Page 156 of The Worst Best Man
Vinnie returned with a steaming pie. He dumped plates in front of them. “Enjoy, ladies.”
Frankie stared at the swirl of sauce over bubbling cheese.
“I love him so much it scares me,” she admitted, her voice low and shaky. She brought her gaze up. “I love him so much I can’t breathe because I feel like a piece of me is missing.”
“You are so damn stubborn,” Pru said with a sliver of sympathy. “You’d ruin this just to be right.”
The guilt in Frankie’s gut stood up and saluted in recognition.
“My feelings for him terrify me. I’m living a nightmare. And it’s all too late. He stopped texting, stopped sending me things. It’s like I don’t even exist to him anymore.”
Pru slid a slice onto her plate and reached for the oregano. “Then maybe it’s time you reminded him that you exist.”
Chapter Sixty
It took her an entire twenty-four hours to formulate a plan. And when she had it organized in her head, she started with Pru. Collecting names and numbers, making connections. She lunched with celebutantes, met with servers and maids and personal assistants in alleys by recycling bins, and pled her case.
They didn’t all say yes, but enough did. And what they gave her would have to be enough to put it all into action.
When the chips were down, when there was a real chance at karmic retribution, women banded together.
She took everything they gave her and, pushing aside her now defunct thesis project notes, started a brand-new project.
Every word that she typed, every piece of information she gathered, she fit into the larger puzzle making her feel more hopeful, more in control. And when she was finally certain she had enough, she made one more phone call.
“Davenport, it’s me Frankie. Do you still have that video from Barbados?”
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Frankie couldn’t sleep. She kept checking her phone to see if the gossip blogs had picked up the news yet. And when it finally landed on her newsfeed at seven, she danced a boogie in her kitchen.
There, on screens across the city, Margeaux screamed obscenities and drunkenly brawled in the pool with Taffany. There were hundreds of comments with more pouring in every minute.
Frankie danced over to the whiteboard she’d set up in her living room.
Step One: Discredit Marge.
She crossed it off with a flourish. And eyeballed step two. She was going to need some armor for this one.
She plucked the gift card off the board and dialed.
“Hi, I was wondering if Christian could squeeze me in today? I’m going to war.”
An hour later, she was in a swiveling chair in front of a gilt framed mirror in a salon she couldn’t afford. Christian was frowning at her tresses as he shoved his fingers through them. “You were supposed to come back last month,” he chastised her.
“I didn’t have to go into battle last month. Make me gorgeous and invincible.”
Christian snapped his finger in the air. “Makeup!”
She kept an eye on her bag next to Christian’s workstation as he and his minions set about endowing her with female weaponry. The smokey eye, contoured cheekbones, those gorgeous lowlights, and finally a blow out that made her look like she belonged inthered dress. If this didn’t crush her enemy like a bug and prove irresistible to Aiden, she was going to swing by the shelter and get her first two cats… and then ask Gio if she could move in with him since she could no longer afford rent with no job and no degree.
Great. Really solid Plan B. But she was hoping that there’d be no need for it. She had a lot—everything—riding on Plan A.
“Christian? Christian’s miracle workers?” she said, looking at the stranger in the mirror. “You guys are the shit.”
She high-fived them down the line and handed over Aiden’s gift card. Christian shoved an appointment card at her. “See you in six weeks.”
“I’ll be here,” she said decisively. Positive mental attitude. She would win. Or she’d be curled in the fetal position being eaten by cats.
