Page 17 of Chasing My Bliss (Behind The Lens #6)

Felicity

T hirty.

That’s the number of unread messages I have from Roxy.

Zero.

That’s how many I’ve had from Ezra since he left yesterday.

I called and got his voicemail. Straight to it, to be exact, so I know he ignored my call.

My messages to him are still unread. He’s pissed, and it’s all because of me.

This stupid calendar was supposed to make me some money, not tear us apart.

With each passing day, I feel Ezra slipping away more and more. God, how I regret doing that thing.

Why did I say yes? Even give it a second thought or mention it to Ezra in the first place?

I should have said hell fucking no.

But that’s the thing about regret. You wouldn’t have it if you did the right thing, would you?

My phone vibrates on the coffee table, and I nearly fall off the couch, reaching for it. Heart racing, I snatch it and fall back onto the cushion. I take a moment and breathe, calming my nerves while secretly praying that it’s Ezra finally reaching out to me.

But hope deflates just as quickly as it inflated.

Mom. Not Ezra.

I open her message and groan when I see what it’s about.

Mom: Just a reminder about dinner tonight. 6 sharp. Dress nicely please. Here’s the address just in case you need it again.

Mom: 5492 West Crestmont. You’ll need this code for the gate 56293.

Gate? Code? Am I going to the fucking White House?

Me: I’ll be there with bells on.

I drop my phone to the floor, not even caring that I may have cracked the screen.

My eyes drift over to the wall to check the time on the clock.

It’s one of those large round ones that has slots to place pictures at every quarter of the hour.

Currently, the short arm is on four and the long one is pointed directly at a very toothless baby picture of me firmly planted in the nine slot.

I let out a grunt as I roll off the side of the couch, my knees landing hard on the wood floor. A sharp pain rattles my body as I grimace. Mom wouldn’t care if I was injured and couldn’t walk; she’d come carry me to that dinner herself.

Letting out a sigh, I place my hand on the coffee table and stand up.

I need to shower and dress and get on the road.

If I’m a minute late, I know my mom will have a conniption.

This is our first family dinner. Family.

It’s so hard to think of it as that. I only met Calvin once, and it was in passing.

He was picking Mom up and I was heading out the door.

Heading to my bedroom, I’m trying to think of what I can wear that would be approved by my mom. I packed the majority of the stuff in my room yesterday, so I only have a few things left out.

I open the door to the nearly empty closet and the bare contents still inside it.

There’s just a few worn hangers scraping along the rod as I push them back and forth in frustration.

The sound is grating—plastic on metal, hollow and repetitive—as I slide the clothes with increasing speed and anxiety.

Each piece I touch feels wrong: too casual, too tight.

Nothing in this sad, dwindling collection seems even remotely appropriate for a family dinner that’s sure to be more judgment than joy.

The pressure builds with every second, and I feel it pulsing behind my eyes.

A migraine forming before the night has even begun.

“Ugghhh,” comes out in utter frustration as I stomp my foot on the floor.

I move the hangers again—left, right, back again—like maybe this time, some miraculous new option will appear.

But no, it’s the same tired group. My fingers finally land on the mint green sweater dress.

It's a little too low in the front for family standards, but it’s the closest thing I have to respectable.

The other options? My greasy diner uniform or a pair of ripped jeans with a band tee.

A losing hand no matter how it’s played.

I pull it off the hanger and sigh. Hopefully, Mom is still on her honeymoon high and doesn’t judge me too harshly.

I close the closet and pull my phone out of my back pocket and check the time, hoping there's still time for a quick shower and maybe even time to wash my hair—but the screen glares back at me: twenty-five minutes lost to indecision. Forget washing my hair. I don’t even have time to wash off the sweat of babysitting and packing.

My panic spikes at what to do before reminding myself to calm the fuck down.

The solution is simple. Perfume it is.

I remove my clothes and pull the dress over my head, smooth it down, and dart to the bathroom.

My hair is a disaster, a tangled rat's nest that I wrestle into a messy updo—just neat enough to suggest I tried. A rushed layer of foundation, a smear of eyeshadow, a flick of mascara. No time to blend or second-guess. This is the best it’s going to get.

Picking up my phone from the dresser, I rush down the stairs, thankful I still have my booties from the other day, right by the door.

I quickly put on my jacket and slip the strap of my purse over my shoulder.

I take one final look around, and with keys in hand, I’m out the door.

I pause just long enough to lock it behind me.

The ride to the house is just as chaotic as my time getting dressed.

I hit every single red light, but thankfully I pull up to the gate with five minutes to spare.

I quickly punch in the code to the little box at the gate and watch in amazement as the iron gates creak open with an unsettling ease, like even they know I don’t belong here.

