Page 12 of The Write Track
“Preston Martin Douche Canoe III? Yeah, I figured it had something to do with him.”
A muscle worked in her jaw. “I used to date him.”
Picturing them together was an exercise in frustration. “Okay.” There was nothing else to say.
“We had a bad breakup,” she continued, as if searching for the words to explain things.
Only then did a horrible thought occur to me. She was small, like, pocket-sized, and she’d reacted viscerally to his appearance.I wasn’t much of a fighter—okay, I’d never gotten in anything other than a schoolyard fight—but I was willing to throw a punch if my worst possible assumption was about to be validated.
“Did he… hurt you?” I asked, my voice suddenly gravelly. It felt as if I were talking around a mouthful of rocks.
Her eyes widened to the size of saucers. “No,” she replied quickly. “No, no, no.”
Some of the fury that had ballooned up leaked out. I remained unconvinced. “If he did, just tell.”
“It wasn’t like that.” She dragged a hand through her silky hair, and for a moment I wondered what it would be like to touch that hair. Then I caught myself—could I be more of a creep?—and forced myself to be something other than an idiot.
“Tell me what’s going on and I will help you,” I said forcefully.
“I don’t want to come across as a victim, because I’m not.” She met my gaze and seemed to generate some sort of strength from that simple act. “We dated. He was a jerk and I turned myself inside out to be what I thought he wanted.”
I nodded for her to continue.
“That turned out to be a mistake because I was never going to be what he wanted,” she continued. “I went to see my mother and came home early and found him in bed with one of his father’s secretaries.”
I frowned. “He cheated on you.” It wasn’t a question.
She shrugged. “Listen, that might have caused other people to crumble. Not me. That’s not what’s wrong. That was the best thing that ever happened to me.”
“Him cheating on you was the best thing that ever happened to you?” I was understandably dubious.
“Yup.” Grimly, she nodded. “It made me realize that all the other stuff I was putting up with, the nitpicking and the lying,the looking down on my mother, was not worth it. I should have never put up with it in the first place.”
A quick flash of anger coursed through me, but I contained it. “He gaslighted you.”
“Yes, but it was my fault.”
“How is that your fault?”
“Because I put up with it.” She was matter of fact. “He was an ass, but I let him be an ass. I should have left long before I did. I am to blame.”
I believed in personal responsibility. In this particular instance, however, she was blaming herself when she’d obviously been worn down over time. Did she want to hear that, though?
“Why is he here now?” I asked instead. “Did you know he was going to be organizing this summer’s author events?”
“No.” There was no hint of a smile, whether forced or not, on her face. “Absolutely not. His father is a businessman. He owns a bunch of buildings in Boston. Preston runs his own business under his father’s banner. None of that has to do with authors.”
“So why is he here?”
She looked to be genuinely at a loss. “I don’t know.”
I had an idea of why he was here. “Could he be here for you?” My tone was light and even.
“I haven’t seen him in almost two years. I haven’t heard from him in more than eight months.”
Eight months? If she’d broken up with him two years prior, why was he still contacting her at all? I was just about to ask that question when the little ferret appeared in the doorway.
Preston Martin Charles III smiled at Bella as if they were old friends who’d been separated by circumstances behind their control. “Belladonna.” He reached for her hand. “It’s so good to see you.”
