Picture Perfect by Lucie Simone

the surface.
    I stand in the doorway, my shadow darkening the bright shaft of light pouring in from the hallway, and I know if Jack comes inside with me, there will be no going back. No longer will I be able to pretend to be too busy to notice how alone I am. No longer will I be able to fill the void in my life by turning imaginary romances into small-screen blockbusters. If Jack comes inside, the illusion I’ve lived for six months will be shattered.
    I will not be okay with being alone anymore.
    Before Jack can edge inside my home (and my heart), I spin on my heels with the speed, but admittedly not the grace, of an Olympic figure skater and slam my palms against his chest.
    He lets out a stunned yelp as he stumbles backward. “Lauren?”
    “I’m sorry, Jack. You can’t come in,” I declare, my arms still outstretched as if I were directing two lanes of traffic. “It’s just better if you go.”
    He straightens, clasps my hands in his and pulls me to him. “Lauren, I told you. I’m not leaving you alone tonight.”
    “Alan isn’t going to hurt me,” I explain, wriggling out of his grasp.
    “I know you think that, but you don’t know what that guy is capable of.”
    “I was married to him for five years. I think I know him better than you do.”
    Jack shakes his head. “I saw him, Lauren. I know what he’s about. And I don’t trust him.”
    “He isn’t evil. He’s just an asshole. He wouldn’t really do anything to hurt me,” I say planting my palm firmly on his chest again.
    There is no way I’m letting him in my apartment. If he gets one foot in that door, it’ll be hell getting him out again.
    Or rather, it’ll be hell having to let go of him.
    He’s all sweet and protective now, but once the drama of my divorce has subsided, there’ll be no more need for his manly presence, and it’ll be time for him to move on to someone more exciting. Someone more appropriate . Like a Victoria’s Secret Supermodel. Because what else could there possibly be between us? Aside from a physical attraction to each other and our mutual hatred of Alan, we really have nothing in common.
    He gently wraps his hand around my wrist. “Come on, now. Let’s not do this. I’m staying the night and that’s that.”
    “No, you’re not,” I say in my most authoritative voice. It must have worked, too, because he retreats, stepping away and letting loose his grip.
    “Fine,” he says, backing down the hallway. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
    “I’m sorry, Jack,” I call after him as he presses the call button for the elevator. I feel as rotten as an old cucumber left in the crisper so long it’s begun to liquefy. I hate myself for getting Jack mixed up in my divorce and I hate Alan for taking things this far. Whatever affection I once had for him has all but evaporated. Jack is right. I don’t know what he’s really capable of, but I hope that much like his aggressive business tactics, he’s all bark and no bite.
    The car arrives and Jack steps in looking as dejected as 1950s housewife on a diet of cigarettes and anti-anxiety pills. But before the doors slide shut, I hear him say, “You don’t know what he’s capable of.”
     
     
     

Chapter 8
    The sound of a loud banging sends my heart leaping into my throat. I peel open one eye, my nerves rattling like the coins strung across a belly dancer’s torso. Six-thirty-three, according to the alarm clock that isn’t set to go off for another half hour. Somehow I managed to get six hours of sleep, though I don’t think I moved a muscle all night.
    The banging continues, and I realize it’s someone at my front door. Again. For the second morning in a row. This can’t be good.
    I slide out of bed, grab my robe, tie it closed, and stumble out to the foyer. I peer through the peephole, and this time, instead of a Sheriff’s badge and brown hat, I see two men in dark suits. They look like tax accountants, but I have a suspicion they’re not here to go over