Page 99 of Happily Never After

“Here,” Luke said.

Claire glanced down. He held a Tiffany-blue sticky note with the Happily Ever Afters logo at the top.Bradwas scrawled in Claire’s handwriting, followed by his phone number.

“Found it in my car. Thought you could symbolically toss it into the ocean. I know you love to burn stuff, but”—he paused, gesturing around him—“there’s pretty much always a burn ban.”

“Damn gender reveals.” She started to crumple the note, then stopped. “What if a turtle eats it?”

He raised one eyebrow. “You know as well as I do that you only use biodegradable sticky notes.”

He wasn’t wrong. Brad’s name stared back at her, a stark reminder of the hell that was the last twenty-four hours. She pursed her lips and squashed the paper into a tight ball. Frigid water tickled her toes as she stepped to the edge of the shore. Her arm stretched back like she was about to release a javelin. With all her strength, she flung the note.

It immediately blew back on the breeze and bonked into her nose. With a frustrated grunt, she plucked the note from the ground. Was it her imagination, or had Luke taken a step away? She threw the note again, harder this time. It landed on the damp sand behind her.

Her hands balled into fists at her side, and she looked up at the cloud canopy. Why was she being punished? Stalked, abducted, harassed, psychologically scarred, fired, and now she couldn’t even throw a stupid piece of paper into the stupid ocean?

As if on cue, lights turned on down the beach. It must have been about half a mile away. What was it? Her stomach clenched, and she squinted. She would recognize that wheel anywhere. The second stop from Brad’s proposal—the Santa Monica Pier. It jutted out from the beach, mocking her with its colorful lights and theme park screams.

Her purse hit the sand with a muted thump. She took a step into the water. The cold curled her toes. She waded deeper, shredding the note into tiny pieces as she walked. Waves lapped at her knees. The cool tendrils of the Pacific snaked around her, soaking the hem of her shorts.

The intrusive thoughts she’d been fighting crept back in as she methodically shredded the note. She had worked so hard. It wasn’t supposed to end like this. Was it even possible to overcome a setback like this? Could this be the end of HappilyEver Afters? Was Brad posting a scathing Yelp review right now? It just. Wasn’t. Fair.

A wave crashed directly on her. Her knees buckled like they were made of cardboard, and sand bit into her palms. Water surged past. Now her shirt was soaked. A strong hand tugged on her arm, but she jerked it back.

“No. I’m doing this.” She clambered back to her feet. She turned sideways as the next wave slapped at her, sending a spray into the air. Deeper she staggered until the water was up to her chin. She opened her hand. Tiffany-blue confetti scattered into the sea, calmer here behind the breaking waves. The paper drifted away. Finally.

She stood for a moment, allowing the ocean to buffet her back and forth. She kicked off the sandy floor and stretched onto her back. The colors of the sunset drifted away, bleeding into the inky blackness of night. For just a moment, she allowed herself to simply be still.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

To Do:

- Buy more wine

- Check inbox for CA proposal requests

- Ask Alice to make Brad voodoo doll?

“Ma’am,drop the machete. Do it now.”

Claire opened her eyes. Bright beams of light hit her directly in the pupils, and she grimaced. Red and blue lights flashed off granite tombstones that stuck out of the ground like teeth.

What the hell was going on? The last thing she remembered was tumbling into bed with an empty bottle of wine.

“I repeat. Put the peacock and the machete down.” The voice was coming from a bullhorn.

She glanced down. A bird with bright blue feathers bobbed its head inquisitively from the crook of her left arm. Crumbs littered her shirt. Moonlight glinted off the machete Luke had used to clear some of the weeds in the backyard. It thumped onto the grass.

The bird, apparently startled by the noise, thrashed its neck and backed out of her arms. It hit the ground soundlessly and strutted off down a narrow bridge, tail feathers streaming behind. Water stretched around her. Fountains tinkled pleasantly. Where the hell was she? She stepped back and bumped against something hard. Luke was going to be so pissed. This is what she got for falling asleep.

She swung her head around as the lights approached. An imposing marble mausoleum with a bronze door stood behind her. Her elbow stung where it had bounced off one of the columns.

“Get down on your knees!” The voice behind the flashlight yelled. She had really done it now.

She dropped to her knees and put her hands behind her head. It was harder than it should have been to stretch her arms up. As the flashlights approached, she took stock of her outfit. Half the time, her nighttime wandering outfit didn’t include pants. She didn’t seem to be wearing them now, but it was difficult to tell because she was one hundred percent dressed as a human-sized hotdog.

The top of the wiener fabric stretched snugly over her head, and a drizzle of ketchup and mustard ran down her torso. Apparently Luke had frequented some Hollywood Halloween parties. And now she was sleepwalking with a machete in the middle of a cemetery. In Los Angeles. Dressed as a hotdog. After Luke had expressly forbidden her from leaving the house alone because a group of serial killers was stalking her. All-around great choices.

“You have the right to remain silent,” one of the cops recited. Her ears rang like he was still shouting through the bullhorn. He droned through the rest of the Miranda Rights. Was he speaking underwater?

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