He has, however, rinsed out his coffeepot, because he’s the only one who uses it. More proof that he’s being an ass on purpose. I place it back in the sink and decorate it with maple syrup. Then I write a message to him on the whiteboard, telling him I can’t wait to marry him. I call him Nicky, which I’ve never done before, and after I get over the dry heaves that this gives me, I draw two interlocking hearts.
Let’s see what you think of that.
Smirking, I tunnel into my closet and emerge from it in the most glorious anti-Nicholas costume I can find: a Steelers hoodie that belonged to my ex-boyfriend. I found it in my drawer two months ago, and I think it was Nicholas’s remark that I don’t know anything about sports and therefore had no reason to hold on to the hoodie that prompted me to tuck it away for a rainy afternoon.
The hoodie is a middle finger by itself, but to add insult to injury I shimmy into leggings he finds embarrassing because they’re so old and worn that they’re see-through in places and there’s a quarter-sized hole on one butt cheek. These leggings and I have been through a lot together. Breakups. Bad dates. That time Tyra Banks yelled at Tiffany on America’s Next Top Model. My parents/ siblings canceling plans to come visit me, always and without fail, even though they’ll gladly spare the time to drive to Florida to watch NASCAR races. These leggings are like comfort food and I’m never giving them up.
I top it off with the sort of makeup that his mother would call “unseemly” or “unbecoming.” My lips are the color of fresh blood, making my mouth more eye-catching than the Babadook’s. My eyeliner is a thick swoop of black that extends way past its cue, and my eyelids glitter all the way up to my eyebrows like a pageant contestant. It’s not enough. I add pounds of blush and bronzer until my face is indistinguishable from a Mardi Gras float. I have bypassed “unseemly” and cannonballed head-first into Deborah’s nightmare. I look exactly like her husband’s first wife, the notorious Magnolia Rose.
I give myself a round of applause and send up a kiss of thanks to Magnolia Rose, my greatest hero for refusing to stop going by Mrs. Rose after the divorce even though her marriage to Harold only lasted a year and didn’t bear any fruit. She’s currently living in Key Largo with husband number five, who’s twenty years her junior and nephew of the guy who invented Marshmallow Peeps. She has fifteen parrots living in an aviary that’s the size of my bedroom and they’re all named after murderers on Law & Order. I know this because she added me as a Facebook friend, probably to needle Deborah, who has twice tried to sue Magnolia for emotional distress caused by “ruining Harold.” I want to be Magnolia Rose when I grow up.
Nicholas will obsess over who I’m wearing this kind of makeup for until it gives him an ulcer. My reflection in the mirror tips her head back and laughs like her skin is about to burst open with a hundred flying demons.
Yesterday I was listless and my favorite thing to do was wallow, but today I crackle with wicked energy. Everything has changed now that I have a plan.
Our wedding is set for January twenty-sixth, so I have three months to wear Nicholas down to a lifeless nub. I’m going to adopt ten dogs and turn Nicholas’s study into my Dog Room. It’ll be nice to avoid the hassle of getting my address changed at the post office or setting up Internet and cable somewhere new like Nicholas is going to have to do. Sucks to be him! The landlord gave us a great deal and rent is cheap enough that I’ll be able to afford it on my own even though the Junk Yard pays peanuts. The economy’s in the toilet and I need all the help I can get.
In my mind I hear him sneering: The store’s on the brink of collapse, and I get an uneasy fluttering in my abdomen. He’s wrong. My job’s not in jeopardy and I’m going to be fine. If anyone’s going to be out of a job, it’s him. A new dental practice opened up at the first stoplight, Turpin Family Dentistry, and they accept so many insurance providers that Dr. Stacy Mootispaw has called it “grotesque.”
I don’t have health insurance, but the cost of paying out of pocket might be worth it to have Nicholas see me go to Turpin’s for a cleaning. It’s a scenario I dream about while scouring his baked-on veggie pasta from the casserole dish.
To pump up my courage for what I’m about to do next, I listen to three angry Eminem songs and then dial a number I have listed in my contacts as 666. I never call this number. My phone tries to save me by spontaneously shutting off and rebooting, but there’s no stopping me now. I’m at least a hundred moves behind Nicholas on our battlefield. I’m surrounded by undetectable explosives and he’s frolicking through the wild-flowers without a fear in the world. He’s been baiting me so long that I don’t know how much of his BS is calculated and how much is inadvertent. I’m not sure I know him at all. But I sure as hell know his mother.
“Hello?” says Mrs. Rose.
“Deborah!” I fluff up my tone with sugar and honey, spinning in Nicholas’s swivel chair. I’m in his office, where he doesn’t like me being because he needs privacy for Calls With Mother. The two of them should run a motel together.
“Naomi?” She sounds uncertain. The third syllable of my name is muted; she’s pulled away from the phone to check the caller ID and make sure my voice isn’t an auditory hallucination.
“Hope you’re not busy,” I say with a huge smile on my face. It’s Saturday morning. Deborah’s got more activities on her calendar than the president, and I’m definitely interrupting something. “I wanted to talk about the floral changes that were made to my wedding without my consent.”
I can tell she didn’t expect any pushback on this, but she recovers quickly. Her voice is the soothing lullaby of reminding Harold to take his fish oil pill. “I hope you don’t mind, dear. The florist couldn’t schedule the appointment for any other time, and I didn’t want to bother you. I know how busy you are at the … oh, I can’t remember where it is you go all day. The Dump, it’s called?”
“Yes,” I say brightly. “The Dump.” I burrow under trash piles like a gopher. “I never did get that new florist’s number from you, after you switched businesses for the third or fourth time. Do you have it handy? I want to tweak a couple of things.”
“Tweak?” She sounds startled. “I’m sure it’s much too late for that. It’s all set in stone now.”
“Deborah,” I laugh. Deborah, Deborah, Deborah. “You saw the florist only yesterday! I’m sure she’ll be open to listening to the bride. Who is me. I’m the bride.” I twirl my villain mustache. I have never been more opposed to being a bride. They’d have to drag my unconscious body up the aisle, a ventriloquist throwing her voice to mimic my vows. “The flowers you picked just aren’t my cup of tea.”
“Delphiniums are out of season. Carnations will look so lovely at a January wedding.”
“Carnations are outdated.” All of my instincts are telling me that Deborah and Harold used carnations for their own wedding. “I’m thinking …” I see my colorless reflection in the glass of a framed picture on Nicholas’s desk. He’s six years old and a small fish dangles from his hand. Bluegill. He’s smiling so big that his eyes are squinty, cowlick much more prevalent than it is now, two front teeth missing. His mother stands behind his shoulder, long melon-pink nails digging in. I envision her doing the same at our wedding, whispering into his ear.