Page 3 of Comin' in Hot
As in, I accept the joy of starting a new life as a woman in her prime. And my bank accepts wire transfers.
See, marrying Jeffrey wasn’t ever about me. It was always about doing what people do. I accepted the life handed to me. The lives too many women in society suffered before me.
Not once did I ever check in with myself and ask whether what peopledidwas what I wanted to do.
He loved me, so we got married. And married people buy a house, so we did that too. Then we hosted dinners, joined country clubs, and looked like the perfect couple.
We even skirted the “kid” questions by allowing people to think it was my body betraying us. That was his idea. Even though we agreed we didn’t want them.
Regardless, we stayed perfect. The ideal couple aesthetic. And that’s all that mattered.
Fuck that.
Jeffrey lets a dramatic sigh, as if he’s feeling the weight of his decision before signing the last box. Chin up, Jeff. I left you with only the shirt on your back. You should be feeling light as a feather.
His pen hits the table, which makes my smile almost break my face.
“It’s done,” I level. “I’ll call you from the airport, Moon.”
She lets out a squeal of excitement. “Yes, bitch. I love you with my whole heart. Fuck the patriarchy.”
“Agreed.” I hang up and look around the room before I put my sunglasses on. “If we’re done here, I have a plane to catch to Malibu.”
Jeffrey shakes his head. “Can you pretend to be mature, please?”
My attorney gives me a wink as I stand and swipe up my Birkin, a divorce gift I splurged on. I lower my chin to look over the top of my shades at my ex-fucking-husband.
“Jeffrey, fuck off.” His face pales because I have never spoken to him that way. “Oh, and give Poppy my condolences. No woman should have to bear your child, the existence of your small dick, and your deep mastery of pleasure incompetence while also being broke.”
I’ve seen mic drop moments on television, but enacting one in real life is better than anything I could’ve ever experienced. My hips swish as I walk out of that goddamn room and into my new life.
My sister was right. This is my era. And whatever happens next will be on my terms because I’m not giving away another twenty years to any man without, at the very least, an epic goddamn orgasm.
chapter one
. . .
Face down. Hairy ass up.
“Okay, so you packed everything you own.”
My sister and I are standing in front of my suitcase, staring down at it, our heads slanted right.
She’s right; I packed too much. But I wasn’t sure what I’d need.
I still can’t believe I agreed to a week of yoga and finding myself. It’s way outside of my comfort zone, but that was the point. Still, I had no idea if the day would call for leggings or a kaftan.
Not that I have either.
My brows furrow. “Everything I own is navy.”
“And striped.”
“Why’d I bring not one, but two blazers?”
“Let’s pretend it’s because you like to be thorough, and not because you clearly have stock in Ann Taylor.”
Maybe it’s the bright Malibu sunlight making everything look wrong. Or maybe it’s that the life I packed doesn’t fit me anymore, and the sun’s just making that point glaringly obvious. I turn to face my sister.
