"Dating sucks." - from the bullet journal of Paige Wilson

***

Someone pinch me. The perfect man existed. After years of hopeless encounters, blind matches, and the full body shudder that was online dating, I'd finally found him.

Then he ghosted me.

You heard that right. Elijah Saunders, III, the rich, successful entrepreneur who lavished me with attention for an entire month, up and vanished. No texts. No snapchats of his abs, which were spectacular by the way. No flirty tweets. Nothing. He thrust me head first into a social media Bermuda Triangle where doomed relationships are never heard from again.

I was pissed. Seriously pissed.

My friend Becca shook her head in pity and stirred the chocolate sauce at the bottom of her iced mocha. "Maybe he's dead."

"He's not dead." I punctuated the statement with my straw, sending droplets of caramel macchiato shooting across the table. "He's a jerk who doesn't know how to break up with a woman in a respectful manner."

Becca wiped coffee from her cheek and made a face. "Maybe he's scared of being assaulted by a plastic straw. Ghosting you is safer. I'm considering doing it to you right now."

I lifted a brow. "You wouldn't last a day. You've already texted me ten times since this morning. You're codependent and you know it."

"Good point." Becca sipped her coffee, sucking around the ice filling her cup. "Besides, if we stopped being friends, I'd have to give back all your stuff. I'd literally be cutting my wardrobe in half." She tossed a wave of thick blond hair over her shoulder and revealed the edges of my favorite silk scarf.

"Hey, I was looking for that. That scarf is expensive!" I threatened her again with my straw. She didn't even flinch. "It wasn't on the clearance rack. I paid full price."

"I know. It's why I love it. Plus I think the green silk matches my eyes."

It didn't match her eyes. Her eyes were brown. But, that hardly mattered. What mattered was my hurt and humiliation circa the last week of silence from Elijah.

"Seriously, Bec, what am I going to do? I can't let him get away with this. There's that little thing called pride I used to have." I groaned and dropped my head onto the table. Becca rapped her knuckles on the polished wood, and I peaked at her from my slumped position.

"Listen up, Paige. You have to go over there. Preferably with a baseball bat and a jar of tomato sauce. I distinctly remember you telling me about his tan leather couch. People with expensive furniture always have to be on their best behavior or risk defacement with a jar of tomato sauce. Elijah broke the rules. You know what you have to do."

"I'm not going to deface his couch. He'd probably bill me for the damage and send me straight into bankruptcy. And I'm not filing bankruptcy because of tomato sauce. It will be because I overspend on shoes and fancy cheese like everyone else."

Becca snorted. "It's only a matter of time then."

"Exactly."

I rolled my head onto my arm and stared at the pattern on my cardboard coffee cup. I should go over there. A confident woman would step out from behind her phone and confront him face to face. After all, generations before me had been having uncomfortable in-person conversations since the dawn of time. And that was exactly my problem. I deserved a proper breakup, not some vanishing act. I needed to hear the obligatory, 'it's not you, it's me' or some other phony line that at least let me move on with a false sense of dignity. I needed to speak my peace. Tell him he shouldn't treat women this way, if not for me, then for the next woman to cross his path. I had a duty. A calling. A—"

"Are you going to finish that?" Becca eyed my still full cup of coffee.

I nudged the cup in her direction. "You interrupted my rage thoughts. But, go ahead, finish my drink."

Becca squinted in disgust. "See, this is what I'm talking about, Paige. You're a pushover. Don't let me take your drink. Suck it down right in front of me. Burn the roof of your mouth before you let me have the last sip. Go over to Elijah's." She paused and waved a manicured hand at my dejected form. "Do something with your hair first, but then go over there and give him a piece of your mind. Show him what he'll be missing. I'll let you borrow that new dress I bought. He'll drool and then you'll storm out of his apartment like a badass."

"You think I should?"

"Yes." She reached for my cup and her words dug deep inside me. I was being a pushover, letting some guy take advantage and walk all over me. Not today. I swatted at her fingers and brought the cup to my lips. Hot coffee scalded my tongue as I tipped my head back. I should have sipped slower. Proving a point was turning out to be painful.

