Wendy
She hadn’t been able to let it go. First Simone, then Boots. Women she’d once counted as allies, dragging her for filth.
And for what? For standing by her morals? Doing the right thing? Refusing to back down? Such a strange betrayal—watching strong women turn on one of their own.
And yet… was there some small glimmer of truth to it? Was it possible? Was she the problem? No. They’re the fucking problem.
Either way, she’s here. At Icons. Crossing the bar, four inches taller in Gianvito Rossi boots. Looking for something. Closure? Redemption?
She spots him behind the bar. Sleeves pushed up. Still too handsome. Too hot for his own damn good.
“Shane. Can we talk?”
He doesn’t look up right away. Just finishes the pour like he hasn’t heard her. Like he’s still deciding whether to even give her the time of day.
“You sure that’s a good idea, Wendy?”
“No. But I need it to be.”
He sets the bottle down with a quiet clink, wipes his hands on a bar towel, and finally meets her eyes.
“Floor’s all yours.”
Then Wendy says it. Forces it. Those two impossible words: “I’m sorry, Shane. For everything.”
He holds his breath a second too long. Then lets it go. “I’ve thought a lot about us. About what went wrong. And I need to be honest in a way I wasn’t before.”
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For fuck’s sake. Here it comes.
“What happened… it wasn’t all on you. I should’ve been clearer about my feelings. I cared about you, Wendy… but my heart was never fully yours. It was always split.”
Motherfucker. You motherfucking piece of shit bastard—
“You deserve better than that,” he says, asking nothing. Offering less.
Token apology. Kinda backhanded. Not as nice a guy as he thinks.
“I get it,” Wendy lies. Her voice catches, but she pushes forward. “And maybe… maybe I need to work on myself. I’ve always had this temper. A short fuse, or whatever. It’s a pattern. Pushing people away. But I don’t want to be her. That woman.”
She watches his face for a flicker of agreement, or softness, or anything.
“That means a lot,” Shane says. He hesitates, as if weighing how much truth to give. “Just so you know. Raf and I… it’s over.”
Wendy’s eyes widen just a fraction. “Shane, I’m so sorry.” She says it smoothly, with just enough warmth to pass. But her lips betray her, just the faintest curl at the corner.
Over. It’s really over. She’d hoped it would end. Hoped the rage would scare Raf off. Now, looked like she was finally out of the way. Regret is such a fleeting thing…
Wendy’s mind slips. Back to another time. Another life on the East End. She was fifteen. Trailing her mother through beach clubs and back roads, watching Terry cycle through one more summer of men. The one who stuck? A movie producer. Slick. Rich. Clueless. Didn’t know Terry had a husband. Or a daughter. Or that the daughter was spying.
Wendy hadn’t meant to get involved. But that July, in a club on Spring Street, she saw him again—of all people, in all places. Alone.
She flashed him a not-so-innocent glance, mascara doing half the work. A smile—that sexy secret smile. By midnight, she was in his loft. In his bed. In his arms. In the morning, after round two, reaching for her bra, she let it slip: “By the way… I’m Terry Deerwood’s daughter.”
She watched his face drop. She gave a wicked little laugh, still sexy, but no longer secret. Then stepped out onto the sunlit cobblestones of Desbrosses Street, flagged a cab, and made the Jitney just in time, smiling to herself the whole way home.
She knew he’d never call Terry again. But that wasn’t the point. It was never about him. It was never about her mom. It was about proving something to herself.
Shane and Raf? Same story. Different names. And while Boots’s words still echo, Wendy’s not quite certain. Maybe The Wendy Show isn’t such a bad thing. Maybe burning bridges is worth it… if it gets you exactly what you want.