Page 11 of The Love Destroyers

The therapist I should probably be seeing would have something to say about that. They’ddefinitelyhave something to say about the hatred and anger seething inside of me, wanting to break through my powerlessness paralysis like magma. Here’s the truth: I dislike Ellie Reed, but I loathe Jeffrey Nichols to the bottom of my soul. I want my job and reputation back, of course, but there’s a part of me that wouldn’t be satisfied by that. I want to see him destroyed. Ruined. Shamed. The same way he’s done to me.

Reaching the statue, I feel a ridiculous impulse that I lean into. I pull a tube of red lipstick out of my purse and draw a smile on the statue’s face. There. Let’s see if anyone notices. A little pop of chaos that would have made my father red-faced with anger. But he has no power over me, my mother, or my brother anymore—and I’m going to find a million ways to show it. Ripping down the wallpaper, auctioning his treasures, giving his statues makeovers.

A voice in my head whispers that I’m putting lipstick on statues to get back at my dead father when I could be sticking it to the motherfucker who ruined my life. It insinuates that I’ve fallen into this state of arrested development because I’m afraid.

Which is when I turn back toward the now-closed door. I can hear the low rumble of Seamus’s voice, followed by laughter.

I don’t want to go in there.

I’m in no mood to make other people merry, but again, IlikeRosie. Ilikeher friends.

I like—

Well,likeisn’t the right word for how I feel about Seamus, but I’m not sure what word would cover it. He’s aggravating. Full of himself. Dangerous. Sinfully attractive.

Dangerousis the word I should remember. I’ve already screwed myself over. Playing it safe is a phrase I should learn to love. Maybe I should take my vows at a nunnery while I’m at it.

Sighing, I fake a smile and open the door.

“Emma!” Rosie says with a huge—and genuine—grin. “Come in here and have a drink. Seamus brought me some special whiskey.”

He smirks at me over her shoulder, his gaze lowering to my legs. “Oh, she knows.”

I’m a bit tipsy,thank God.

The ceremony is over, and we’re deep into the afterparty.

I’ve held it together—smiling and saying the right things—because I love my brother and want him to be happy. My feelings about marriage may be mostly negative, but I saw the way he and Rosie stared into each other’s eyes while they exchanged vows. I hope they’re able to hang on to that. I need them to. Because I couldn’t help Anthony when we were kids, and I like seeing him like this.

Still, it’s been hard, acting as if I’m not falling apart.

The weight I’ve been carrying for weeks keeps getting heavier, and I’ve tried to swallow it down with help from Seamus’s flask.

It’s half an hour until midnight now, and I’m standing at the edge of the ballroom, watching as Anthony and Rosie sway to the music from the band my mother hired at the last minute. God, they look as happy as they did at that altar, whispering into each other’s ears.

It makes me smile, but my cynical side worries they’ll be part of that unlucky forty percent—happy now, miserable in four years. Sniping at each other over who bought what and whetherFluffy the dog could be happy living in an apartment, and how on earth are you going to take care of her anyway when you’ve never picked up a pile of dogshit in your life?

They don’t have a dog, but you’ll be surprised how many times I’ve seen that scenario play out.

I’ll have to remind Anthony to do his part in the event of a dog adoption.

My eyes seek out Seamus as I pull out the flask, which I’ve already refilled once, and take a glug. I haven’t talked to him since earlier, although I’ve caught him watching me half a dozen times. And a couple of hours ago, a very sweet older guy named Chuck introduced himself to me as Claire’s father. He needs a divorce, and apparently Seamus told him that I was “just the woman for him to talk to.” He proceeded to tell me a fifteen-minute story about the wife who’d abandoned him for a cult in the Pacific Northwest. I’ll be honest, I usually love listening to stories like that. His problems are the kind I am adept at solving. But I withdrew from the conversation, because it felt like a harsh reminder of what I’d been and was no longer.

I feel guilty for putting him off, but I tell myself that I’ll email him later, when I’m no longer tipsy and full of restless anger.

Seamus is nowhere to be seen, probably sneaking a cigarette outside or backing one of the guests up against an ornamental pillar.

The thought pisses me off, but that’s not exactly novel. All my thin skin needs is a scratch these days. I wonder if the injustice of what Jeffrey did has altered me on a cellular level.

“What’ve you got in there?” a woman’s voice asks.

I glance over and see Nicole, one of Rosie’s friends. She and her husband are private investigators, although you’d never think it to look at her. She has bright pink hair that’s between a pixie and a bob in length, and every time I’ve seen her, she’s had on the kind of outfit that attracts rather than repels attention. T-shirts with snarky sayings. Bright colors never found in nature. Tonight she’s wearing a dress that’s almost normal—unless you consider that we’re at a wedding and she’s wearing off white.

Not that Rosie, who’s in a golden gown, would care about something like that. She’d probably laugh it off and then raise a toast to her.

“Well?” Nicole presses, giving me a look that invites confidences.

Truthfully, I’ve thought about talking to Nicole about Jeffrey. I don’t know her, however, and she doesn’t seem discreet. If I told her about the restraining order, she’d probably tell Rosie, who’d inevitably tell my brother, who might very well spill everything to my mother—and then I would never hear the end of it.

---