Brit, Six Months Later
I’m in hell.
Literal hell.
Staring at the beautiful brunette in front of me.
With kind eyes.
Who’s…fucking my husband.
Ex-husband.
That addendum sends a pulse of pain shooting through the backs of my eyes, the shards of my broken heart digging into my soft tissue.
But they’re familiar hurts.
Because, over the last year, they’ve become familiar.
More familiar than my ex’s new girlfriend, Tiffany.
Yup.
Fucking Tiffany.
And worse, I can’t even be upset.
Because she’s nice.
“I was wondering if you would be all right with me taking Roxie to get our nails done?” Tiffany says, holding her hand up and showing off long acrylic nails that I could never get away with.
Because they won’t fit in a goalie glove.
I wince.
“I won’t get her fake nails, of course,” she says quickly, wrongly reading the grimace I hadn’t been able to keep inside—
Because I’m not that kind of woman, because I couldn’t give Stefan that.
Because…maybe I wasn’t woman enough for him.
I clench every muscle in my body—and there are a lot of them, and they’re defined unlike the slender waif in front of me, and—
I hold back a shudder.
Enough.
Tiffany keeps talking. “…just some colored polish that she can pick out, and a hand massage—” She falters here, probably because my gaze is still locked on her fingers, staring at those sharply pointed nails and wondering how she can possibly get anything done with them.
Wondering if Stefan likes them digging into his back when he fucks her—
Pain lashes across my stomach sharply, perhaps even more sharply than nails like that can dish out.
It leaves an intense burn in its wake that spreads out and encompasses me from head to toe, stealing my words, leaving Tiffany to ramble.
“Or maybe just pink with a little sparkle?” she says. “Or nude? Or even clear. If you don’t want her to have color.”
My baby girl loves color and has sported her nails with all manner of pastel to bright to neon. But this woman wouldn’t know that, would she?
Because she’s new in our lives.
I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth, push out a silent breath through my nose.
And put my petty bitch to the side.
“I think Roxie would love going with you to get her nails done.” I force my lips to curl up into a smile, know that anyone who truly knew me would see right through it. But I’m making the effort, okay? Even with my heart breaking into a thousand pieces inside my chest. “Just let me know when, and I’ll make sure that she’s there.”
Even words. But I have the feeling that they don’t completely hide the shards inside my chest, the ones that keep jabbing at me.
She reaches over and squeezes my arm, tone gentle when she murmurs, “Thank you.”
Her touch is like ants crawling up my arm…
But I know that’s me, not her.
I carefully pull free, force my mouth to remain in that facsimile approximation of a smile. “Of course,” I say brightly. “I’m sure you two will have a great time.” Squeeze. My lungs. Jab. My heart. “Now”—I incline my head toward the ice where Roxie and her team are finishing up practice and now skating for the exit—“if you’ll excuse me, I’ll get her changed and ready so you two can have some bonding time.”
Tiff’s face does something, and I realize that I’ve unknowingly touched on a sore spot, and it takes a heartbeat for me to collect my thoughts.
The petty bitch in me wants to exploit that vulnerability.
To poke at it.
To hurt her like she’s hurting me.
Only…I’m divorced. She’s not fucking my husband. Isn’t the other woman—even if it feels like it.
She’s just a nice person who’s nice to my ex and nice to my daughter and—
I didn’t get where I am by being a petty bitch who tears down innocent women.
I lift motherfuckers up like I’ve got Michelle Obama’s arms, or maybe like one of those World’s Strongest Woman’s competitors, picking up a giant rock for no reason and slamming it down on top of a pedestal.
Look what I can do, bitches!
“Mom!”
I blink, realize I’ve been standing there, lost in my thoughts.
I shake myself, turn to Tiffany, smile again. “I’ll get her changed and take the stinky gear home.” More smiling. Because smiling is great. Smiling is everything. “That way we don’t have to subject your car to the stench while you guys get your nails done.”
“Really?”
But it’s not Tiffany talking. I glance down, realize my little girl has come close enough to hear.
“I can get my nails done like Tiffany?” she exclaims, bouncing on the toes of her skates. Red-cheeked and sweaty, still clad head to toe like a little marshmallow in her hockey gear, and excited about a manicure.
I grin, and it’s a real one this time.
“Yeah, baby,” I tell her. “You can get your nails done like Tiffany.”
She whoops.
“But we need to get you changed, and then you have to wash your hands”—because gloves are the stinkiest, no matter how hard I try to keep them smelling fresh—“and face”—because that’s just a good habit—“but then, yes, you can go with Tiffany and get your nails did.”
I draw out the last word, wiggling my fingers in her direction, and getting that little giggle from her that settles in my belly, my heart, my soul.
“Let’s go, stinky,” I tease, thumping her lightly on the top of her helmet and nodding at Tiffany. “Be out in a few.”
Tiffany is bouncing slightly, her excitement about spending time with my daughter as palpable as Roxie’s.
It hurts.
But I’ve always said that the more people around Roxie who love her, the better.
So, I go into the locker room. I help my daughter take off her gear. Walk her to the bathroom so she can wash her hands—and her face.
Then I send her off with Tiffany to get her nails done.
And my car is subjected to the stink of wet, dirty hockey gear the entire way home.