World's Worst Boyfriend: A Romantic Comedy Adventure (Fake It Book 3) Carina Taylor (the first e reader TXT) 📖

fifteen-minute drive home was enough to spend listening to a few minutes of the Bee Best podcast. Zoe texted me, asking if I was free to go out for a drink tonight. I voice texted her back telling her no, that I already had plans. She texted back saying that I had better not have plans with my lame boyfriend.

Ha.

Little did she know that there was no lame boyfriend anymore. I didn’t feel like telling her that just yet. She would gloat. And then she would tell me how she had told me from week one that it was a doomed relationship. And I would have no other option than to listen to her gloating, because she was right, wasn’t she? We hadn’t lasted like I thought we would.

I parked my car, then checked my mail. A notice in the mailbox about a missed package caught my attention. It told me they would attempt delivery another time. Darn that mailman. Was it so hard to walk up the three feet (okay, maybe fifteen) to my front door and leave the package there?

Now I’d have to make a special trip to the post office.

Opening my front door and walking inside, I realized I had a little time left before Mom would get there to pick me up. Which meant I could get something done while I waited. I knew we’d be getting dinner together while we were out, so I didn’t need to waste time scrounging up some random meal to eat like I usually did.

I really needed to start ordering one of those meal kit deliveries. It would be so much better for my health and save so much time.

I walked into the laundry room and stared at the bag holding Fletcher’s clothes. Could I have folded them even though we weren’t dating anymore?

Sure. Yes. That probably would have been the kind, mature thing to do. And then I could return them.

Was that what I proceeded to do?

No, it wasn’t.

I opened the cupboard above my washer and pulled down a pair of scissors.

I opened the mesh bag and looked at the top layer of clothes. There was a white, stained t-shirt I recognized as one he wore fairly regularly. It didn’t matter that it was stained. He’d told me there was still life left in it since it was still holding together.

With a growl, I lifted it from the bag, took the scissors and snipped it in half.

I reached into the bag again and pulled out his collared shirt. The one he was wearing on the night he’d stood me up at the Italian restaurant.

I took several big clips into the sleeves.

He’d seemed extra imposing the other day when he showed up in my garage. His body language had been tense. As though he were actually worried I would get hurt. As if I would take him back based on that. His demands that I not stand on the top of a ladder anymore…didn’t he remember what I did for a living? Probably not, actually. He was so wrapped up in his start-up that he didn’t pay attention to the world around him. Much less me.

I would feel guilty about destroying someone else’s property, except I knew he wouldn’t miss these things. He probably wouldn’t even remember that they were here. I was only going to throw them in the trash anyway—even a thrift store wouldn’t accept such trashy hand-offs.

My frustration and anger at Fletcher faded away with each snip I added to the shirts.

Finally satisfied with my homemade tasseled t-shirts, I tucked them back into the bag, and put my scissors away.

My days as a professional launderer had started out innocently enough. I’d noticed how busy he was with his start-up and switched out his laundry for him while I was waiting at his house to go on a dinner date. (Back when he didn’t stand me up on a dinner date.) It slowly evolved into doing his laundry for him a couple times when I knew he was busy, and pretty soon it had turned into a more regular thing. Actually, now that I thought back on it, there was a direct correlation between how much he ignored me, and how much laundry he brought me. The less time he spent with me, the more laundry he brought for me.

The Bee Best podcast was right: I was an enabler. I’d allowed him to walk all over me.

I picked up the bag and carried it to the front door. I set it next to my outgoing box. It was the box where I put everything that needed to leave my house: items I’d borrowed, things I needed to return, library books, thrift store donations, etc. Well, this bag didn’t qualify for any of that: it was headed straight for my garbage can.

The doorbell ringing made me jump guiltily. Mom was already here.

Before I pulled the door open, I peeked through the peephole, just to be sure. It was a habit Fletcher had drilled into me not long after we started dating.

Squinting one eye, I pressed the other against the door. My contacts finally focused enough for me to see the face on the other side.

That was not my mother.

Fletcher stood outside; a baseball cap pulled low. Sometimes I wondered if I would recognize him without a hat.

I almost opened the door before I remembered what was sitting on my entryway table.

“Oh no,” I gasped as I turned around to scoop up my World’s Worst Boyfriend trophy. I glanced around, wondering where to hide it. Finally, I shoved it under the cushion of the papasan chair that Fletcher hated. He would never sit there. Well, obviously he wouldn’t since we’d broken up. He was only here to pick up his bags of things that were no longer welcome in my house.

The doorbell rang again. I spun around and spied the Bee Best Relationship guide still sitting there.

“I can hear you in there, Saidy,” his muffled voice came through the door.