Page 129 of Fumbled Into Love

“I think that’s a great idea!” Sawyer nods her agreement. “Did you have a date in mind?”

“Tomorrow night?”

Oh.

That’s sooner than I expected.

“I planned on moving out of Deon’s house this weekend.”

There’s no way to hide the sadness in the confession. Sawyer rubs my bicep affectionately and I glance back at Deon, a small smile pulling at his lips.

“How about we have a sleepover tomorrow and we both help you move on Sunday so you don’t have to do it alone?” Sawyer offers.

I mull over the idea. I’ll probably keep it together and not cry—as much, at least—if they help.

“That sounds good.” Maren and Sawyer beam and as the bartender slides us our drinks, they exchange a glance. “What was that look about?”

Sawyer’s eyes widen, but Maren smoothly says, “We’re worried about you.”

“I’m fine,” I declare, but my voice cracks, giving away my lie. “I’m happy about the time we did get to have together. Even if it meant nothing to him, it meant something to me and that’s what matters.”

I offer the answer I practiced a dozen times in the mirror.

If I tell myself it’s fine, then eventually, it might befine.

With a glass of white wine in my hand, I slowly peruse the auction items on the tables against the back wall.

Some are small baskets full of food or skincare or dedicated to a sports team. There are tickets for NBA games and vouchers for massages. As I pass table by table, the price tag of the items grows larger. Five-night vacation in Mexico. Ten-day stay at a five-star boutique hotel in Paris. Safari in Kenya.

There are concert tickets and gift cards and I begin writing my name below everything that strikes my interest, only upping the offer by a dollar. I know I’m not going to win any of these things, nor could I afford any of them, but there’s a thrill in knowing that my name is on those pages.

Maybe I’ll even raise my card for the live auction and let the adrenaline course through my veins.

I’m scribbling my name beneath the ten-day stay in Paris when Maren starts to hover.

“Can I help you?” I ask, continuing to write my name on different sheets. I’m halfway through my last name on a trip to Bora Bora when the pen is snatched from my grip.

“I want that trip. You can’t bet on it and raise the price.” Her eyes are pleading and I sigh, snatching the pen back and scribbling out my name.

“Fine, but no betting on the Paris hotel.”

It’s a long shot, but I’ve always wanted to visit Paris. If no one else bets, I may be able to afford to go.

“Deal.”

Maren shifts and my mouth dries as I glance across the room.

Oh, no. No. No. No.

She’s here. She shouldn’t be here.Sheisn’t allowed to be here or around Deon. My blood begins to boil and from the corner of my eye, I can see Maren’s head tilt, then follow my gaze.

“Who is that?” Maren asks as I stare at the woman across the ballroom, a foreign sense of anger rising inside of me as I watch her fling her jet-black hair over her shoulder. I assess the tight black dress and the five-inch heels.

“Savannah.”

I’ve spent enough time stalking her social media to spot her.

“Who is Savannah?” Sawyer comes up beside me, sipping on her vodka cranberry.

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