Page 7 of The Best Wrong Move

And, sure enough, to the far-right side of the deck, I spot him.

Chapter 5

The universe is punishing me. I close my eyes and sink back down to the floor.

“No fucking way,” I murmur.

On the far-right side of the shared patio, nearly out of sight, is my almost-fiancé, Rex. He’s shirtless, tan as hell, and sweeping sand off what must behisside of the deck.

Just this once, I wish Abby was wrong.

Still hunched behind the couch, I roll onto my back and start taking deep breaths, remembering how my most recent counselor said air is nature’s cure for anxiety.

“What the hell?” I wail quietly into the phone. “You’ve got to be kidding me!”

Abby stares at me through the screen.

“Unbelievable.” She can’t seem to fathom it either. “I can’t imagine you having to face all that again.”

“I believe I’ve faced it a few million times already.” The last time I checked, the YouTube upload of us onThe Good Day Showhad over eighty-nine million views. “And don’t look at me like that. It’s fine. This is fine. I’ll just cancel my reservation and find another Airbnb.”

“Okay,” she says in a measured tone. “But wasn’t this place the only rental within your price range? Most of the other places were, like, two or three times the cost. And it’s not like there’s going to be a lot of eight-week options at this point.”

“Do you think he followed me here?” I know it’s a stupid question. No one besides Abby and my parents know the exact location of this Airbnb.

“Not if he knows what’s good for him,” Abby mumbles.

When my producer suggested the proposal, I wasn’t even sure if we were ready for marriage, but I knew I loved him. I could see a life with him. At least I thought I could.

She’d told me not to warn Rex before we started filming the Valentine’s Day segment. She’d said it might make the whole moment seem contrived or rehearsed. And boy was she right — nothing about that segment looked rehearsed by the time we cut to commercial. If I could turn back time, I would’ve never taken that risk. By that night, my relationship with Rex — as well as my reputation as a serious journalist — had both gone up in smoke.

“I can’t come home yet.”

“I know.”

“I subleased my apartment.” My apartment lease was due to be renewed soon after the failed proposal. Since he moved out, I subleased it to a nice couple until the lease runs itself out, thinking I’d just find a new apartment to have ready for me to move into by the time I came back. Everything I own is sitting in a storage unit, except Toby, who’s having his own mini vacation with Abby while I’m gone.

“You didn’t want to live there anymore,” she reminds me. “You couldn’t stand to sleep in the same room you two shared.”

“You’re right.” My voice cracks. “I didn’t want to live in our old apartment anymore.This, though . . .” I try to laugh, but the words choke out of me like an ugly, sobbing snort. “This is all so much better.”

The phone feels as heavy as a brick, and that look of pity I’ve grown to hate is creeping back onto Abby’s face. I switch FaceTime to a voice-only call and bring the cell up to my ear.

If I’m this sick of hearing myself cry, I can only imagine how exhausted my best friend is by now. She’s been my rock since I went viral a month ago, but even rocks can crumble if you put enough weight on them.

“Just because I can’t see you right now, doesn’t mean I don’t know that you’re crying,” Abby says softly into the phone. “But you have every reason to. Rex is a dick. Of all the people to rent the townhouse on the other side of your wall! You’re sure it’s him?”

I nod, even though she can’t see me, and wipe a stray tear off my cheek. My voice will break if I respond. I stay hunched on the floor behind the couch.

The last person in the whole world I want to see right now is standing on that deck.

Of all the decks.

“Alright, Liv. Here’s what you’re going to do.” Abby turns on her attorney voice. I sit up straighter, grateful she’s about to solve this for me. Abby’s a genius. I just have to follow her advice. Easy-peasy.

“Okay, I’m listening.” I shove my hair back from my face, forcing my lips into a smile. We’ll be laughing about the irony of this whole thing over martinis someday soon.

“First, close the curtains,” she instructs me.

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