Iced Romance Page 2

  See? I’m not heartbroken. Confidence is an amazing thing.

  Mrs. Lawrence frowns and sits up a bit taller in her seat. “From what I’ve heard, it wasn’t a break up. He was the fox sneaking around the henhouse after midnight, if you know what I mean.”

  Great. Even my 900-year-old neighbor knows that my fiancé is a dirty cheater. I hadn’t thought it was possible for me to feel worse than I did when I climbed the stairs home. Everyone must think I’m a horrible girlfriend, pathetic, unable to keep my man’s interest.

  I shake my head. “No, no, you know how those tabloids are. People will say anything for attention. The truth is—”

  I stop for a moment and think. What is the truth? That he’s scum and I finally realized it? That everything they are reporting in the tabloids is true and I’m an idiot for having believed him for so long? That he’s the newest Tiger Woods of hockey and I wish I had never met the guy?

  “The truth is we just grew apart. He was on the road so much, and I decided it’s time to move on with my life.”

  There. That sounds okay.

  Mrs. Lawrence’s face falls. She seems disappointed. “Well, my bridge club will never believe that,” she says, and despite the awkwardness of the situation, I feel like laughing. Mrs. Lawrence and her bridge club friends are the cutest old ladies. And they always have to know everything about everyone.

  I brush my hair over my shoulder and shrug. “They can believe what they want. It’s the truth.”

  She nods and motions at the cookie in my hand. “Whether or not he cheated is irrelevant, I guess. The important thing is for you to be all right, my dear. Eat up!”

  I take a quick bite and let out a low moan of pleasure. “Mmm, Mrs. Lawrence, these are delicious!”

  The heat from my fingers have melted some of the chocolate chips, and I transfer the cookie to my other hand so I can lick my fingers.

  She beams and refolds her hands in her lap. “Yes, well, it is my secret recipe after all.”

  I close my eyes and take another bite. “I’m going to miss these.”

  “Why? Are you moving out? I figured that Todd would be the one leaving, since he is gone so much anyway.”

  Her eyes are bright again as she leans forward. Her gossip meter must have just gone off, and she’s probably desperate to get some tidbit of information for her bridge club to titter over.

  I can’t give her anything essential. Bare minimum and all that. I nod my head, fighting with every ounce of self control I possess to keep my cool. “Nope, I’m leaving, but it’s because I want to. I’m going to branch out, see new places. Part of moving on with my life is moving to a new city. I’m excited for the adventure.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “New Mexico.”

  The lie comes easily but I don’t feel guilty. In case Todd ever asks her, I don’t want her to know the truth. I want to disappear into thin air and have a normal life, with him left behind, wondering what went wrong.

  “New Mexico?” Her eyes widen and she shakes her head. “That’s just a desert. A little pale thing like you won’t last long. You can’t go there; it’s the middle of nowhere. I’ve seen shows about that place. I think they may even have,” she leans forward and whispers loudly, “Indian groups. It won’t be safe for you.”

  I stifle a giggle. “Yes, there are probably Native Americans there, but they are civilized, wonderful people like you or me. I met some great ones when I lived in Canada. Some of my favorite people were of the First Nations.”

  She frowns and shakes her head again. “If you say so, Kennedy.” Her voice does not sound convinced.

  Maybe I should try a little honesty. I finish off my cookie and wipe my hands on the couch cushions.

  “I want a normal life, Mrs. Lawrence. I hope you can understand that. For the past five years, I’ve been living in the shadows of the high life with Todd. Before then, my parents made sure I always had money and the right clothes, and I’ve never had a real job or anything. I want the storybook life, you know, like in the Sophie Kinsella books. Normal girls, normal problems. I need to get away from all this drama.”

  I glance at the cookies on the counter, but decide against another one. Mrs. Lawrence is watching me, her arthritic fingers clenched in her lap. “You are moving away and starting a brand new life? Are you all right, dear?” Her voice cracks a bit, concern evident.

  I’ve probably said too much. What if she tells Todd even this little bit? I decide to end the conversation right here and now.

  “Look, I appreciate your concern and the cookies and everything, and I don’t want to be rude, but I have a lot to do before I go.” I stand, hoping she’ll get the hint.

  Her brow is still puckered, but she gets to her feet and follows me to the front door. “You be safe, dear. The world is a dangerous place for a pretty girl.”

  Impulsively, I reach out and give her a hug. “Thanks for everything. I mean it. You’ve been like a grandmother to me. Take care, okay?”

  She hugs me back and I feel her thin shoulders tremble a bit. “You too, dear girl. I’ll miss you, but if you ever want to visit, please do. I’ll make you cookies.”

  I hold her for a second more. She wipes at her eyes and I feel a swell of emotion. She is a sweet lady. A gossip, yes. A busybody and a snoop, undoubtedly. But also the only person who seems to genuinely care about me.

  I wish I could give her something, something to let her know what I feel.

  And then I know.

  Just before I close the door, I whisper, “It’s all true, you know. The tabloids and news reports. He cheated, not just with one or two, but last time I counted it was eight or nine different women for sure, probably more. I only found out a week ago. He tried to talk his way out of it, but I’ve had enough. I need to get out of here. And yes, it hurts, so badly that whenever I think about it, my lungs constrict and it’s hard for me to breathe.”

