Page 77 of Never Been Worse

“Fuck,” I say low, zooming in on the photo until my concerns are confirmed. “Shit.”

“What is it?”

“It’s my grandmother’s book,” I say, setting the phone aside and curling into Wes. Maybe if I do, the rest of this will just melt away, and I can restart the day without this nuisance.

“What kind of book?” Wes asks gently as he pushes my hair back over my shoulder. He’s always a calming presence, his touch soothing.

“Her modeling book. My family isn’t super close, but my mom’s mother was a model before she had her. She used to show me her modeling book, the portfolio she’d bring to casting calls of her previous work. It’s…” I groan, realizing I’m going to have to go over to Jeremy’s house today. “It’s what made me want to start designing.”

I remember setting it on the bookshelf in Jeremy’s office once in an effort to make things feel lessdividedin our home and forgetting about it completely. Things have been so crazy, my life so up in chaos, that I’m sure there are more things I’ve left behind that one day, I’ll miss.

“You’re going to have to go there today, aren’t you?” Wes asks, and I nod and roll to my back, throwing an arm over my eyes and letting out an irritated sound.

“I really don’t want to. What if he’s there?” I don’t know if I can handle a confrontation right now, not when things arefinallysettling in. Can’t I just haveone weekwhere things don’t go sideways?

Since Wes and I finally got together, it’s been perfectly blissful. I sketch and design all day, work on dresses for clients, or even a few times, take interviews Leo set up for me to promote my work, while Wes practices or records over at Riggins’s house. We’re both usually home by dinnertime, and cook together before spending the evening together. It’s been perfect, everything I didn’t know I wanted or needed, and now it feels like Jeremy has popped that little bubble we were living in.

“If he’s there, it will be fine because I’ll be there too. I don’t want you going alone, but only if you want me to.” Despite my irritation, my chest warms with that, with Wes’s desire to come with. “Or, if he’s there and you don’t feel comfortable going in, we call the police, and they can escort you inside. Minimal contact, and we keep everything documented. Actually, screenshot those texts and send them to me.”

We’ve slowly been creating a file of any evidence I have of Jeremy’s blackmail, any help I’ve given him that was used without accreditation, and, of course, the original designs I still have, post marked and unopened.

I don’t plan to use any of it, but Wes suggested we accumulate it alljust in case,and it made sense to me. I tap my screen, taking photos and sending them to Wes.

“I don’t know, maybe it’s not that important. Maybe—” I start, but I’m interrupted by Wes taking my phone from my hand and putting it on the bedside table then rolling us so he’s hovering over me.

“No, Harper. He does not get that. He does not get to win like that, not anymore. He doesn’t control you and doesn’t get to hold anything above you.” I sit there in awe, a strange mix of warmth and joy and a bit of panic rushing through me as I process his words and the ferocity of which he says them. He takes in my shock with a shake of his head and a small laugh before he presses his lips to mine one more. Then he rolls off before I can argue and puts a hand out to me. “Come on. Shower, breakfast, then we head to the asshat’s place.”

I take the change in conversation, grabbing his hand and letting him tug me up and out of the bed until we’re chest to chest.

“What, you don’t want to fuck me?” I ask with a smile.

“I can certainly do that, little wife. Now come on. As you know, I’m great at multitasking.” I do as he asks with a giggle, and Wes does, in fact, prove what a good multitasker he is in the shower.

“Okay, so I don’t think it’s much, honestly, but I want to take a look around. I don’t want to ever step foot in here again if I don’t have to,” I say when we walk into Jeremy’s house. It’s nearly noon by the time we make it over here, and the brown box is sitting on the kitchen counter, untouched from when he took a photo of it.

I turn to Wes, who followed behind me as I walked up the once-familiar steps, noting with pleasure the grass is still rather glittery. But I stop in my tracks when Wes sets the bag I didn’t realize he was carrying down and bends to inspect it.

“What is that?” I ask when he pulls out a giant spray bottle filled with some kind of white liquid.

“A spray bottle,” he says matter-of-factly.

I nod my head and give him a tight smile. “Yeah, I got that. I, uh, what is it for? And what is in it?” I ask as he walks into the living room with the bottle in hand.

“Well, it’s filled with milk.”

I stop and stare, lips rolling in on themselves as I try and piece together what he’s saying. “Okay…and why do we have a spray bottle with milk at my ex’s house?”

“To spray things,” he says, and then shows me what he means by spraying it a few times on the cream-colored couch. “Is this the one he wouldn’t let you eat on?”

I stare open-mouthed as he continues to spray the fabric, leaving no visible trace of the milk he’s spraying. “What are you doing?”

“Number fourteen, I think. You said he wouldn’t let you eat on his white couch because you were too messy of an eater.”

I blink once, twice, three times, trying to understand his words before I nod.

“Uh, yeah. That’s the one.” I vaguely remember telling him that the night we made our giant list, when I started to get sleep deprived and silly.

“Consider it crossed off.” He then lifts the cushion and sprays the underside much more liberally than the top with the same vigor then replaces it, moving to the next cushion. I watch in utter confusion as he moves confidently, nearly completely forgetting why we even came here.

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