I reply again to Hazel.
Rachel: I haven’t had a customer in twenty minutes. Hence I’m at my store, texting my friend, and contemplating baking brownies for the spa owner up the street to bribe her so she keeps sending me business.
As she’s replying, a text from my mom pops up too, but the bell above the door tinkles.
Hurrah!
With the enthusiasm of a marching band, I put down my phone and focus on the customer—a handsome man with some gray in his beard. He wears a tailored suit and sports an expensive watch and a platinum wedding band. I can read him from a mile away—he’s here to buy something for his wife.
Hey, big spender. Come to mama and open your wallet.
“Welcome to Bling and Baubles. Let me know if I can help you with anything,” I say. I’m closing in five minutes, but I don’t mention that. I’ve never understood why some shopkeepers make customers feel unwelcome even if they come five minutes before closing time. Last time I checked, five minutes before closing time was still, you know, open. Why make someone feel bad, especially if they might buy something from you?
He walks to the counter with the commanding stride of a man who gets what he wants. Like Edward does. “I’d love some help,” he says. “I need a little something for my wife. I missed her birthday last week.”
Like Edward did when he was visiting his other family.
“Oh. That’s too bad,” I say, trying to strip the how the hell did you miss her birthday from my tone.
“It happens. I was out of town,” he says with an I can’t be bothered shrug.
That was what my ex told me too.
Dick.
“That happens,” I say breezily to cover up my irritation.
“I had business meetings that ran unexpectedly long.”
Sounds so familiar. Does she believe you? Has she believed you for years, like I did? I want to shout. But I don’t, asking instead, “What would you like to get her, then?”
He waves a hand airily, a man who can dismiss his indiscretions with money. “Something that says I was missing her. And I’m so sorry.”
How about half your worth in the divorce you’ll be getting?
“I’m sure you’re very sorry. Perhaps a lovely necklace with a dollar sign on it?” I ask brightly. Or was that sarcastically?
He blinks. “Excuse me?”
Shoot. “I apologize,” I say, meaning it. I can’t take my hurt out on a customer. “Let me show you some necklaces,” I say, then I steer him to a display shelf. “Here’s a pretty pendant with a flower on it.”
“She likes lotus flowers.”
I touch my naked neck absently, remembering when Edward gave me a similar one more than a year ago—with a rose on it. Your favorite flower, he’d said. But those aren’t my favorite flowers. I love wildflowers. His other woman must have liked roses.
I grit my teeth and try to fight off the memories. “These do wonders for smoothing away the little things that happen when husbands travel. You know?”
The customer jerks his gaze to me, sneering. “Like meetings? I had meetings.”
“Yes, meetings, of course,” I say, trying to correct my mistake, but did that come out as bitter as the memories?
“They were meetings with my marketing partner,” he adds, then stares at me like I’m a piece of gum on the bottom of his shoe. “I think I’ll shop elsewhere.”
The horror of what I’ve said smacks me in the face, but it takes me a few seconds to recover. “I’m so sorry. The necklace is on me. Consider it a gift,” I call out, trying to fix my mistake.
But with a huff, he turns on his heel and leaves, without the necklace.
With him gone, I lock the door, then slump against it, groaning in misery. I can’t believe what I just did. I sabotaged my own business over a stupid memory.
Pull yourself together, girl.
I head to the counter and grab my phone. I was wrong. I absolutely, positively need this party.
I text Hazel to tell her I’ll be there. I reply to my mom’s have fun at the party text by promising I will have so much fun, then I text Carter and ask if he can give me a ride home from the fête. He only lives five minutes from my place. He replies right away.
Carter: A ride home? Do you mean a ride there?
Rachel: Nope. A ride home. I will need a ride home since I’ll need an extra-large glass of champagne to erase what I just said to a customer.
Carter: Then I am definitely picking you up, too, since I need to hear this.
He’s such a sweetheart. He’s not even thinking about yesterday. He’s moved on. Let that be a lesson. I can move on from my shitty marriage.
Divorce party, here I come.
I send him a calendar invite to pick me up. There. It’s official now.
Burgundy lace bustier or the light blue one with embroidered red flowers? I’m in my bedroom an hour later, weighing the underthing choices post-shower.
The answer? Whatever will make me forget what I just said to a customer.
Did I really say all that marriage sucks and so do you stuff? Yes, yes, I did.
Fuck burgundy. Fuck light blue. I need black lace to match my black heart. I ditch the bustiers, grabbing a new black bra-and-panty set.
They won’t be seen by anyone but me, but that’s fine. Clearly, I shouldn’t be near people this week. This month. This lifetime.
I march—no, stomp—over to my phone and crank up the volume on Amelia Stone’s new tune blasting in my earbuds. It’s a breakup anthem, and that’s what this gal needs.
I blast it loud enough to drown out the last hour of my life as I slide into the panties, then snap on the bra. When I yank open my closet door, I see red.
So much glittery red hanging in front of my other clothes like a diva taking center stage, outshining the chorus girls behind her.
But…how did that get here?
Did I drape that red dress over my other clothes and then forget about it? Do I even own that postage-stamp-size number? I step closer and spot a card with my name on it dangling from the hanger.
I grab it, take it out, and open it.
There is one rule for what to wear at your divorce party—something smoking hot. I took care of an outfit for you, you beautiful single goddess, you.
Juliet must have used her code to come inside and leave this for tonight. Sister’s rights and all, to burst in and leave gifts.
And it’s not just any dress.
It’s a ruby red, sparkly, sequined body-con dress that leaves nothing to the imagination.
This looks like what a teenager would wear to a fuck-me-at-homecoming dance. But I don’t have a teenage-girl body. I flick the card against my palm as I consider the outfit. Then I spot my sister’s P.S. on the other side of the card—Body-con dresses aren’t just for the teens. Women in their thirties with women’s bodies can wear them and slay them.
She can read my mind. She’s always been able to. I run my fingers along the sequined look-at-me dress. “I am not worthy,” I confess to the dress. “I was a supreme asshole today.”
I go on, telling the dress everything, every terrible detail, until they’re all out of me.