Page 2 of Rescue Me (Forget the Past 1)

Envy spikes hard through me. Clearly, this woman has just taken a shower. My greasy strands weep in envy.

Also, her appearance makes it clear my navigation skills have failed me. I am no closer to my own glorious shower, having no idea which one of these houses Martin bought for the two of us to live in.

“Sorry. I thought this might be my house. Do you know a blond man? About so tall?” I hold my hand a few inches above my head like the sleep drunk idiot I am.

I’m ready to continue describing my fiancé out of pure desperation when I notice the woman’s face. With a stranger knocking on her door at midnight, I would expect confusion or annoyance. But if I had to guess, her slack-jawed, wide-eyed stare is closer to horror.

Apparently, my need for a shower is even direr than I knew.

“I told you I’d get it…” The familiar rusty voice drifts from behind the stranger as my fiancé trots down a set of stairs visible just over her shoulder.

The showered girl shuffles back, so I have a clear view of Martin, clad in only a pair of gym shorts, his hair just as gloriously damp from a recent cleaning as the woman in front of me.

Our eyes meet. His top half stops, but his bottom half doesn’t get the memo. Instead, one of his bare feet slips on the wooden step, and he lands hard on his ass, shocked gaze never leaving mine.

So, thisisthe right house.

It’s just everything else in the world that is wrong.

Whatever way I might want to interpret this situation is made impossible when I flick my eyes back to the stranger, who I now realize is wearingmygreen, cotton robe. Red splotches scorch along the tops of her cheekbones, and guilty tears pool on her lashes.

Something dark and sickening rolls in my stomach, but I flash freeze it. After one last look at the boy I’ve loved since my senior year of high school, I turn to the girl he chose to hurt me for.

“You can keep the robe.” Reaching out, I clasp the doorknob. “And the man.” I wrench the door closed on the most devastating scene of my life and sprint back to my sleeping car.

Penelope revs to life, more dependable than any man could ever be.

I shift into first gear and tear down the street, not caring who I wake up. With the roar of my sweet girl’s engine, I can’t hear Martin shouting.

But I can see him. In my rearview mirror, he sprints down the street after me. I skid around a corner and lose sight of him.

And he loses me.

I drive in an emotional fog, unable to dislodge the frozen ball of grief in my chest. The devastation sticks to the inside of my skull, blocking my ability to think.

It’s only when I almost run a red light that I realize I shouldn’t be driving.

Pulling into the next parking lot, I somehow end up in the drive-through lane of a fast-food joint. Functioning on autopilot, I roll down my window when I reach the speaker.

“What do you want?” The woman asks with the complete disinterest that can only be achieved by someone employed for the night shift at a drive-through.

The question hits me hard. Acting as a chisel, it splits the ice in my chest apart.

Grief flows free.

“What do I want?” I laugh, high-pitched and manic. “Oh, I don’t know. How about a job? Or a home? Maybe my dignity?”

And now I’m crying.

“Um…we serve chicken.”

I’ve gone insane.Martin’s betrayal has turned me into a raving loon who drives around New Orleans in the middle of the night scaring fast-food workers.

This isn’t me. I’m notthistype of weird.

“Oh. Right. Of course.” Swiping away the tears blurring my vision and pulling in a few choking breaths, I attempt to read the glowing menu. “I guess a family meal then.”

“Eight, twelve, or sixteen pieces?”

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