Those Emerald Eyes

Chapter 2 - Veronica's P.O.V.

Stepping out of the pearl-colored SUV, I squinted and shielded my green eyes with my hand over my brow. The warmth of the early spring sun enveloped me like a gentle blanket, protecting me from the cooler temperatures that would otherwise seep into my bones.

I pulled my blue jean jacket with the attached faux gray hoodie closer to my body. My raven locks swirled as an abrupt breeze blew through the parking lot.

I enjoyed the scene before me—a modest white building with forty units, each featuring its own large, enclosed patio. The charming enclosures reminded me to review the condo association rules when I settled in.

Nothing seemed disorganized or out of place in the patios I spotted from where I stood, so I guess this had something to do with the guidelines set in place.

Moving on from my old life, only hope filled my veins, with no regret infiltrating my heart—except for a sour note that lingered. Hope, however, overshadowed all the other emotions.

I sent up a silent wish for a fantastic start to my new life. Sighing, I mentally crossed my fingers and pulled a taped box from the backseat and held my head high as I strode inside.

The movers would arrive in a few hours, so I hurried to clear out my vehicle. Checking the interior, the hallways and amenities were my main focus. My new home.

Plans to explore the gym, check the mailbox, walk the halls, and possibly meet a neighbor or two in the process excited and overwhelmed me.

Meeting new people isn’t my strong suit. Don’t get me wrong, social finesse is something at which I excelled—but talking to someone for the first time? ‘Awkward as f**k’ perfectly described how inept I felt.

My stomach churned, desperate to push the thoughts of my recent purchase out of my mind. Again, not another one of my unmatched talents. Overthinking is my actual skill. I frowned as I walked toward the elevator, flooded with visions of Blake and the end of our five-year relationship.

He swept me off my feet at age 20 with romance, laughter, and promises of a fairy-tale future, but the bubble burst when I opened the door to OUR room on a weekday afternoon.

A migraine hit me earlier in the day, followed by a fever. I gathered my belongings and left work when my teasing boss held her hand over her mouth and shooed me away as if I carried the Plague.

The short drive to our rambler-style home felt endless as visions of the king-sized bed and sleep called to me.

However, what awaited me in the home I shared with Blake for three years wasn’t a warm, welcoming cocoon of relaxation. It was a nightmare that brought devastation and destruction. The spiral was instant and contradictory. Hollowed out, but reeling in pure agony from the heart-wrenching emotion.

Nausea swelled when the tragic scene played out before me. Limbs moved around on the bed, on my comforter and my pillows, tangled in the bedding I had happily selected, as the room vibrated with giggling and moaning.

Half of those legs and arms belonged to my man, my boyfriend. In an instant, I understood how people suddenly snapped and launched a deadly attack in the heat of passion. I paused for a moment. My headache roared with fury, but uncertain, I walked over to them to warn them of my presence. The illness that waned my strength was buried below the rage that surged in a spike of adrenaline.

“Ahem,” I said, tapping a foot with my hands on my hips.

His head snapped up, searching for the noise, when his gaze landed on me in the doorway. Recognition flashed in his eyes, causing him to stumble over basic vocabulary.

“Ronnie...I…uh...I...it’s not,” he stammered, face stripped of all color, hair flattened against his head. Well, they’ve been at it for a while. Pfft.

I threw my hand up forcefully in a stopping motion. In a calm yet terrifying tone, I spoke.

"Oh my f*****g God. If you even think about uttering the words, ‘It’s not what it looks like, ’ I might have to strangle you. And don’t even try coming up with some bullshit reason. I don’t want to hear it. I’ll send someone to collect my things,” I spat, my voice fused with venom.

A gasp from across the room spun me around. I hadn’t noticed the other party leaping from the bed and cowering in the corner of the room by the closet. I faced his traitorous partner, realizing in that moment that the treachery had reached new heights. I pursed my lips and my heart pounded in my chest.

I blinked back tears that threatened to spill out. The thought of giving these assholes more satisfaction than they deserved pierced me in the chest with a violent sting.

The familiar blonde woman twisted and was caught in the sheets, her hair sticking to her face from dried sweat, and she looked at me in horror. Unlike the stammering jackass, she understood the dangerous situation well enough not to bother with any excuses.

I turned back to Blake. My hand lifted again, but not to silence him. A loud crack echoed through the room as my palm struck his surprised face. I wasn’t even sure when my feet had moved to place me close enough to strike.

“You and this backstabbing slut deserve each other. Based on how trustworthy you both are, I hope you used protection,” I spat.

I intended to hurt them with my vicious statement, but terror slammed into me seconds later. I needed to make an appointment. The woman in bed, my former best friend Dierdre, spent many happy hours recounting her conquests to me and our other best friend, Melissa.Fuck! This could be bad.

The bile rose in my throat, warning that I might vomit. The realization that Blake and I were engaged in an active s*x life.

They risked my health, and I faced the possibility of exposure to STDs because of their indiscriminate behavior. I took birth control, so we stopped using condoms. Melissa enjoyed the freedom of being single too, but she was the queen of safety, whereas Dierdre... not so much. She always conquered in the moment, drunk, unthinking.

Dedicated and faithful. Pfft. Faithful to his d**k. If I have some damn disease, I might even consider murder.

I drove away, glaring into my reviewview mirror only to glimpse my half-naked ex-boyfriend calling after me from the driveway, donning the c*m stained sheet, I assumed, wrapped around his waist. My only satisfaction was the red handprint still throbbing on his cheek.

Devastation consumed my life through endless days of self-pity. One morning, I woke up with another hangover, my room a chaos of dirty dishes and clothes scattered everywhere. I jumped into the shower, trying to wash away the loss and shame, scolding myself for the pathetic weakness.

