Trophy Husband Read Free Page A

after
leaving me a voicemail that said he didn’t want to marry me because
he couldn’t picture having kids with me.
    I open my eyes. Take a deep breath. Try to
keep it together. “That was our name.”
    “It’s a beautiful name too,” Amber says.
“She’s such a beautiful baby, and so smart too. She’s with my
parents right now over in Marin. But I miss her and I’ve only been
away from her for an hour.”
    “We’re madly in love with being parents,” he
adds.
    That does it. He might have cut out my heart
with an Exacto blade, but I won’t let him know it’s bleeding again.
I have to get away from them.
    “You should really get back to her then,” I
somehow manage to choke out as I stand up and grab my bag, doing
everything not to trip and fall as I leave my food on the table,
and rush to the restroom, where I slam the stall door and let the
tears rain down. My shoulders shake, my chests heaves, and I am
sure I look like a wretched mess. After several minutes, I check
the time. But I know they’re still out there, so I stay inside this
stall as other patrons come and go. I camp out in the safety behind
this door, registering each minute.
    Until an hour passes.
    Then I unlock the stall, splash water on my
face, and touch up my mascara and blush.
    I don’t feel human, but I can at least pass
for one again. I open the door a crack, spotting the table where he
delivered his latest crushing blow. I thought I was over him. I
thought I couldn’t be more over him. But seeing him with her
reopened everything I thought I’d gotten over by playing Call of
Duty and shooting bad guys every night for the last several
months.
    I head for the counter, pay the hostess for
the food I didn’t eat, and then I leave The Best Doughnut Shop in
The City. Another wave of sadness smashes into me when I realize
I’ll never be able to come to my favorite diner again. He’s ruined
this place for me.
    I’m so ready to go home and curl up with Ms.
Pac-Man for a bit, so I hurry over to my car, where I see a white
piece of paper tucked under the wiper, flapping in the wind. Now I
have a parking ticket? Now my karma bites me in the back? No, this
should be the day when I find a winning lottery ticket on my car,
not a parking ticket.
    I turn around to peer up at the sign. The
white and red sign very clearly says Sunday mornings are free. I
glance at the curb. It’s not red. There’s no hydrant nearby. I scan
the block. Down near the corner of Hayes Street, I see the meter
boy, wearing his uniform of blue shorts and a blue short-sleeved
button-down shirt. I grab the parking ticket and march down the
street to confront him.
    He’s slipping another ticket under the
windshield of a lime-green Prius. “What’s up with the ticket?”
    He turns around to face me and I feel like
I’ve been blinded. He is shatteringly good-looking. His face is
chiseled, his light blue eyes sparkle, his brown hair looks
amazingly soft. I can’t help but give him a quick perusal up and
down. It’s clear he is completely sculpted underneath his parking
attendant uniform. Every single freaking inch of him. He smiles at
me, straight white teeth gleaming back. He’s so beautiful, my eyes
hurt. It’s like looking at the sun.
    My ticket rage melts instantly. My resolve
turns into a puddle.
    “Oh, hi. I saw you earlier when you
parked.”
    “You did?”
    He’s smiling at me, giving me some sort of
knowing grin that unnerves me. He’s probably all of twenty-one,
just like Amber. He does not possess the tire that the men I see –
at the coffee shops or dog parks – wear around their midsections.
No, this fellow owns a pair of noticeably cut biceps and an
undeniably trim waist. Why have I not spent more time hanging
around the meters in this city with its bevy of beautiful, young,
sexy parking attendants?
    “Hey, I’ve got some other cars to deal with.
But call me later.” Then he winks at me. He crosses the street.
    “I didn’t park illegally,” I