Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 63862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 319(@200wpm)___ 255(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 319(@200wpm)___ 255(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
“Then why don’t I remember anything?” I asked, but my voice was more sad than angry. Like the balloon of outrage in my chest had finally popped.
“You celebrated hard after,” Harrison said.
That would explain why I’d seemed somewhat sober in the video.
“Well, regardless of how drunk I was or wasn’t, I don’t want this. So sign the damn papers,” I demanded. I got up from the table and started to gather my things from the penthouse.
I’d planned to stay in Vegas for at least another few days. Now, I couldn’t stand the thought. Hell, he might have ruined Vegas for me forever.
I didn’t know where I was going. I was on the road so often that I didn’t keep a house or apartment anywhere. But I needed to get the hell out of Nevada, that was for sure.
It wasn’t until I’d found my suitcase, purse, and carry-on and shoved everything lying round inside it that I looked at Harrison again.
He stood at the table, his fingers on the file folder.
“Did you sign it?”
“No. And I’m not going to.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“I am. I don’t want an annulment.”
“Well, my attorney said you can’t force me to stay married to you.”
“Not indefinitely, no. But maybe just for long enough.”
“Long enough for what? You know what? No. Don’t answer that. I don’t care. You’ll be hearing from my attorney.”
“Where are you going?”
“Leaving.”
“Vegas?”
“Yes. I’m done with this entire freaking town. Don’t be an idiot, Harrison. Look over the papers. Sign them. Then we can both move on with our lives.”
With that, I grabbed my rack of chips and stormed out of the room, slamming the door on this really awful day.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I normally enjoyed the process of cashing out—the thrill of knowing just how much I’d won, of figuring out how much would be in my savings or investments after I paid taxes.
It was just a chore as I waited for the check and then hauled myself across town to deposit it at the bank.
Everything felt like it was taking energy I didn’t have. Each footstep was weighed down. Every muscle objected to any movement. The headache that had started to ebb came back with a vengeance.
As I waited for yet another coffee, I started looking for a flight home to Jersey. Whichever one was leaving soonest.
Then, I took a ride-share out to the airport, four hours early for my flight, but I had nowhere else to be.
I binge-ate junky airport food, took some ibuprofen, chugged some electrolytes, tried to nap through the noise and chaos around me.
Luckily for me, half my life was spent in airports or on planes. I could sleep just about anywhere.
Each time I jolted awake, there was a moment of blissful confusion. Then, of course, it all came flooding back, ratcheting up my anxiety until my sleep became fretful, full of weird dreams that left me feeling dizzy and frazzled when it was finally time to make it to my gate.
To get home quickly, I’d needed to settle for a middle seat in economy. No legroom, no shoulder room. No view.
And, well, I was between a husband and a wife—one with an infant, the other a toddler. Neither was happy. And the parents did not want to switch seats with me. The dad, because the toddler wanted the window. The mom, because she needed to have easy access to the bathroom to change the baby, pump, or to walk up and down the aisles.
I tried not to be frustrated about noisy, unhappy kids on flights. Families needed to get somewhere too. Typically, I could stick an eye mask and some noise-canceling headphones, on and I was good to go.
But with the hangover, everything felt heightened. The sound of their little cries and shrieks felt like hot pokers through my skull. The light as the toddler pulled the shade up and down felt piercing. The constant brush of the parents’ arms on mine felt like sandpaper.
It wasn’t their fault that I was so miserable.
But, God, I felt so emotional, so overly sensitive, so over everything and everyone.
I put my sunglasses on and curled my arms in as tightly as possible.
I focused on my breath, on keeping my eyes squeezed shut, because I was pretty sure if I opened them, the stupid, useless tears would start flowing. Then the infant and I would both be losing our shit.
“Excuse me, miss?” a friendly voice that could only belong to a flight attendant called. “Miss?” she tried again when I figured she might be speaking to the mom.
Steeling myself for an interaction I didn’t want, I pulled my sunglasses down.
“Yes?”
“Miss, we have a seat available for you in first class. If you would like to move, you can bring your things right this way.”
She moved back as she said it, like she knew there was no way someone in my seat would turn down a first-class seat.