He wasn’t worth it. How dare he make me spend weeks on cheap wine, Bridget Jones Diary on repeat, and singing awful, depressing love songs? An oldie, but a goodie. Okay, not great since I was a weeping mess. I deserved more and better. He messed up, not me.

How Melissa put up with my s**t while she loaned out her guest room to me, I’ll never know, but I was eternally grateful.

I reflected on my time with Blake. Beginnings are always amazing; it’s what comes next that truly matters. And the reality was that only lust and orgasms bound us together. Blake and I had nothing in common and only came together for “playtime” and family functions. Otherwise, we lived as roommates.

As we moved through our lives, we passed each other in the hallways with a quick hello, going about our days and nights.

We drifted into separate outings with friends, unbothered by our lack of connection, until we found ourselves in passionate embraces at night, holding on tightly. Holding on to the time we invested, knowing it was bound to fail, subconsciously.

The attraction also started to fade, but I enjoyed s*x, and I didn’t find him repulsive, though I didn’t crave him. Don’t get me wrong, he was hot, the s*x was hot, but I never saw him and immediately think I have to have him right now or I’ll combust. The illusion of our love came with a DNR, do not resuscitate.

The shocking epiphany caused a lump in my throat, but it also set me free. I stared at myself in the foggy bathroom mirror and took a deep breath.

“Okay! This stops now,” I chided. And I moved on with my life. It was a lot less simple than it sounded, but given time, it felt like it had been that easy.

Unfortunately, Blake chose not to free me from his grasp. The calls, voicemails, texts, and sometimes emails kept coming—a storm of annoying dings, bings, and chirps on every device I owned.

When I crossed the threshold of my place with my box in hand, three months later, his relentless daily harassment of my phone continued.

"Ahhh!” I yelped, almost dropping my belongings on the floor. Blake’s ringtone blasted out “f**k You” by Cee Lo Green. Yeah, I’m a bit demented.

After declining his call, I looked up his contact information on my phone and blocked him. I shook my head in amazement for waiting so long to purge him from my life completely. I told myself it was to help me keep tabs on him. Tsk tsk! That’s not it. The real reason is the uncertainty of letting go of the past. I sighed in contentment. New home, and he wasn’t welcome.

I grabbed the paper towels, wondering why he was still holding on to me. To my absolute delight, the friends he introduced me to confessed that he and Diedre f****d regularly, still. Not to mention, this started months before I walked in on them.

Probably more than a year ago. He didn’t need me or want me. The feeling’s mutual, fuckwad! He was lucky all my tests came up negative, or I would have neutered him.

I pulled out the Alexa speaker after grabbing the bottles of spray cleaner. Can’t clean without some great music. Nothing beats a dance party while I wipe down cupboards and countertops. I gravitated toward a little ’80s jam session.

My mom’s favorite genre rubbed off on me. Some of my fondest memories are baking cookies and making art projects with random stuff she found, like pinecones.

And always in the background, bands like ‘Journey,’ ‘Foreigner,’ and ‘Starship Jefferson’ permeated the air around us.” Don’t judge me. “Sara” is a classic song, at least to me.

My mom always told me that when I was born, she had wanted to name me Sarah, but the pregnant neighbor beat her to it, so Veronica was what they chose instead. Yet, I still feel a kinship with this song.

Oh, and I can’t forget “Kansas," thanks to the ”Supernatural” intro.

Twisting a binder into my long ebony hair to form a high ponytail, I stripped off my jean jacket and pushed my mid-length green sleeves of the V-neck top I wore up to my elbows. Once my first items were on the counter, I instructed Alexa to play some ’80s music, and I sang along with newfound joy as I wiped down the counters. Spinning and throwing my arms above my head.

Fresh air! I rushed to the patio, slid open the glass door, and repeated the same in all the rooms with windows. The spring air gave a chill, but with all the scrubbing, I was a bit sweaty at this point.

I kept singing the words to “Every Breath You Take” by “The Police” when I heard the slam of a door from the hallway. Curiosity nagged at me as I lowered my voice slightly so as not to scare away whoever was on the other side. I slowly moved to the peephole and peeked out, hoping to catch a glimpse of a new neighbor. My face quickly flushed with shock as I gasped.

Outside my door, with an ear tilted to listen, stood the most handsome man I’d ever seen. He had dark brown, wavy hair that flowed from the top of his head, wildly resting above his ears, and was shorter on the sides and back.

His muscles bulged through a T-shirt and tight blue jeans. His hands were in his pockets, highlighting the defined muscles in his forearms.

I gawked, but embarrassment quickly turned into irritation. He looked up with a definitive smirk. He figured something out. Me. His gaze cut through the glass viewer straight into mine. No, he can’t see me. He thinks I’m watching, or does he somehow know?

A wide smile spread across his full lips, followed by exaggerated, soundless claps of his hands in applause. For my benefit, no doubt. I leapt backwards, ending my imaginary audition at the open mic night for an audience of one.

Shoot me now! And f**k him. And sweet baby Jesus, why me? Well, he can’t see me, so maybe it’s not that big of a deal. He won’t recognize me in he hallway, except I’m a new person in the building on the same floor as him. Ugh!

Why couldn’t it be anyone else but this guy? Not something straight out of a men’s magazine. f**k my luck. Ugh! I fought the urge to kick the door in response.

I went back to work, hoping he wouldn’t knock next, and thankfully, saving me the humiliation, he didn’t. My face now burning red with embarrassment, I cleaned up and let the actual singer take the lead on singing.