Page 62 of The Spite Date (Small Town Sisterhood #1)

WHEN A MAN DOES SOMETHING STUPID…

Simon

It takes forever for the last of my guests to leave, and the moment the door is closed behind the last one, I dash toward my office.

My girlfriend is waiting for me.

I get to show her my bedroom.

Have her to myself the entirety of tonight.

No interruptions.

Just me and Bea and hours and hours and hours of enjoying her body and her laugh and her sighs and her moans and her smiles.

The boys are set, off to a sleepover with Tank trailing them to sit outside the house all evening.

Extra precaution.

Hopefully unnecessary.

And Lana left almost immediately after the boys as well.

There is no one who needs me for anything, except for Bea.

“Boss—” Butch says, but I cut him off with a wave of my hand.

“Everyone’s gone. Bea’s staying. All is well.”

“Boss—” he says again, but I rush into my office, smiling in eager anticipation, only to find it empty.

I spin in a slow circle. “Bea?”

She’s not here. Has she found one of the secret passages?

Unlikely. I warned her that they were cramped, and the entrances aren’t immediately obvious, nor is there an entrance in my office.

Far more probable that she’s gone in search of my bedroom.

And that thought has me smiling even broader as I backtrack, spinning to leave the office.

But Butch blocks the doorway.

“She left.”

I stare at him dumbly. “Excuse me?”

“She left. Half hour or so ago.”

I dig my phone out of my pocket and find zero waiting messages from her. “What? Why?”

He shrugs.

“Did she say anything?”

“Looked like she was crying.”

I stare at him. “ Crying ?”

He nods, and my heart thumps ominously.

Did something happen to one of her brothers?

I dial Bea’s number, and it instantly diverts to voicemail.

I try again.

Same result.

My heart shudders, and the tinny taste of adrenaline floods my tongue.

I dial Daphne’s number.

She answers on the first ring. “Go fuck yourself in the ass with a rusty hanger.”

And then she hangs up.

Panic claws at my throat. I look at Butch again.

He shrugs again.

“Her brothers—” I start.

“No accidents reported tonight.”

I rub my chest over where an ominous feeling is growing.

If something happened to one of her brothers, she would have told me.

Something clearly didn’t happen to Daphne, because she answered and was quite angry.

Which suggests she’s angry with me .

That I’ve done something wrong.

“Did she leave straightaway with Daphne?” My voice has gone hoarse with worry.

“Went into your office with the key.”

“Yes, I gave her the key. How—how long was she in here?”

“A minute. Maybe three, tops. Not long.”

I spin in a slow circle on shaky legs.

What on earth could she have?—

It takes a moment to register the blinking printer light, and the papers haphazardly piled on my desk that should not be there.

With planning the murder mystery on top of my usual work, my office has been a terrible mess, but I picked everything up before dinner.

Dread makes my feet weigh a ton each as I cross the room to my desk.

I spy the first page of the first draft of my script, and everything around me spins in slow motion.

“Did she—did she print this?” I ask Butch.

But she couldn’t have.

Not if she was only in the room for a minute or two.

Not when the script is only on my crotchety, slow, good-luck computer.

Slow or not, it’s what I’ve used since I wrote In the Weeds .

Not even my boys will touch it. They complain it takes orders before you see the orders that you’ve given it, which puts homework assignments at risk of deletion and the wrong websites at risk of printing.

Which means I must have printed the first draft through some incorrect push of my mouse button or keystroke earlier today.

Bea could not have.

She could not have even pulled the document up on my laptop in two or three minutes, even if she’d known immediately where to look.

Not if Butch’s timing is correct.

But if I accidentally printed it—then she could have picked it up.

I dial Lana without thinking.

“Simon, I have a high level of affection for you due to the fact that you’re a very good co-parent, and for the fact that you got me a sober ride so I could get blitzed, and for an unexpectedly fun evening, and I completely understand how hard it’s been for you to see Bea the past couple weeks, but if you’re calling to tell me one of the boys puked and needs to be picked up, I’m sorry, you’re going to have to handle it.

I just got home and I am dead tired and I don’t know how my mouth is still operating. ”

“Have you heard from Bea?”

Silence answers me.

The loud kind of silence.

Not the kind of silence that says she’s fallen asleep.

The kind of silence that says she knows this is not a logical question that I should be asking if everything were perfectly fine in my world.

“ Have you heard from Bea ?” I repeat.

“Oh my god, was she in an accident?” Lana whispers.

“No. No, I don’t think—no. Definitely not. I hope. I—I think she read the first draft of my script.”

More silence.

