Page 71 of Playing to Win

I interlace my fingers and push my hands out until my knuckles crack.

The worst part is, if Brooks is reading this, he’s still trying to deceive me. He still thinks I don’t know that he carried this woman to his bed last night and kissed her good-bye this morning.

[IMAGE]

If you’re reading this, girl with the pink hair, and Brooks did the dirty on you, I’m so sorry. I had no idea you existed. I have never, nor would I ever, intentionally cheat. If you’re reading this and you, Pinky, did the dirty on me, I consider you the filth that lines sewage drains, just like your lover.

Well, Brooks Adams, you ain’t never caught this girl and you ain’t no friend of mine.

Ha, that’s witty. Very funny, Izzy. Very funny.

I’m too drunk to bother with spell-check, so I move my cursor to the Submit button. There’s a part of me that knows this is childish and petty. There’s a part of me that doesn’t want to humiliate the man I had come to respect. But I remember, he was lying to me the whole bloody time, and I click the button to publish the post.

I stare at the screen, waiting for the moment to come, the moment when I feel a thousand times better about this whole situation. It doesn’t come. In fact, I think I feel worse. Now the world knows I’m a fool, as well as someone who has to try all the worst tricks to get people to buy her book, someone who doesn’t even follow her own advice.

I finish the wine and ice cream and watch the credits roll on P.S. I Love You. Then I hit play on Bridget Jones’s Diary, because at least she will understand how I feel.

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