Part 1 (2/2)

”Oh, and have another gla.s.s of wine. Can't hurt.”

I tap my half-empty gla.s.s. Girl has a point. ”I'm going to the kitchen now.”

”That's my bestie,” she says.

After we hang up, I top off my wine. Morocco is at my feet, weaving through my legs and purring loudly to make sure I haven't forgotten about him. I stare at the empty table, still set for when Mav arrives. The dim rays of dusk illuminate the unlit candle in the center. I tilt my head to see the shadow the light creates s.h.i.+ft a little to the side. It's sorrowful and desolate, like the scene was meant to be drawn.

I get my notepad and pencils and pull a stool into the spot that shades the area. The lighting from outside won't last long, so I get to work. I start with the basic shapes, building inward and creating layers. The window and blinds in the background, the surface of the table, the empty plates, the silverware, the candle. I lay out the shadows, allowing them to stretch over the paper and add depth. I fill in the half-empty gla.s.s of wine beside my plate and touch up the highlights.

Finally, I add the chairs. One tucked in under the table, untouched. The other, scooted backwards and empty, angled slightly toward me.

I finish just as the evening light fades into darkness. The colors are dull, somber with more sable mixed into each hue. Normally, I'd go back into the drawing to put in little nuances and details, but tonight I don't. Tonight, the real-life scene in front of me is enough.

I close my sketchbook and leave it on the counter. The microwave clock has ticked off another hour, and he hasn't called or texted again. Emptiness swirls in my stomach. This isn't how it's supposed to be. One year married, and I'm alone? I dump the rest of my wine down the drain and settle back into the armchair. Morocco is happy to join me.

I flip on the television. Like my homework, the shows don't interest me. I haven't eaten, and I don't care about that either. I didn't even remove the chicken from the oven. All I want is Mav's arms around me and his kisses was.h.i.+ng away the memory of this night and too many previous nights. I want him to come home and whisper that this is only a small moment in time and it won't last forever.

I need to hear that everything is going to be okay.

I squeeze my eyes shut, and I can almost hear his voice saying the words he uses when I feel like I can't take it anymore, when colors morph into grays-like now.

I lean my head against the cus.h.i.+on and think back to when we were sure we'd have it all. When we were carefree and happy and nave. Before school, before life, before these last six months. How quickly that all crashed around us.

Morocco nuzzles my chin, and I stroke his back, thinking about how I fell in love with Mav's smile the first time he flashed it. I let the memory overtake me as I drift off to sleep.

I wake to the sound of the doorbell. I rub my eyes and squint at the clock-1:53AM. I slept that long? Where's Maverick?

The doorbell sounds again. It takes a second to process that someone's at the front door.

”Off Morocco,” I say, groggy. He stands on my chest and arches his back, taking his time. I pick him up and drop him onto the floor. It has to be Finn, I think, shuffling my way to the door. Who else would be here at this time and need to ring the doorbell?

I'm not sure whether or not to be grateful for her arrival. I told her not to come, yet having her here would ease my disquiet. She probably brought more wine.

The last time she showed up in the wee hours she was wearing footed pajamas and had a gift bag with a matching pair for me. She also had wine and a chick flick. That was two weeks ago.

I unlock the door and open it, ready for whatever Finn has conjured up.

My smile fades when it's not Finn on the other side. Instead, a police officer stands in front of me.

”Are you Alieya Tavare?” he asks.

I can't speak, so I nod that I am.

”I'm sorry, ma'am, but there's been an accident.”

Chapter 2.

Cancun, Mexico 27 Months Ago Finley has one of those bodies. You know, the kind that's perfect without ever having to work at it. Flat stomach; hourgla.s.s figure; long, toned legs; and a solid D cup. If I didn't love her so much, I'd probably hate her. She's wearing a bikini today that would fit a Barbie doll. Her one-hundred percent real b.o.o.bs remain perky despite the tiny string holding them up. Mine is a halter tankini, solid black for slimming purposes, where only my back and a small strip of stomach shows. I feel like a whale.

”Stop picking at your suit and go get us margaritas,” Finn says, nodding toward the hut bar farther down the beach.

”It's ten o'clock in the morning.” I don't mention that our flight landed in Cancun not two hours ago. All I want to do is sleep. I don't mention that either because Finn's already glaring at me for my ”it's too early to drink” comment.

”It's spring break, Miss I'm-too-tired-for-the-beach. We agreed to sleep on the plane so we wouldn't spend precious time sleeping here. That's why we booked a red-eye flight.”

”That was before I got stuck in the center seat between Snore Beast and Extrovert Extraordinaire. Did you know the same bunion can be surgically removed twice? I do now, and in graphic, step-by-step detail. Sleep was impossible.” Finn, on the other hand, landed a window seat next to a woman with indigestion who spent most of the flight in the bathroom. Utterly unfair.

”You got an education. Come on, girl. We get seven days in paradise. Why waste it on sleep?”

”Because sleep is necessary for survival.”

”Bah.” She hands me a few bills. ”Margaritas will help.”

There's no use arguing with her. I take the money and accept the fact that I'll be a half-asleep zombie by dinnertime.

”You're bossy,” I say.

”You love me.”

Barefoot, I stumble over the hot sand. I vaguely wonder how I'll get two filled-to-the-brim margaritas back to our spot unscathed. I also wonder if they even serve margaritas this early. As soon as I make it to the counter though, I see a bunch of other college students with colorful icy beverages. I guess that answers my question.

”Dos margaritas, por favor,” I say to the bartender. I have now exhausted my Spanish vocabulary. Hopefully he doesn't ask me anything.

He grins at me, his dark eyes scaling my body as his hands maneuver over the bottles of liquor. I don't take his obvious onceover personally. I'm sure all of the bartenders at this hut check out anything with two legs and a set of b.o.o.bs. I'm not here for a spring fling, and no amount of dark skin and long eyelashes will sway me.

I'm single, and I have no plans of changing that status, even for one night.

”Dos margaritas para la senorita bonita,” he says, sliding the gla.s.ses to me.

I hold out the bills, trusting that Finley gave me enough, but he takes a step back and holds up a hand. ”No, no. Cortesia de la casa.”

I have no idea what he said, but he refused payment for the drinks. ”Oh, um, okay. Thank you.”

”On the house, beautiful.” He smirks, gaze blazing as it works up my body again.

I smile back, taking the drinks. ”Thanks again.”

I can feel him watching me as I walk away. I might not be here for the guys, but if they want to check me out and give me free alcohol, who am I to say no? It doesn't have to mean anything on my end.

Finn is talking to some guy when I return. She's lying on the towel, ankles crossed, and sungla.s.ses low on her nose as she peers up at him. Judging by her expression, she's flirting her way into some social event she'll likely drag me to.

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