Louder silence, if that’s possible.

I sink into my desk chair, forgetting that it’s wobbly, and topple right over.

“What was that?” Lana asks.

“You good, boss?” Butch says as he eyes me splayed across the floor.

“I’m fine.” I’m not fine.

Bea’s left.

Daphne wants me to give myself tetanus through my arsehole.

And I think I’ve fucked up the very best thing I’ve ever had.

“Why do you think Bea saw your script?” Lana asks.

“It printed during dinner and was stacked oddly on my desk.”

“You have got to get a new computer and printer system.”

“I’m bloody well aware of that.”

I push myself to sitting and slump against the desk drawers of the bloody awful desk that I should have prioritized replacing months ago.

The handles poke me in the back, but the discomfort is nothing compared to the roiling in my stomach and the pain in my chest.

My eyes burn. “How—how badly do you think I’ve fucked up?” I ask Lana.

“You need to go talk to her.”

“She’s not taking my calls.”

“That’s why you need to go talk to her in person .”

Of course.

Of course .

“Thank you. I don’t—Lana, I don’t know how to do this.”

“Yes, you do. Quit thinking you don’t, and do what your gut is telling you that you have to do for someone you care about.”

My gut is telling me that I’m a fuckup who never should have tried a relationship in the first place.

But my heart is telling my gut to sod off.

I bolt up. “I’m going out,” I tell Butch.

He and Pinky fall into step behind me on my way to the garage.

And I realize I don’t even know where the keys are stored, so I slump into the vehicle’s back seat like the idiot that I’ve become. “To Bea’s apartment,” I say.

When we arrive, my heart attempting to crack my ribs, they insist on accompanying me all the way up to her apartment.

Her bus is in the car park.

Daphne’s car is as well.

I knock politely the first time.

More insistently the second time.

By the third time, I’m pounding, and a neighbor across the hall pokes his head out of his apartment. “Dude. It’s like, after midnight.”

I glare at him.

He slinks back inside his apartment.

I bang on Bea’s door once more, and this time, a very cranky Daphne opens it just wide enough for me to see her face.

“Did you use Bea’s life as inspiration for your script?” she demands before I can utter a word.

I am so very, very fucked.

“I’ll throw it away,” I tell Daphne. “Please. Please, I need to speak with Bea.”

Daphne smiles.

It’s not a friendly smile, nor a kind smile.

This is the feral smile of someone who has absolutely no use for me. “You’ll throw it away,” she repeats.

“The entire thing.”

I will.

Fuck the script.

Fuck the studio.

Fuck the money and the consequences.

Daphne’s no longer smiling, even a feral smile.

“Here’s the thing, Simon. This world you live in?

The one where you have security around the clock for you and your family?

The one where you can afford to throw money around and people recognize you out in public and want to be you?

I’ve lived that life. I’ve known Hollywood it people like you before.

And you can stand there and tell me all you want that you’re different, that you’ll really throw away a script that we both know you’ve already pitched to your studio, but I don’t believe you.

And I’m not letting you anywhere near the woman who saved my entire goddamn life right now because she deserves better. ”

I can’t catch my breath. “ I will throw it away . It—it means nothing to me?—”

“Well, I can promise you, Bea’s life means something to her. Having people like you use it for your own gain—that means something to her too. I don’t deserve her. I know that. And I’ve never stabbed her in the back like you have.”

“It won’t—I’ve fixed it. That was the wrong?—”

“You never should’ve written it in the first place. You should have asked her. You should have fucking asked her .”

“Please. Please let me speak with her.”

“If she wants to talk to you, she knows how to find you. Until then, leave her the fuck alone .”

The door slams in my face.

I lift a hand to knock again, but Pinky grabs it. “Let her sleep on it, boss.”

“Got an audience,” Butch adds quietly.

I swallow the bile rising in my throat.

I want to tell myself that this is why I don’t do relationships.

Because I fuck them up.

Because there’s always a stupid misunderstanding and unrealistic expectations.

But that’s not what this is.

I have fucked up, yes.

This is my fault.

I should have told her. I should have told her where the script began and how I’ve changed it so that no one— no one —will ever realize she was the original inspiration.

That my final drafts seldom resemble their original incarnation, generally because I do take inspiration from real life, and I am very, very aware of how much danger I would be putting myself and subsequently my boys’ well-being in were I to ever be accused of malicious intent with one of my scripts.

Being broke is one thing.

Being destroyed is something else entirely.

And destroying the privacy and sanctity of someone else’s story—someone I love—is an unbearable thought.

I have to fix this.

I have to fix this for her.

If she’ll let me.