Page 2 of It's Always Us

I tap her name.

The phone number you are trying to reach is no longer in service.

I grip my phone, wanting it and the hope it holds to crumble into a million pieces. I check the time. 12:42 a.m.

My finger taps the second number. It rings and rings and rings. Over and over again.

I end the call, giving up. I want to banish her from my mind and what I thought we had. What I knew we had. The only thing I thought was mine and always would be. The only love I’ve ever known. But it wasn’t real.

I reach for the mini-fridge and pull a can from the door. The tab cracks and hisses, and I take a long, slow drink. The cold liquid soothes my thick throat, but I need it to numb my heart and mind.

I guzzle the last of it and pull another, seeking quick relief. I tap her name again. The same automated message plays again and again. I pop another tab and lie back, staring at the ceiling as everything starts to dull into a tolerable haze. I float. Anger and frustration lift as hope settles in to take its place.

I wasn’t wrong. It wasn’t a lie. It couldn’t have been.

I see her face. Her blue eyes. Her gentle smile. Her faith in me.

I squeeze my eyes shut tight as my world spins. Her words surround me.

“I’ll see you soon.”

Chapter 1

LEX

The thick liquid swirls around the rim of my wide-mouth glass. I watch the translucent streaks recede into the blood-red pool. The pungent smell stirs the waves of nausea rising in my stomach as I try to keep my miserable heel-clad feet from running out the doors.

This is what I want. This is what I want. This . . .I push out a long, slow breath.This . . . is what I want.

You know that feeling you get in the very depths of your gut when something isn’t quite right? The one that sets off warning bells or sirens that are supposed to kick you into high gear and generate action.

Some people call it instincts, others the gift of fear. I’m not exactly sure what it is or where it comes from, but over the past few months, I’ve gotten really good at ignoring it. Tonight, every form of internal alarm system is going off, and it’s so loud I can’t hear anything else.

I tip my glass to the side, wondering what would happen if my unsteady hand slipped and this detestable, fermented sludge ran down the front of my stiff ivory dress.

“Alexandra.”

The startle of a familiar mousey voice prevents the first drop, and I turn to see Gail Chambers making a beeline for me with a group in tow.

“Alex, these ladies are my best friends. They’ve known Seth since he was a toddler and have been dying to meet you.”

The tiny, prim, and proper woman loops her arm through mine as if we’re best buds. It’s not that Gail isn’t friendly. She’s just never been that fond of me, or really, I’m not the princess she imagined for her son.

The women gather around, and I squeeze back, unsure I want to be included in their little plastic circle. I realize there’s a frightening similarity between my dress, which I hate, and the style and appearance of my future mother-in-law and her posse. My stomach rolls again, and I clench my teeth, forcing a polite smile as she introduces me to each of her friends.

I offer my hand, receiving each meticulously pampered and manicured one in return. The last desperate housewife offers one of those prissy handshakes that involves only a few awkward fingers, clearly appalled by my rough, grease-stained hands despite my light pink polish.

A nervous laugh escapes Gail as her friend studies her hand, ensuring I didn’t leave any residue behind. “Oh, yes, I told you all how Alex volunteers at her grandfather’s garage from time to time.”Volunteers?“Young women these days and their need to master the skills meant for the opposite sex.” Her condescending laughter makes my stomach punch itself.

This is what I want. This is what I want. This is . . .

I inhale, scanning the overly decorated room for Seth, needing rescue. When I don’t spot him, my alarm system activates the panic mode. The only cheese and cracker I choked down rises in my throat, a cold sweat creeps up the back of my neck, and my feet tingle with the urge to sprint to the nearest exit.

While the former county fair beauty queen and her band of BFFs babble on about necessary skill sets and changing times, I stare into the glass in my shaky hand, contemplating a spill as my escape plan.

“So, you work on automobiles, then?” one of the women, whose name I can’t remember now, asks with a little too much ‘Eww’ in her tone for me to care to answer. But because I’m mostly polite, I respond.

“Cars, trucks, SUVs, things with engines.” I force my lips upward as they all half laugh—the nose tipped-slightly-in-the-air, snooty kind.

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