Page 76 of Forked (Frenched 2)
Trying to remain calm, I clicked through a bunch of photos from the event, some kind of fundraiser with celebrity chefs cooking the food. I was hoping to see him with a bevy of different beauties, but it was always the same one. Apparently she was a chef too, a contestant on the current season of Lick My Plate.
And his ex-girlfriend.
My breaths came harder and faster, making my dress feel too tight in the chest. The photo captions did nothing to set my mind at ease.
Season One winner Nick Lupo cozies up to former flame and Season Two fan favorite Alex Rigler.
Sexy exes Nick Lupo and Alex Rigler turn up the heat in the kitchen.
Nick Lupo and Alex Rigler still sizzle. “She can lick my plate any time,” he said.
My stomach twisted and churned—I felt the familiar old sickness I used to experience when Nick would flirt with other girls at parties and later I’d look through his texts to see if they were contacting him.
Horrible, juvenile behavior that I never wanted to repeat. I knew gossip sites exaggerated things. But why hadn’t he called?
Disgusted with him and myself, I closed the window and packed up to go home. On the way, I called Mia and told her I’d been an idiot to think Nick was serious about me. After hearing everything that had happened since I left her house the night before, she said not to panic until I talked to him. And though she didn’t say how glad she was that Angelina’s party had been canceled, I could hear it in her voice.
By dinner that night, he still hadn’t called, and I found myself stabbing my chicken breast with a fork instead of eating it.
“Something wrong?” Sitty asked, one eyebrow arched.
“No.” I cut a bite and ate it, staring at my plate like a sullen teenager. Sitty said nothing further.
On Tuesday, Mia left for France, and Erin and I went out for a drink. Nick still hadn’t called. She listened to me gripe about trusting him and being disappointed all over again, but told me not to jump to conclusions or overreact, which pissed me off. I wasn’t overreacting! I was being fucking smart. Protective.
That night, I got my period.
When Wednesda
y came and went without a call, I deleted his number from my phone. I also emailed my real estate agent that I couldn’t afford the house on Iroquois but I wanted to keep looking at things in my price range. Then I got out my Grass Widow Bourbon and took a shot before pressing Send.
Well, that’s that. Goodbye, house. Goodbye, Nick. Goodbye crazy, stupid dreams.
Of course, on Thursday, he called.
I didn’t answer.
I deleted his voicemails without listening.
I deleted his texts without reading.
More sickening familiarity.
On Friday, I didn’t go to work, scared that he might try to find me there. He wouldn’t dare show up at my parents’ house, I figured, not after everything in our past. But I spent the weekend at Erin’s apartment just in case.
Good thing.
When I got home on Sunday night, Sitty told me that not only had he come by on Saturday, but he’d stayed to have a little whiskey and water with her, and he’d told her a few things she thought I should know.
“He lost that phone, those things you’re all attached to so much. He say it fell out on the plane to California and he never found it. He has a new one with a new number. I wrote it for you.” She held out a yellow post-it with a phone number written on it.
“Not. Interested.” I tried to bypass her and head up the stairs but she blocked my way.
“Why not?”
“Because he’s not good for me, Sitty.” The lost phone might explain why he hadn’t called me from that number, but he could have found a way to reach me. And I’d made up my mind. Seeing those pictures and waiting around for him to call left me with a bad feeling. As far as I was concerned, I’d dodged a bullet.
“He loves you,” Sitty declared.