  The look of pity, sadness, joy, and pleasure that floods her face is completely worth it. She pats my hand, says goodbye and then hurries down the hall, no doubt to call one of her girlfriends.

  I close the door, feeling tears prick my eyes. For the first time I said the truth out loud. And the truth sucks.

  Chapter Three

  It’s three o’clock in the morning, two days later, and I am dripping wet, standing in a towel and staring at myself in the mirror. I am due at the airport in two hours for the six o’clock flight to Orlando, but that’s the last thing on my mind right now.

  I don’t like the girl staring back at me. I don’t like what I see.

  My eyes are red and puffy from crying. My bland, brown hair looks almost black with the wetness from the shower. It clings to my head, dripping icy drops of water down my neck. I shudder and grab a second towel from the rack, wrapping it turban style around my hair.

  I’m not a model. I know that. I’ve never been the hottest or the sexiest or anything. I’m the girl next door, the one with the sprinkling of freckles on her nose, the one with the boring brown hair and eyes, the type of girl that people confide in, the type who is everyone’s best friend.

  And typically I don’t care that I’m not the hot, blonde Playboy chick. But right this instant? I do care. All because of that stupid dream.

  I was walking in the door of a changing room, underneath the hockey arena in some unknown city. I distinctly remember the sweaty smell of the locker room, a smell that was soothing for me even in dream form. I was looking for him—he was supposed to meet me there. But I waited and waited, and he didn’t come. I panicked. Where was he? And then I saw him, in full hockey gear, stepping out onto the ice. People cheered and threw roses and teddy bears onto the rink. He threw back his head, laughing, so sure of himself. He looked handsome. Perfect.

  The next thing I knew, I ran toward h
im, happy to see him. And then he turned and I threw my arms around him.

  “Todd!” I had shouted and tilted my head up for a kiss and he frowned.

  “Do I know you?” he asked. And he turned away and waved again at all the fans screaming his name. I kept groping for him, as he got farther and farther away.

  I woke up crying, reaching out across the pillows and covers to his empty side of the bed.

  I frown at myself in the mirror. No, I’m not a model. I’m not the blonde, beautiful girl with a perfect smile and a massive chest. I don’t know what he saw in me to begin with, to be honest. He could have chosen anyone.

  But the thing is, he chose me. For whatever unknown reason, he picked me. Of course, that was back then. Back before he became a household name, before he started making his million dollar paychecks and getting massive endorsement deals. Back when he came into the night club in Boston on a Friday night as a hopeful hockey player, trying to make the cut, and saw me hanging out with a girl in my English Lit class.

  Our eyes met from across the crowded room, and with music pumping loudly around us, he came over and introduced himself. The rest gets blurred from there.

  Things happened so quickly. We started going out, and a month later he signed on to the Edmonton Oilers as a defensive player. He announced one night that he was moving to Canada and asked on the spur of the moment if I’d come with him. I agreed. I was so in love with him and with the idea of dating an NHL player it didn’t matter that I still had a semester left before I graduated. Who cared about that?

  Besides, senior year at university was a lot more difficult than I had pictured it. Plus, with my parents gone and the trust fund they’d set up for me almost depleted, the idea of running away from it all was brilliant.

  And our lives became so happy. Sure, he was gone a lot. Sure, I lived in freezing cold Canada. But things were good. For the first time in my life, I had someone who cared about me. When we were together, details like the weather and his travelling didn’t matter. After a year, he got traded to San Jose, and from there we went to Denver. His paychecks got bigger and bigger and more and more companies wanted him to be the face for their brand.

  More and more women threw themselves at him.

  What happened last week wasn’t the first time there were allegations of cheating and affairs. Not by a long shot. Among many other indiscretions, there was that picture of him and a bimbo in a club that was plastered all over the San Francisco paper when he was there alone a couple years ago. And that one time I phoned his hotel room when he was on the road and a woman answered.

  But Todd had an answer for everything. The woman in the club? His cousin. Why she was kissing his lips? He’d slipped when she gave him a hug and someone had taken a picture right at that moment. The lady who answered the phone in the hotel? A maid who happened to be walking by and heard the phone ring, who got flustered and hung up when I asked for him.

  I grab my mascara and apply it liberally to my tired eyes. Come on, shape up. Stop thinking about Todd, I command myself.

  But wait, a small voice in my head calls out. What if I am making a huge mistake by running away? Maybe I should stay. Todd will be back in a few days bringing flowers and chocolates. He won’t have bought them, definitely not. But he’ll have them. He’ll hug me and kiss me and tell me he was wrong and he is sorry and he won’t ever do it again.

  The tabloids will calm down in a few weeks and things can get back to our version of normal.

  Normal.

  Normalcy is what I crave, but not the “normal” life I’ve been living.

  I angrily shove the mascara brush back into the tube and snatch at my lipstick tubes. Do I want to go back to waiting by the phone, hoping he will call? The sleepless nights when he doesn’t come home? The embarrassment of facing his teammates and their wives and girlfriends when I know that they know he’s cheating?

