Free 2 Months 'Til Mrs. (2 'Til Series) by Heather Muzik Page B

with an abysmal
station committed to soft rock dedications through the dark of the night. Driving
on autopilot, she’d used her conscious energies on sobbing, sniveling, and
singing; comparing herself to the losers trying to win back their exes using Rod
Stewart and Journey. But at the same time she wondered just how long it would
take to drive to Nekoyah and where she could get her hands on a boom box,
because everyone knew that the proper way to win back the love of your life was
John-Cusack style, by way of Peter Gabriel. It was only by the grace of God
that she hadn’t gotten pulled over for breakup driving—following too closely,
abrupt breaking, dipping below the minimum speed limit, crossing lanes without
a  blinker, riding on the reflectors for miles at a time.
    Her phone came to life, vibrating beneath her with the
strains of a song she couldn’t recognize what with all the cushioning and clothes
in the way. She grabbed for it, reaching in her pockets and then fishing in
between cushions, finding several stray popcorn kernels and some spare change that
was probably left over from an old relationship. She reached the phone that was
wedged tightly and yanked it free. By this time she was breathing heavily from
all the squirming around— God I’m out of shape . She tried to peer at the
name and number on the screen but she couldn’t see anything on the small
display, making her wonder if her contacts had fallen out of her eyes in the
night— or maybe I cried them out . She fumbled with the buttons, trying to
turn off the phone. She wasn’t in the mood for a conversation with anyone right
now. She just wanted the noise to stop.
    “Hello?” a faraway voice called out to her.
    Damn you, big bumbling fingers!
    “Catherine?”
    Her heart started beating double-time. Of course it
was him. “Brown Eyed Girl” was his song for her and so she’d made it her
ringtone for him. She’d always hated her brown eyes, wishing she had a more
unique shade of blue or green or blue-green—basically anything less shit
colored. But Fynn always made her feel special, even sang that song to her
during karaoke when his sister insisted on that as her birthday outing, saying
her gift was getting to watch him suffer.
    “I can hear you breathing,” he said plainly, a slight
uptick of frustration noticeable.
    She quickly held her breath and debated hanging up the
phone. She wasn’t ready to talk to him. She wasn’t sharp enough straight out of
sleep, or even certain of what she wanted or needed to say. Her head was too
foggy and her eyes, well, she was blind.
    “Seriously?” Fynn asked. “You have nothing more to
say? Shit is going to be your last word to me?”
    “Excuse me?” she played dumb, wishing her voice
sounded less I-just-woke-up and more I’m-trying-to-place-where-I-know-you-from
(considering all the other men who’d been calling her since the breakup).
    “I was returning your call,” he said, enunciating
slowly and firmly. “I just got in.”
    That one hit below the belt. Just got in? I’ll see
that and raise you…. Thinking as quickly as her sluggish mind would allow,
she said, “Hold on a second, I was in the shower and I had to run for the
phone. I’m dripping wet.” Take that! She hoped picturing her naked would
be like a knife to his gut, just like imagining what he’d done last night was
doing to her. Where the hell did he go? Who was he with all night? Did he up
and screw the first girl he saw? The thought just about killed her even
though she had given him—both of them—license to do just that. Too bad she
hadn’t thought of doing it. She pulled the phone from her ear for thirty
seconds, the longest seconds ever, and then put it back in place again. “You
still there?”
    “Yeah, I’m here.” His voice was strained but steady.
    “How are you doing?” she asked, cringing in
expectation of the answer. That damn Catherine Marie and her automatic
pleasantries. This was not the time for