Moses
The last two weeks had been hell. Absolute hell.
I woke up that morning in Vegas, alone, but not disappointed. Of course I’d wished I could have said bye to Michaela, held her one last time, kissed my fucking wife, but she left me a note and my pillows still smelled like her, so I laid back down and ran the night through my head.
The sex. The way we’d peeled back each other’s layers and touched the tender pieces. Her skin. The feeling that had come over me when I’d asked her to marry me. Becoming her husband. Making love to my wife. Falling asleep with her body snug in my arms.
I didn’t make rash decisions. My head was as level as they came. Michaela and I had gotten married while drunk, but I didn’t regret it.
I regretted the timing.
I sure as hell regretted that she had my number, but I didn’t have hers.
But I didn’t regret the gold ring on my finger. Not that morning. That came later.
The first phone call came when I stepped out of the shower. I dove for that sucker, hoping like hell it was Michaela. I picked up, breathless, like an overeager puppy.
“Hello?”
“Mo?” The voice was softer than Michaela’s, and something about it sent a shiver down my spine.
“Yes?”
“Oh, baby. I’ve missed you. Have you missed me?”
“Who the hell is this?” I gritted out.
“We met yesterday, in your dressing room. I’m very sorry I was too forward—”
I hung up and blocked her number. How crazy dancer chick had gotten mine was a mystery. I never gave it out. My sister, who was my personal assistant, fielded all my calls on another phone. This one was strictly personal. Maybe twenty people in the world had the number.
Fuck.
A text vibrated my phone. Different number, but not one programmed into my phone.
Mo, I miss you. Don’t ignore me!
I blocked that one too and put my phone on mute. I didn’t want to turn it off, not when I was waiting for Michaela to reach out, but damn, this chick was crazy. She’d ruined my high, brought me right back down to earth.
Two and a half weeks of straight-up bombardment. I had no idea how she did it. Was she cloning phone numbers? The faster I blocked the numbers, the faster she got new ones. Some days, I’d get ten texts from her. Some days, it was closer to a hundred. My phone had become my enemy, and not just because of Crazy Dancer Chick.
Michaela hadn’t called. She was my wife, and I had no way of getting in touch with her.
That wasn’t entirely true. I had Gabriel’s number. I could have called him, asked him to put me in touch with her. But I had pride. It wasn’t a whole lot, but I had some. I knew when I was being blown off.
She’d posted three times on Instagram. The first was the day after she left, a picture of the sun setting over a highway. Her caption: “Leaving old dreams behind to hurtle into the wide awake. Life on the road is all I know.” The second was of her profile and a stage behind her, workers moving around, getting it all set up, with the caption: “Cogs in the machine, making the magic happen. What city am I in again?” The third nearly killed me. It was a full-length picture of Michaela and Jenna Carter-Sotero standing beside a little folding table loaded with sushi. Michaela looked to be in the middle of a laugh, her head tipped back slightly, smile wide and sunny. Her hair was up, skin smooth and bare. She wore a T-shirt and jeans, boots on her feet. Nothing special, but my heart plummeted into my stomach anyway. Her caption: “Nothing better than a mid-tour chat with this queen. She always has words to the wise.”
Michaela was living her life, and I was stuck.
The killer was, I couldn’t talk to anyone about it. My sister was my go-to confidant, but this was beyond anything I could explain. I had no idea where to even begin, and quite honestly, I was pretty sure she’d strangle me if I told her I’d gotten married after one night in Vegas.
So, I’d spent two weeks isolated, lonely, missing a wife I was figuring out I didn’t really know, being tormented by a crazy woman, unsure of what to do.
I came to my breaking point exactly seventeen days after Vegas. It had been a day of nonstop calls and texting—and it was the smiley face that had done it. That fucking smiley emoji made me lose my shit and respond.
Missed me? :) I’ve missed you…
Me:You must be insane if you think I want anything to do with you. That night I met you in Vegas was the beginning of the worst period of my life. Leave me alone. Lose this number. I. DO. NOT. WANT. YOU. We don’t have some special connection. We are nothing to each other. Please, make both our lives a little easier and forget I exist. This is fucking pathetic.