  Seriously, what is my problem? It’s as if I like to punish myself.

  I choose a bright red shade of lipstick and apply it to my lips, blotting off the excess color with a Kleenex.

  Stupid Todd.

  I can’t believe I am even considering staying.

  I’m done with this.

  Forty-five minutes later I have dried my hair and finished getting myself presentable. I’m wearing my Givenchy pants, a black shirt from Tod’s Collection with gorgeous silver threadwork on the front, and my red high heels to match my lipstick. My hair is dry and wavy, pulled back into a silver clip. I feel okay. I’m still not a model, but I’m okay.

  I stand awkwardly in the living room. My two suitcases are packed with all the designer clothes I could fit, my jewelry (sans my engagement ring that I’d cashed in at the jewelers), four pairs of shoes, make-up, and the blanket my Nanny knit for me years back. I called a cab twenty minutes ago and it should be here shortly. This is it.

  I’m leaving.

  I reach into my wallet and take out my various cards. Credit card, debit card, and check book go onto the coffee table along with the apartment key and my cell phone. I don’t want Todd to track me down easily, nor do I want anyone from my old life to get in touch with me. I’ve already cleaned out my half of the accounts. The bank note for eighty thousand dollars is folded and carefully placed in my purse between my eyeliner and a tampon. And the fifty thousand dollars in cash from the jeweler’s is in an envelope, hidden in the toe of one of my shoes in my suitcase.

  I’m leaving. I am either a genius or an idiot. I haven’t decided yet.

  I peer out the penthouse window, down onto the black street below. No sign of the cab yet. I feel edgy. I want to scream, to trash the apartment and unplug the fridge and do all kinds of damage. I want to leave Todd a nasty note, telling him that I’m gone forever. But I’m not the type of person to kick walls in and break mirrors.

  I reach into my purse to make sure the bank note is still there. It is. Good. I root around with my fingers, feeling for the pack of gum I threw in a few days back. I pull out a piece and tear off the wrapper, tossing it on the floor.

  Yeah, that’s right, I just littered. I’m a tough girl now. I should go out and get a tattoo and a motorbike.

  I stare at the wrapper on the floor and with a sigh I bend over and pick it up. It’s only the cleaning woman I’m annoying if I leave that there. Todd wouldn’t notice.

  I cross the room, drop the wrapper in the garbage bin under the sink, and sigh heavily. So much for getting back at Todd. I really want to do something to him though, to hurt him the way he’s hurt me.

  I wander back into the bedroom. I can hardly believe this will be my last time here. This has been home. It’s been my refuge from the tabloids. I have so many memories here, so many good times.

  My eyes take in everything, from the dainty African violets on the window sill that the cleaning lady waters, to the framed and autographed Alexander Ovechkin jersey that Todd’s had since his twenty-first birthday, his most cherished possession. I’ve always found that odd. Ovechkin is an incredibly talented guy, but he’s on the Washington Capitals, a rival team. However, Todd loves this jersey. I’ve even seen him kiss the frame for good luck before he starts an away-game stint.

  Wait a minute. I stare at the jersey, my hands beginning to shake a little.

  What if I took it with me? It’s not stealing. This is my apartment too, after all. Lots of times in breakups people end up with stuff that wasn’t theirs in the beginning. It’s been five years. How would I be able to remember that the jersey belonged to Todd and not to me?

  I sneak a guilty glance over my shoulder, half expecting to see Todd come striding in the door, his blonde hair tousled from a team practice.

  I am alone with my conscience.

  With an uncharacteristic burst of boldness, I climb onto a chair and carefully lift the frame down. With trembling h
ands, I crack it open and remove the jersey. It is stiff to the touch after having been behind glass for all these years. I carry it to one of my suitcases, open the zipper, and before I lose my nerve, shove it in. I sit on the suitcase to close it again and pull the zipper shut with a flourish.

  I wish I could see his face when he walks into the condo on Saturday night and realizes that his jersey and I are both gone. I wonder which one of us he will miss more.

  I take another glance out the window. A pair of headlights is idling next to the building, the only lights down there except for a streetlamp. That must be the cab. I guess this is it.

  “See you, condo,” I say as I grab my suitcases and head out the door. In a final act of defiance, I leave the door unlocked.

  All right, Florida, here I come.

  Chapter Four

  The airplane is silent and gloomy. My ears have stopped popping, thanks to the full package of spearmint gum I consumed. Most of the passengers around me have put their seats into reclining position to sleep; some snoring, and others tossing and fidgeting. Coming down the aisle, the flight attendant pushes a tray of drinks and those overly salty bags of peanuts.

  I shift uncomfortably in my seat. I try to see past the woman sitting next to me, but she’s shut the blinds on the window and I can’t see anything.

  Air travel is not much fun when you feel hung over. And I didn’t even drink anything! I guess the long nights spent crying into my pillow finally caught up to me.

  The woman beside me moans softly and stretches her arms. “Ugh, are we there yet?”

  I smile, the expression on her face matching closely to what I am feeling. “No, probably an hour left. But we get more orange juice.” I motion with my head to the flight attendant and her push cart.