My car eases onto the long, winding driveway, tires crunching over the gravel as the house comes into view.

No—it’s not a house. It’s a mansion . Massive and looming, all pristine white stone and towering windows that glare at me with judgmental eyes.

Sneering at the likes of someone like me even daring to trespass on her.

For a split second, I consider turning around, texting Mom with some last-minute excuse—food poisoning, flu, mental breakdown.

Anything that she would find believable.

But I’m already here. It's too late now. So I just need to pull up my big girl panties and make it through this dinner and then find some reason to excuse myself. Then I’m running like hell out that door, and straight home.

The only stop I’ll make along the way is for some ice cream.

I need comfort food right now. And maybe to drive by Ezra’s house.

It seems I’m a glutton for punishment at the moment.

“Shit, how long is this damn driveway?” I blurt, leaning forward into the steering wheel, peering out the window like that’s going to make a difference.

The closer I get, the more it sinks in. I knew Calvin had money, sure.

But this? This is wealth that gets passed down from parent to child.

Old money dressed up in a modern design.

I almost expect the Queen of England to stroll out onto the front steps with a glass of wine in hand.

Damn, Mom. After everything she’s been through, she deserves some luxury—but this?

This is another planet. And the ticket for the space shuttle to get here is way out of my price range.

Suddenly I’m rethinking what I’m wearing and driving. I’m going to stick out like a sore thumb.

I park behind a sleek, decked-out shiny black Jeep, silently thanking whatever cosmic force made sure at least there is one other vehicle here that isn't a Rolls Royce. It makes me feel slightly less like the poor, bullied heroine in a romance novel. Not that I’d mind feeling like one; they always seem to end up with the hottest harem of men and women sometimes.

My mind quickly thinks of Ezra and Roxy.

One who I can’t get to talk to me right now and one that doesn’t plan to stop texting until she does.

I kill the engine and get out, smoothing the dress over my thighs with clammy hands. My boots clack softly as I take slow, reluctant steps toward the front door, delaying the moment as long as possible.

At the door, I lift the metal knocker and let it fall. The sharp, metallic clack echoes through the quiet evening air. I shift from foot to foot, glancing around at the manicured lawn, feeling smaller by the second. The fucking hedges are cut in perfectly symmetrical shapes.

The door swings open. Enticing warmth from inside wafts out, wrapping around me.

“Felicity. Punctual. I like that,” Calvin says, standing there in a crisp dress shirt and jacket. A confident smirk plastered on his face.

“I try,” slips from my lips while I offer a stiff smile. “Congratulations on marrying the best woman I know.”

God, that sounded dumb. If I wouldn’t look like more of a dweeb, I’d smack myself on the forehead.

“Thank you,” he replies, warm and composed. “And I have to agree—your mom’s a catch. I was lucky.” His eyes have a sparkle to them when he speaks, and I melt a little. My mom deserves to have a great love and I really hope that Calvin is it.

“I have to agree to that,” Mom says, stepping up beside him with a glow in her eyes.

She kisses his cheek, her gaze flicking to me—and then, to my dress.

I see it—the slight frown, the subtle purse of her lips.

She definitely doesn’t approve of my attire.

This isn’t a disaster, but definitely not a win.

I take a moment and truly look at my mother.

Her makeup is perfect, and her hair is pulled back in a sleek ponytail; she’s gorgeous.

Her black knee length dress is gorgeous.

It has a beautiful classic neckline and sheer see through sleeves.

It fits her body shape perfectly and I’ve never seen her look more gorgeous.

“Well,” Calvin interrupts, pulling my attention back to him, “now that we’re all here, let’s head into the dining room. I can’t wait for our kids to meet.”

“Our kids,” Mom echoes with a smile, her entire face lighting up at that. Her annoyance over my dress vanishes.

“Can I take your jacket?” he asks, stepping back to let me in.

I nod, slipping out of my coat and handing it—and my purse—over. He places them gently on a coat rack just inside the door. The interior is just as stunning as the exterior—high ceilings, intricate moldings, and fancy artwork on the walls.

Calvin leads us toward the dining room, positioning himself between me and Mom. His hand finds the small of my back—and then dips slightly lower. Too low for my liking. Instinctively, I step to the side, just out of his reach, and his hand drops.

Suddenly, I’m starting to rethink who my mom married. I shake it off quickly. Stop, before you ruin this. His hand just slipped, or he misplaced it . That’s all. I’m thinking too much into it.

We step into the dining room, and my stomach sinks.

Two people sit at the long, polished table, side by side. One of them turns toward me with a familiar smile that’s anything but comforting.

Fuck!

I know that face.

Too well.