"That a girl." Becca nodded in approval, then frowned. "Though, I kind of did want the rest of your drink if you weren't going to finish it."

I slammed the cup down. It made a hollow thunking sound. With a fresh infusion of caffeine flowing through my veins, I made myself a vow. Elijah Saunders, III, couldn't just ghost a girl and get away with it. I wasn't going to let him.

***

I smoothed my borrowed dress, holding the hem down as a gust of wind sailed down 34th street. My Uber was late and each minute made me second guess myself. It was a least a twenty-minute drive uptown. By then, I might have changed my mind completely, so this Uber needed to get here now.

Bouncing lightly in my heels, I tried taking a calming breath. I'd styled my hair, letting my loose curls pool around my back, instead of my usual Saturday morning ponytail. A slick of peach gloss covered my lips, and I even put on a little mascara. I didn't want to look like I was trying too hard. Better to go with a few strategic enhancements, than a full-on makeover. I'd seen enough romcoms to know that the makeover scene is swiftly followed by some form of abject humiliation or a mean girl spilling her drink down the front of the lead's dress. I didn't need to tempt fate.

A gray sedan pulled up to the curb and parked. The driver rolled down his window, and I checked his face against the profile on my phone.

"Sorry, I'm late," he said as I climbed into the back seat. "Traffic is a nightmare this morning."

Great. The twenty-minute drive will probably be thirty. I buckled the seat belt, mentally telling myself that once I was strapped in, there was no getting off this ride.

"You're headed uptown?" The driver checked his screen. "The Rochester building? Nice place." He gave a slow whistle.

It was nice. A whole lot nicer than the six-hundred-fifty square foot apartment I shared with Becca. Elijah's apartment didn't have chipped paint and a dishwasher that made a booming sound every time you ran a load. The Rochester building had polished floors and gleaming arched windows. An elevator that didn't groan and get jammed between floors, and above all, it had a rooftop deck, with freaking potted palms. I'd tried to grow a fern in a container on the fire escape outside my window once.

It died.

Quickly.

Someone knocked on the window, and I turned in my seat to see Becca's face pressed against the glass. I nearly jolted from my seat.

"Open up. You forgot something."

I hit the button and the window lowered enough that Becca could thrust something into my hands. My fingers closed over the glass jar. I tried to shove it back through the window.

"No way. I don't want this."

"Put it in your bag, Paige. It's plan B. Always have a plan B. That's the Girl Scout motto."

I sighed and grumbled under my breath, "Be prepared. That's the Girl Scout motto. Though, I don't think they give out badges for vandalism." I looked up and caught the driver watching me through the rearview mirror. Our gazes locked and I had the sudden urge to explain. I clutched the jar of tomato sauce to my chest and tried to look innocent. Stories of catering and cooking competitions filtered through my mind, but somehow I blurted out the truth instead.

"I'm going to visit my ex."

His eyes widened. "Ah, I see. Well, keep the lid on. I just had this car detailed."

Becca slapped the hood of the car and told the driver to step on it. He listened like she was the one who'd paid his bill and pulled into traffic. I think he just wanted to get rid of me as soon as possible.

The jar of sauce wouldn't fit in my bag, so I held it in my lap. Was there anything more ridiculous than preparing to tell off the jerk who dumped you while holding store-bought marinara? By the way the driver kept shooting me glances, I didn't think there was. I supposed I should count myself lucky that Becca wasn't tagging along with the baseball bat.

Thirty minutes of awkward silence later, he parked in front of the Rochester building.

"You look hot," he said from the front seat. "You'll be fine. Just make sure you get a good arc on the sauce."

"I'm not going to really use it. I'm an adult. I use my words."

"Sure, you do. A well-crafted speech always teaches a guy their lesson."

Sarcasm dripped from his lips, and I held up the jar, pretending to unscrew the cap while sitting on his freshly detailed upholstery. He lifted his hands. "Save it for your ex. You'll be glad you did."

