Page 24 of My Always One

Her eyes half close and the glass of wine in her hand tips one way and then the other.

"Sami, let me take that," I offer as I reach for the wine.

Her grip on the long stem tightens.

"No. I'm going to drink this wine. I'm going to drink all" —her arms fly open wide as I capture the glass once more. This time I seize the glass as the liquid sloshes and just before my light brown leather sofa has a nice red stain— "the wine you have." Her plump lips purse and change to a pout when she realizes the glass is gone. "Fine, take the glass, only because I know you're going to refill it for me. Aren't you, Marshal? You wouldn't let me stay sober, not after..."

Her words trail away as more tears fall from the corners of her green eyes.

"He's not worth it." It's the same thing I've told her fifty times since she got to my apartment. "He's not worth the wine or the headache you're going to have in the morning. He's a slime. A douche. An asshole. And coming from one asshole, I know assholes. I never knew what you saw in him anyway."

Her arms cross over her tits, not in anger but in the way she does to protect herself, shield herself from everyone else.

Placing my glass and her wine on the end table, I tug on one of her hands and shine my cockiest grin. "Besides, wouldn't you rather be here with me than with him?"

I've grabbed her left hand.

I hadn't meant to.

It was just the closest.

We both look down at her empty ring finger. Just a few hours ago she’d been wearing a giant diamond engagement ring.

Sami pulls her hand back and her words slur. "We were supposed to be married."

No longer sad, she springs up from the couch.

In only a moment, she changes from jilted fiancée to the Sami I've known most of my life, the one who wouldn't let some asshole walk all over her, and the one who's been my best friend for the last twenty-three years. Finally pulling herself out of her wine-induced funk, she staggers before catching herself by holding the back of a chair. Standing tall, she says, "In three weeks." She holds up three fingers, narrows her eyes as she concentrates on them and then repeats, "Three.”

“Sami.” I lift my hand, palm up, toward her.

She shakes her head and opens her eyes wide. "Holy shit," she continues, "do you have any idea how much money my parents are spending on this wedding? Have spent? As in money they probably can't get back? Shit. My mom. Oh my God, my mom has been working so hard. She’s going to have a coronary. And my dad, holy shit, Marshal, he may never recover."

I stand ready to catch her if she wobbles again.

With her green eyes glistening, Sami stares up at me, silently demanding an answer.

"I don't know how much they've spent. But I know they won’t be as upset as you think.”

Her green eyes narrow.

“Sami, they hate his guts."

"No, they don't," she answers defensively. "They love him. Everybody" —she elongates the word— "loves Jack. Jack and Sami. Sami and Jack. The perfect couple."

"Jack isn’t perfect. He’s far from it. Don’t forget, he’s the asshole who fucked some other woman in your bed."

“It was her.”

“Her who?”

“Ellen.” Sami’s nose scrunches. “She’s that intern at their practice—the one you met at The Rooftop bar. Jack told me he was assigned to watch over her work. Apparently, watching over means screwing her from above.”

I shake my head. "Listen to me. Your dad would have voted Jackson off the island a long time ago."

A smile comes to my lips just thinking of her dad’s obsession with reality television and zombies.

If there were a reality zombie show, he'd be set for life—or the apocalypse. If the apocalypse happens, after his years of watchingSurvivorandThe Walking Dead, among hundreds of others, I'll definitely want him on my team. I already have him programmed in my phone, for phone-a-friend, just in case.

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