Page 29 of A Wild Card Kiss
My heart clutches, and even through the tears, I do know the truth. “You’re totally right,” I say between sobs.
“Good. Glad you know that. Now, where can we take you? What do you need? Do you just need to cry it out some more?”
Those are all great questions.
I have no idea what to do next.
My heart thuds heavily. My hands are clammy. Hurt rages, clouding my thoughts. “I don’t know,” I whisper with a shrug.
“We can just drive,” Olive says from the seat across from me.
I look up, meeting their gazes. These people who are here for me. My sister, my best friend, my dad.
I should try—really, I should—to answer their questions. But I just want to get as far away from my old reality as possible.
“We could go out on your boat,” I say to my dad, casting about for options. Maybe that’s what’s next?
“My fishing boat? You hate fishing,” he says with a sympathetic smile.
He’s not wrong.
“We could go eat veggie burgers,” I say to Emerson, since that’s her thing.
Her brow knits. “You’re not a stress eater.”
“Maybe now is the time to start,” I say, my voice hollow as I try to figure out what the hell to do after being ditched. “Maybe that’s what I need to do. Scarf down french fries and wine. I bet that’s what you’re supposed to do when you’ve been jilted.”
My dad squeezes my hand. “If you want fries and wine, that’s fine.”
“Gah, I love you,” I say, all choked up. One of my parents understands the value of salt and liquor—the other stole my fiancé.
My phone bleats. I jerk my gaze to the device in my hand. My mother’s name flashes on the screen, and hate roils through me. I death-grip the device and lift my arm, poised to chuck it at the window.
My dad stops me with a hand around my wrist. “She’s not worth the cost of a new phone,” he says, gentle but firm.
I huff. I growl.
But he’s right. She’s not worth so much as a dime.
“And believe me, too, when I say this—you never need to talk to her again,” he adds.
Letting the phone fall to the seat, I drop my head into my hands. “My life is a telenovela,” I say. But after a moment, I look up, determination kicking in, replacing the self-loathing. Apparently, emotions for jilted brides ride seesaws.
Who knew?
“I know what to do.”
Emerson leans forward in her seat, eager. “Tell us.”
I’ve got a plan. Something my ex-groom would hate. Something his floozy would despise too. And, most importantly, something I love.
***
Twenty minutes later, the limo pulls over to a too-trendy axe-throwing brewery. I march inside, dress still on.
Ready to take on the goddamn world with my axe.
With a clenched jaw, I head straight for the lumberjack in greenflannel at the check-in desk. “My fiancé left me for my mother twenty minutes before my wedding,” I bite out. “I need a big-ass bucket of axes.”
