Page 6 of Almost Perfect
Granted, we’d updated since, especially in the last few years as the business had grown. I’d even built on to add an office. There was just no point having to commute to a job that already involved a fair amount of local travel.
Or, used to. Hiring managers and stepping back had changed that significantly. Which was what I’d wanted.
I’d been exhausted—burnt like well-done steak left on another ten minutes. So… this was good. Hiring help had been the right move, and having this time was all perfectly in line with what I’d said I wanted.
Right.
The disconnect with real life, losing track of the way time passed in a given day, week, or month—that, I hadn’t anticipated.
“Should be good. I used a new sauce. See what you think.”
I said this as though he wouldn’t tell me. Warrick was the most generous person I knew in pretty much every way. That went from sharing his thoughts on something you fed him to letting his first-ever tenant in his new rental home sign up for thirty-day occupancy.
He groaned long and low, then shoved another heaping forkful into his mouth, and I took that as his approval. The cabbage, carrots, and red peppers tossed in with the ground chicken I’d browned with grated ginger and garlic did turn out well. We loved beef around here, of course, but were both fairly health-conscious, which meant we couldn’t actually eat beef every day or we’d be in trouble.
We sat quietly, both wolfing down the food with a lack of manners that would make our mother howl, but she wasn’t here. She’d lived with us for a long time, but about six years ago, she’d had it with the distance from town.
“So, I had an idea.”
I smothered the smile that immediately jumped to my lips. This was the phrase that echoed around the world every time Warrick thought up another scheme. It was also something that made me look forward—what would Warrick do? What amazing plan would he have next? I didn’t thank God for my little brother enough.
“Yeah? Do tell.”
He snuggled down in his seat, leaning back against the carved wood chair. They were simple, but so comfortable. Grandma’s boyfriend, Rex, had carved them years ago, like a decent amount of the wood furniture in the house. He’d never lived here, but he probably should’ve. Would’ve been fun to have had a man around.
“Fitness bootcamp in the old mill building.”
He said this like I’d know what that meant, but I didn’t need to respond. After gulping down the rest of his meal, he ran through the idea. His excitement, the perpetual energy he brought to everything he did, buoyed me. Like it had many times over the years.
And some of that constant tightness that lived in my chest eased. Life would go on, and it would be okay.
THREE
Calla
Guilt washed over me as I sent Jenna’s call to voicemail. I loved her. She was as close to a best friend as I’d ever had, but I couldn’t talk to her right now.
I also deleted texts from six of my people, ignored a voicemail from my manageragain, and generally sank into hermit mode.Come on in, the water’s warm!
I didn’t want to talk to anyone right now. Especiallyrightnow as I sat perched on a bar stool and ate a second bowl of cereal—a substance I rarely touched—in as many days.
The problem with deciding to live up in a remote location with no staff or resources if you couldn’t cook a thing? You couldn’t expect to eat much.
Luckily, the serving I’d had for dinner last night had been compulsory more than something driven by hunger. I hadn’t felt truly hungry in a while. Modeling professionally helped to ignore those hunger signs in my body. And while it’d been over a decade since the height of my days as a model, I’d used that often enough in the next iteration of my career too.
My stomach pitched as the memory of the last few months barged in. I dropped the spoon into my half-eaten bowl and stormed into the kitchen, dumping the sham of a breakfast down the drain and abandoning the dishes in the sink. I’d get to them later.
Kristoffer, my assistant and one of very few people who knew where I was, had sent a local listing of maid and meal prep services. I refused to have staff on this trip since part of what I’d wanted to escape was feeling like I couldn’t function without three different people holding my hand. That said, in one of our exchanges, the owner of this little place had mentioned a cleaning service and I planned to accept. We’d talk about that soon.
Since I already sat on the edge of total nauseating self-pity and regret, I pulled out my laptop and searched my name like an idiot. I should’ve done something productive—finally do some writing, get down some lyrics for the first time in far too long, maybe? Nah.
Headlines for everything from gossip sites to the BBC numbered the page.
“Miss Mayhem’s Final Failure.”Harsh, but all this did feel very much like a failure, and it’d be fantastic if it were the final one.
“Mayhem’s Name Says It All: The Deterioration of a Pop Icon’s Life.”Wow. Not pulling any punches. But nasty rumors piled on loss after loss? Two mediocre-at-best albums, a lackluster tour, some admittedly poor choices, and awful publicity to top it all? Itwasa deterioration. I couldn’t ignore that or pretend it away.
“Miss Mayhem Murders Meth-Addict Mother.”