I climbed from the backseat and stepped onto the sidewalk. The sun beat down, sending waves of heat radiating up from the pavement. It wasn't even noon and the air was sticky and thick. Summer in the city. Frigid air conditioning was only a few steps away inside the high-rise apartment building. The driver gave me an encouraging thumbs up, then dove back into traffic. I felt stranded, still strapped into the roller coaster as it click-clacked up the first incline.

My heart thudded as I pulled on the brass handle and stepped into the pristine lobby. The doorman's desk was empty, and I was glad because I'd only seen him in passing. I hurried to the elevator, hoping to avoid having to explain myself or worse, be sent away. There was something worse than confronting your ex with a jar of sauce, it was getting turned away at the door. 

The elevator dinged, and I breathed in relief as the doors closed and the lift began to rise. Music piped in through overhead speakers. The soundtrack to my upcoming confrontation was a soft jazz. Not very fitting, but it was all there was.

When the doors parted, I stepped onto the tiled floor. My heels clicked down the wide hallway toward Elijah's apartment. The Rochester building had only recently opened and while all of the units had been sold, many of them remained vacant while final remodeling took place. Elijah had been one of the first residents and while he did have a few neighbors, it was still eerily quiet. It was odd how even surrounded by immense luxury and fresh paint, the empty floors and silent hallways gave me the creeps.

I stopped in front of Elijah's apartment, took a few breaths, then pushed the bell before I could talk myself out of it. The chime echoed deep inside the apartment. He didn't come to the door. I tapped my heel, focusing in on the little peephole. Was he on the other side of the door right now, peering at me? Just in case, I tucked the jar behind my back and adjusted my purse over my shoulder. A minute passed and I pressed the bell again. Something thumped inside the apartment. The jerk was home, ignoring me still! I pounded my fist on the door, surprised to find it creak open.

"Elijah?" I called into the shadowed foyer. "I know you're in there. It's Paige. I'm coming in." Silence met my statement, and in my mind, I actually pictured him looking around, desperate to find a hiding place. Too bad, I wasn't leaving until we'd talked. Slipping down the narrow corridor, I peeked into the living room. The open floor plan widened into the kitchen. He'd drawn the curtains and track lighting illuminated the space bouncing off the stainless steel appliances. Granite countertops held various gadgets, and in the corner near the sink was Elijah's favorite device, his espresso machine. The scent of freshly brewed coffee filled my nose.

"You can come out, Elijah. I know you're here. You left the espresso machine on."

Nothing. The quiet made me uneasy, sinking into my bones. I wanted to yank back the curtains and let the sun in.

"Stop ignoring me. I just came to talk." I set my purse on the counter and placed the jar of sauce next to it. A creak from the bedroom made my head turn. "Elijah, stop playing around!"

Annoyance speared through me. He was being childish. I started to move toward the sound, but something on the floor caught my eye. A sock peaked out from behind the kitchen island. Not just a sock, but one with a foot inside. I stared at the foot. My brain was slow to catch up as I rounded the counter and saw Elijah lying on his side. His eyes were open, sightless, staring up at his beloved espresso machine. Blood had pooled on the checkered tile. I swayed on my feet, feeling a rush of nausea climb my throat.

Elijah was dead.

And if he was dead on the kitchen floor, then that meant...

Footsteps vibrated over the wooden floorboards, coming closer to the kitchen. I turned and saw a flash of movement, a raised hand, gloved and holding a handgun.

It fired.

I closed my eyes. Glass shattered and something sharp pounded into my shoulder. The fiery ache spread and my knees turned to water, sliding out from under me. I sank to the floor, dizzy with fear and pain. This was it. This was how I died. Not old and gray surrounded by family that loved and cherished me, but on the cold tile floor of the man who'd ghosted me.

Dating really sucked.

My fingers groped at the wound, coming away wet.

Yup, I thought as I lost consciousness, I'd definitely been shot.

***

A/N: Hi everyone! Thanks for checking out my new book. I hope you enjoyed the first chapter. Let me know what you think in the comments <3  I'll have the next chapter ready to post soon!