My Ex Waited In Line For My Autograph

CHAPTER 1 - LET ME GO.

CLEO CLEMENTINE.

“You're free to go, Cleo. Sign this.” Rowan spits at me from the door, dragging me back to the best reality I've been in since this doomed marriage.

Nothing has ever made me happier and more relieved than those words.

Finally.

A drop of tear glides down my face. I take the divorce papers and sign them before he can change his mind. When I'm finally sure both his signature and mine are on the paper, I almost scream into the void.

At God, at him, at everyone available to hear my cry of freedom.

Every single thing I own has been flung out the door, scattered into the street like waste, and as if my luck couldn’t get any more devastating, the cloud decided it was the perfect time to cry.

But that's okay. This is all okay. I'm finally free. This is the only thing that matters to me.

I’m wet from head to toe, with my luggage open and half my things scattered on the wet, muddy ground.

I look at Rowan, who is still standing at the door. Proudly, he has his mistress behind him, who is also mirroring every expression on his face.

I look away from him, my eyes falling to the face of his mistress. She's the reason he's letting me go. After months of trying to make him divorce me so he marries her instead, he finally agrees.

I give her a lazy smile. "Thank you."

She frowns, turns towards Rowan and begins to kiss him, as if to hurt me.

She obviously doesn't know she's doing me a favor.

"Thank you so much," I repeat.

Rowan breaks the kiss and turns towards me. “You’re so boring, Cleo,” he says, throwing out my last piece of belonging at me. It hits my face before falling to the ground.

I swallow hard, but I don't dare take a step, look him in the eye or even breathe too loudly.

“You have always been an aspiring author since I've known you,” he continues. “You couldn't even become that. So useless.”

Without saying a word, I fall to my knees and begin to pack my things.

Not caring about anything but leaving.

I need to hurry and run.

I reach for the last wet piece of clothing on the ground, pick it up, shove it into my luggage, and get back up to find Rowan kissing his mistress, right in front of me. Shamelessly. They are digging into each other's mouths like I didn’t even exist.

Good. Keep him busy for me.

When I take a step away from them, a tear glides down my face. When I take ten steps, another tear glides down with a loud intake and exhale of breath. When I finally disappear into the darkness, I scream until I'm left with no air in my lungs.

~

“A room, please,” I say to an average-looking old lady sitting behind a desk in the guest house.

“We charge fifteen dollars per night for a basic and fifty dollars per night for a standard room,” she announces. “For a basic room, you get a fan, shared bathroom and essential property damage. For a standard room, you get a full air conditioner, TV, WiFi, a clean private bathroom, and gated 24/7 security.”

“I’ll go for the basic room,” I respond, clenching my fist tight.

“How long would you be staying?”

“A week.”

“That’s a hundred and five bucks total. Here’s your key; your room is located straight ahead, at the very end of the hallway. Room 12 is carved on the door. Enjoy your stay.”

I nod at the receptionist before turning around to locate my room, dragging my heavy, water-dripping luggage behind me. I can feel the lady staring at the back of my brain, but I don’t care. I’m literally someone who pulled up at midnight barefoot, wet, and looking like a jump scare; alongside my dripping luggage, I’d stare at me too.

Reaching the room, I insert the key and twist the doorknob. It opens with a click, and I drag my luggage in.

~

THREE DAYS LATER.

I cried three days in a row, without food, water or a shower. Right now I can barely see anything through my swollen eyes as I lay on my back, weak, emotionally exhausted and feeling sick.

I slam my eyes shut to rest them. I had come to a decision: I will become an author. Not just any author, a bestseller.

And the first step to doing that is surviving.

I need to be alive to write, after all.

I snatch my phone from the small table by my bed. It couldn’t ID my face because of my swollen eyes, so I use my fingerprint to unlock it, going straight to my bank app.

To survive, I need to find a place to stay and feed myself until I get a job and my next paycheck, and I need at least a thousand bucks minimum for that.

My thumb hovers over the screen, trembling just enough to misread my fingerprint twice before the bank app finally unlocks.

Authenticating…

I hold my breath, a tiny, foolish spark of hope fluttering in my chest. Since I don’t know how much I actually have and just save every penny, maybe I’d have a thousand bucks or more. Maybe by some impossible stroke of luck, the universe has decided to give me a break.

The dashboard loads. The bright whine interface flashes, and then the numbers appear in bold, unapologetic black font:

$48.99

My stomach plunges off a cliff, figuratively; I feel it drop. The room goes dead quiet, the ambient hum of the ceiling fan fading into a dull, rushing roar in my ears.

I stare at the balance, then I blink, wiping my eyes as if a layer of sleep is distorting the reality in front of me. I close the app, clear my phone’s cache, and open it again.

Authenticating…

$48.99

“Not even close,” I say to myself, knowing that I’m officially f****d.

Now where do I begin?