Page 10 of The Best Wrong Move

“I’m very busy.”

“Too busy to deal with a woman in crisis?”

And this is the moment I start crying.

Chapter 7

After staying on the phone with Dom for far too long, I finally figured out which street I was on, and that I was standing in Unit A. At that point, he got surprisingly jovial, promising to come install window shades himself while talking about shortening the reservation.

Without another place to stay tonight, and no food in the kitchen, I’m also running out of daylight, but I have no idea when Dom will be stopping by. It could be tonight, tomorrow. His whole demeanor was pretty vague.

To avoid starving, I take a little walk to the nearby strip of stores and restaurants to grab takeout. Then I prop Abby up on FaceTime down at the beach while I watch the beginnings of a fiery sunset. If I can figure out a way to ignore the presence of that asshat on the other side of my wall, I’d really like to stay. This island is paradise, so it all boils down to avoiding my past.

If Rex walks by while I’m sitting here, he shouldn’t be able to recognize me. I’m wearing a hideous Hawaiian print bucket hat and the biggest pair of cheap, plastic sunglasses I could find at the ABC Store down the road. They’re bright red and look straight out of 1982.

The cashier said they didn’t sell anything big enough to tack up over the huge windows either, so this ugly disguise was the next best thing I could find. I’m still looking over my shoulder while I eat, but at least I feel less frantic than I did back in the townhome, knowing Rex could peek in the window and see me at any moment without warning. The bedroom has another wall of floor-to-ceiling, curtain-free windows, with a second sliding door that leads out to the same shared deck. There’s nowhere to hide from Rex, except behind the couch, or in the small bathroom across the hall. But I didn’t feel like eating my dinner on the floor next to the toilet.

“What time is the Airbnb guy coming with your shades?” Abby asks. We’re both eating takeout from Styrofoam containers — including an entire bottle of pink prosecco for me — while discussing my contingency plan.

She takes another bite of her pad Thai. By the look of it, she’s still sitting at her desk, even though it’s eleven o’clock at night in New York. I imagine her curling up on the futon near her desk once we get off our call, only to start the onslaught of legal work bright and early again tomorrow morning. We were both workaholics back in New York, something we bonded over when we met as undergrads.

“No idea,” I tell her. “Tonight? Tomorrow? But, even if he does get window blinds or curtains installed, I think Rex will notice me at some point. Even if I keep this ridiculous disguise on.”

Dom rents out both sides of the townhouse, which, I reminded him, would have been a great detail to add to his Airbnb listing. Or have Phil add to the listing, I guess, since Dom appears to be annoyingly hands-off with his rentals. The pictures online made the place look like a stand-alone unit.

“I can’t believe that guy had the gall to suggest that I forgive my ex,” I tell her, still irked from my phone call. “I’d rather eat sand than kiss and make up with Rex right now. Best-case scenario is that I get out of that rental and into another one before he sees me, and I can focus on getting my script done. In peace.”

“They really didn’t have anything cuter than that hat and shades?” Abby squints at me through the phone screen. “You look like a campy tourist from the eighties.”

I shake my head. “I don’t know who Dom thinks he’s impressing with this scandalous no-window-shade situation,” I mutter into my fried rice.

During my call with him, I also learned that this Airbnb listing is brand new — hence the lack of reviews and heavily discounted monthly price to try and drum up business while certain upgrades — like curtains and a front door that opens on demand — are still MIA. This is the last time I’m booking a review-free Airbnb, no matter how cheap it is.

“Okay, I think you’re looking at this all wrong,” she insists.

“Enlighten me.” I take another sip of prosecco, then sit up straighter, bracing myself for the type of wisdom that only a true best friend can dish out.

“If you have to spend the next two months next door to your ex, you may as well enjoy some revenge sex with other people while you’re there. He’ll see hot dudes leaving your place every morning. Right? It’ll drive him crazy.”

My mind flashes to the guy who helped me earlier with the door.

“I mean, I wouldn’t mind seeing that surfer again, obviously. Buteverymorning?” I snort in response. Definitely not the mind-blowing insight I was expecting, but still on-brand for her. “I’m not a sex machine.” I root my fork around my nearly empty container of orange chicken until I spear a chunk of meat. “I have a voracious appetite, yes, but not for sex.” I chuckle at my own joke, then pop the chicken in my mouth, chewing thoughtfully while I let her latest suggestion roll through my mental haze. The prosecco is definitely starting to kick in.

I guess it’s been a minute since I had any sex at all. Leading up to the proposal, Rex was getting more distant. More distracted. Coming home later in the evenings, working out almost every single day, which was new for him. After the proposal, when we’d fled back to my dressing room, he’d simply told me that he wasn’t ready to settle down. I’d clearly been mistaken thinking we were on a path together toward marriage. Rex insisted he was still young and not ready for a lifelong commitment, which would have been great to know before I promptly humiliated us both.

“The more you have it, the more you’ll want it,” Abby promises. “Sex, not chicken. Or, at least, that’s what I remember from back when I had a sex life. Before this place drained my will to live.” She waves her chopsticks around the fluorescent room behind her. “I haven’t gone out with anyone in nearly fourteen months.”

“What about Roy? From accounting?”

“Roy the Toy?” She narrows her eyes into a devilish smirk.

I laugh. “The one and only.”

“I’d hardly call meeting Roy in the mail closet every Friday for a quickie the same thing asgoing out.” Her chuckle grows into a full belly laugh as the memory ofRoy the Toysurfaces more clearly. “Remember that time I told you he pulled out an ancient pager from the nineties? And wanted to use it as a vibrator?”

I clamp a hand over my mouth to keep the chicken contained. Picturing Abby’s face when poor five-foot-four Roy pulled out a grubby, old pager from his pocket nearly has me rolling. She’d told me there were some pros to having sex with a guy who was a good four inches shorter than her. Eight when she wore heels to work.Closer proximity to what really mattered, she’d say.

“Ah, that was the dayRoy the Toysealed his place in the Worst Sex Hall of Fame,” I remind her.

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