Page 1 of Husband Material
Prologue
Gage,
This isme breaking up with you. Enclosed is the ring that you made me pick out—alone. The same ring-choosing at Tiffany's you were an hour and ten-minutes late for.
Yes, that's right, Gage, my dear uncaring asshat fiancé. I've left you, and this godforsaken beach shithole.
We've reached the natural progression of all our fights, all your pointed silences, all your lame excuses. By now, it has to be fifty going on a hundred times you've sworn to change, sworn you're trying to open up to me. But I think we both know the indifferent mask you wear has become so ingrained it's a part of you now.
Not to mention yourzeroconsideration for me. You should know what I'm going to say here—because in the last two years, how many millions of occasions have I asked you to put your dirty socks in the hamper? But you haven't even been able to do that simple little thing. Asshole.
And yes, what I found this morning–determined the end of this shitshow of a relationship. The sock that broke the loveless relationship's back. Fitting, in a sad way. Dirty weed-green socks flung in actual sneezing distance of the wicker hamper–the very one I bought with an easy-open lid just for you. I stared at those disgusting dirty socks and decided that I didn't want to do this anymore. Not with you.
Because let's face it, this isn't just about socks. This is about respect. The respect you do not have for me, or my feelings in any way, shape, or form. But that's understandable considering your cold heart barely beats even on a good day. So, I've decided it's much better to do this now instead of later.
Gage Danielson, I will not go through with a farce of a marriage like the one you proposed only from a dull sense of duty. Paul and Isa's wedding breaking down at the altar last month was like a last-minute-rescue-mission-wake-up call for me. I've realized I don't have to do thiswithyouanymore. I don't have to marry a man who won't ever love me the way I deserve to be loved. You aren't husband material any more than your neurotic friend Paul is.
Unlike you, work isn't my life. My life is my life, and I intend to keep it that way. And I intend to spend it with a man who loves me.
Get ready for this next part.
You know your friend Parker? Well, you successfully managed to ignore me so much that I ended up making him my friend too. The kind of friend you have naked sleepovers with.
I would say I'm sorry and wish you the best, but let's not lie to each other.
Not every man has what's necessary to be husband material. And since you're definitely not one of them, I guess you'd better get used to being alone...forever.
-Cassidy
1
“The worst part is that she's right."
I put my head in my hands.
Before Gray could respond, I continued. "Near the end, it did get pretty bad. But still, I didn't seethis train wreckcoming."
Gray ran a hand through his light brown hair, his eyes set obliquely to the left. "Must've been crazy rough, having to cancel that five-hundred-guest wedding she'd arranged down to the last pink peony and everything…"
"Don't remind me."
Gray had been one of the intended guests—my best man, in fact. He, along with Paul, and Reid, my other friends, and of course, good old Parker—trusted friend/fiancée stealer/MIA asshole of the year.
My hands clasped into tensed fists on the table.How long?Cassidy said she'd finally given up on us that morning, so exactly how long had they been having theirnaked sleepovers? I shouldn't really give a fuck, but what—? Had the idiot planned to accept Cassidy as my wifeandstill fuck her on the side? He's more of a moron than I thought possible. A look around the restaurant provided nothing in the way of interesting distraction for me. Everything was too dully recognizable, from the cheery streams of sunlight filtering in through the wide-open windows to the faces of the patrons it illuminated. Vaguely familiar faces looking just as delighted to be here as I wasn't.
Sure, it was good to see Gray, but the past weeks had been nothing short of hell on earth. Concerned calls from those I considered "close" alternating with judgmental and fucking obnoxious inquiries from far-off relations, andbarelyfriends of my ex-fiancée streaming in on the regular.
My parents and I weren't on speaking terms over it, and Cassidy had been true to her word. After her spiteful letter, I hadn't heard a single bitchy peep from her. Which I guess was good, all things considered. She'd actually disappeared from Charleston entirely. Was apparently sunning it up in Barbados with her asshole beau, which explained fuckhead Parker's absence.
I tossed some water down my throat, careful not to slam the glass on the table with the anger I felt. "A fucking letter?" I swigged the ice around in my glass listlessly. "I guess I shouldn't be surprised I got the most overdramatic letter from a failed actress."
Gray poured me some more water. "Please take comfort she did thisbeforethe ceremony, and you weren't in a tux in front of five hundred watchful wedding guests like Paul. You dodged that mess, at least.
I smiled bitterly. "It's the little things, true. Just wish it wasn't my so-calledfriendwho took my girl, you know?"
"But did you really think of Cassidy asyourgirl, Gage? Not to be an asshole, but from where I was standing, she didn't make you happy. She was never…easygoing or…friendly."
I got that Gray was trying his best to be diplomatic in saying that my ex was a fucking bitchmostof the time.Honestly, I haven't mourned her departure.Have enjoyed the silence.He should, because diplomatic skills were burned into his DNA. Grayson T. Lash III was the grandson of a former POTUS and the current Attorney General of the great state of South Carolina. To me, he was just my friend since as long as I could remember. I shook my head, my eyes going to the corner of this place. Jazz Street, it was called. There was no actual jazz here and, to my knowledge, there never had been in its long and illustrious history, dating back a good hundred years. But Jazz Street did have good food, windows that looked toward the beach, and a decent wine list.
