because my mind already knows, and my heart is already flinging around inside my ribcage.

“Figured I’d save you the trouble of fighting yourself over seeing me,” he protrudes, taking his first step inside and letting the door close softly behind him.

He’s still dressed in his jeans, gray shirt, and hat as he takes me in, still sitting in my bed with my legs sprawled out.

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