Series: Webs We Weave Series by Krista Ritchie
Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 126927 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 635(@200wpm)___ 508(@250wpm)___ 423(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126927 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 635(@200wpm)___ 508(@250wpm)___ 423(@300wpm)
Rocky winces. “That’s not what I meant.” He curses under his breath and casts an apology my way through his eyes. “I meant I’m not interested in her.”
Ow. He’s burying a knife in my chest. But I know we’ve stabbed each other before. We have thousands of blades dug into our sternums. Our backs. We’ve lived our lives walking around, invisibly impaled, and slowly bleeding out.
Jake doesn’t take his eyes off Rocky. “I figured that’s what a divorce means.”
Rocky tries hard to keep his face impassive. He just nods a couple times and leaves.
“Jackass,” Jake breathes out.
My instant reaction is to go comfort Rocky. Protect him. Side with him. But I know what he did was for me. Pushing me away for a moment. Reminding each other this is what has to happen.
My phone buzzes, and I check a text.
Hailey: Can’t stall any longer. Katherine is looking for you.
I take a calming breath, finish getting dressed, and tie my wet hair into a tight ponytail. When I arrive in the kitchen, Katherine beelines for me. An aroma of hairspray immediately invades my senses. I blame that on my queasy stomach.
“Phoebe, where have you been?” She doesn’t give me enough time to answer, pushing me to the nearest counter. “You will serve champagne all night. That’s your only job.” She’s placing the flutes gingerly and perfectly on my tray. “Walk around and when your tray is empty, get it refilled and go back out there.” She inhales a tight breath and drills a warning look on me. “A toddler could do this. Don’t mess it up.”
Low chatter echoes from the main dining hall, and the savory aroma of clams permeates around the bustling kitchen. How long had I been in the locker room?
My head feels like it’s filled with helium, ready to soar off my shoulders. I stumble into the crowded dining hall, squinting through the candlelight.
Hands fly toward my tray, grabbing and taking without a single glance in my direction. I try to be effortless and weave between bodies.
But I’m not all here.
I collide with a fortysomething woman, likely around my mom’s age, who’s in a velvety emerald dress. The five champagne flutes teeter on my tray, and I attempt to right them up, but champagne tips back and spills on my blouse. The next second, every flute just tumbles to the floor with a loud crash.
The room goes eerily quiet, all eyes on me. The heat of the attention combined with my own overturned feelings sends me into a tailspin. The woman casts me a withering glare. “Name?”
My head cycles through a list of aliases:
Piper
Paige
Petunia
Penelope
Patty
Parker
Paisley
Palmer
Hundreds of eyes on me, I can’t breathe. I want to run. I’m about to when I catch Rocky out of the corner of my eye. He takes a step toward me, but he stops suddenly like he’s walked into an invisible barrier.
And then I feel a hand on my shoulder.
Twenty-Four
Rocky
Jake made it to her first, and for the first time in my life, I feel second best. A step behind. It gnaws at me as I watch him put his hand on her shoulder and dip his head to her ear. She nods, her panicked face calming at whatever he says.
I slide in closer, slipping behind a couple of ladies.
“She’s going to get fired,” Mrs. Kelsey muses.
“No doubt,” Ms. Davenport agrees.
I step in front of them, having a better view. Phoebe edges closer to Jake’s side, and when he wraps his arm around her waist—I freeze. I’m thrust backward in time.
At eighteen, nineteen, twenty . . . all the years I had to stand and watch her entertain other men. My muscles sear and pull taut.
“Mom,” Jake says to the woman in an emerald gown, who I know to be Claudia Koning Waterford. “I’d like you to meet my girlfriend, Phoebe.”
My world shatters in one single instant. I can’t . . .
I can’t watch this.
With quicker, angrier strides, I push past bodies to leave the dining hall. Whispers surround me. Eyes follow me. She’s my ex-wife in this town, and gossip is thriving about our tumultuous, caustic marriage, so my feelings right now are justified. I don’t hide them. I fucking can’t.
I just can’t.
The rain has let up, but the sun has already set. Lamps illuminate a series of paths, and I leave the country club, my feet carrying me down the lit boardwalk to the club’s private beach, farther from the light and onto the darkness of the sand. Did I cause this?
I told him he could have her. Did she choose him?
Was there a choice?
Fuckfuckfuck.
I pace the beach, hands laced on my head. Keep your shit together. I can’t breathe. I squat down like I’ve run a marathon, like I’ve been gut-punched, and my scalding eyes pierce the raging ocean.
She’s gone.