Page 5 of New Girl in Town
Chapter Two
“Excuse me? You what?”
“You heard me.” I looked away, lifted my wine glass, and sipped, refusing to make eye contact with my best friend. She stared at me like I had just grown a third eye.
“What do you mean? Explain the words.”
I tipped the glass back, taking a bigger swig, and lifted my shoulders.
“Don’t you shrug at me, Martínez.” She reached out a hand and snatched my wineglass away, making me groan in frustration. “You tried to drop the Good Samaritan who went out of his way to make sure you didn’t end up a human popsicle, and all you have to answer me with is a shrug?”
I shrugged again. Melinda growled and released my shoulder. “You’re a menace, you know that?”
I flashed her a smile.
She rolled her eyes. “Okay, so you elbowed the perfect gentleman who white-knighted you.” I stuck my tongue out at her but Melinda kept speaking, unphased. “Which is one way to kick off your time in Colorado, so well done. It’s no biggie and I’m really happy you’re here. I missed you.” Melinda reached out and caught my hand, giving it a squeeze.
I huffed out a laugh and looked away, my eyes watering at the touch. “I missed you too, Mel. Love you.”
“Love you always.” Mel gave my hand a pat and then leaned back to look at me over her wine glass. “Even when you’re a little shit,” she muttered, “which you frequently are.”
“Right back atcha, babe.”
Melinda smiled and settled back into the couch. “I don’t know how to tell you how relieved I am that you got away from that asshole. He was…”
“A monster,” I said.
She nodded. “A monster.”
“Worst decision I ever made.” I swirled the wine glass in my hand and stared into its depths. My friends had never trusted Dylan, never approved of him—at least not for me. They’d hedged their disapproval, saying that he seemed like a nice person, a great guy, a wonderful and hardworking lawyer…
But a partner for me?
Not so much.
While I was an idiot in love, they were able to look at the situation with open eyes. They saw Dylan for the overbearing, jealous owner of masculinity so fragile it could moonlight as a Fabergé egg.
“Younger me was an idiot,” I said and lifted my glass to drink. I couldn’t change the past, but a nice glass of red always helped.
“You were in love,” Mel said, “and there’s no shame in that.”
“I know that in my head parts, but if my heart could catch up I’d appreciate it.”
“All you need is time.”
“When did you get so wise?”
She lifted one shoulder. “They say with age comes wisdom or some other crap. But you know what? I don’t feel like I’m older, just smarter.”
I nodded, understanding what Melinda meant. At 37, I was full of vim and vigor. It was challenging to be a woman at her best when the world told you it was time to wind down. Yes, I had endured an awful divorce to a nightmare of a man, but I was finally able to breathe again. I would be okay again. I had accepted an archivist position with the local art museum, and I still couldn’t believe I was able to do what I loved. And Melinda was in her prime as a publicist working for her New York-based firm for the affluent and discerning citizens of the area. Aspen was only a stone’s throw away, just close enough to offer the choice of Dior or Givenchy while giving enough breathing room to make it a true mountain town.
I’d always held on to my profession, even after a decade with Dylan and his disapproval at such a “trivial profession,” as he’d once said. It was my passion and had served as a touchstone in the worst of days. Now here I was, using the skill and experience of the past years to create a new life. I had never buckled under pressure from Dylan to quit a profession that I loved, a passion that I’d had since I was a girl—art.
“Art?” Dylan had sneered once when I’d brought up an internship in Paris, far away from California where he was. “You can’t even draw, Aurora. Why the hell are you so focused on art?”
I couldn’t draw a stick figure to save my life, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t appreciate art and the thing it woke inside me. Artistic talent had no bearing on my ability to work in arts management, which was what I’d told him before taking off on that final trip.
Paris had been magical, everything a young woman of 22 dreamed of: gorgeous winding streets, architecture and food to die for, cozy little wine spots, and the people had been so lovely.
