Technically, Liam was the one who got liberated.
“I’m not going to want to plan a party in a week either, Mom. I’m sorry.” I must sound pathetic enough because she pauses. After a moment she sighs, and I wonder what angle she’ll try next.
“Kya called me yesterday. Tarek feels just awful about what happened.”
“So do I.” I’ve separated three strands of the carpet fibers and now decide to braid them. It’s difficult while holding the phone, so I set it on the floor and just kind of lay my ear on it so I can have both hands free for the attempt at a teeny tiny carpet braid. Maybe I should get shag carpet. Braiding it would be so much easier.
“Of course you do, but isn’t it nice that Tarek feels so responsible when anyone can see it had nothing to do with him?”
No, Liam leaving me for a stripper the night before our wedding had nothing whatsoever to do with Tarek. Except that Tarek had lied about where he was taking Liam, introduced the home-wrecking stripper to my fiancé, and, according to Kya, purchased the lap dance that made Liam “fall in love.” Yes, something must have been hideously wrong in our relationship and with me as a person and as a woman for Liam to want to leave me like that, which is the reason I’ve taken to living on the floor. Where altitude is low and expectations are even lower.
But considering Liam still hasn’t spoken to me since running away, I’m still waiting on the list of my shortcomings.
That’s something to look forward to.
Using what little knowledge about the situation I have, I’ve been working on my own list, which so far has one item:
I’m not a stripper.
Maybe that’s my problem in a nutshell.
My mother’s still talking. “For Tarek to take so much on himself is just so admirable, don’t you think?” Mom sounds breathy as she waits for my answer to what I’d foolishly hoped a second ago was a rhetorical question. She’s always had a bit of a crush on Tarek, as has everyone else’s mom all the time ever. #thingsyouwishyoudidntknow
“No, Mom, I don’t think it’s admirable. I think it’s deserved.”
“But Tarek’s not the one who left you at the altar with an eighteen-hundred-dollar nonrefundable dress, not to mention the cost of the caterers, banquet hall, servers, flowers, centerpieces, DJ, bartender—”
“I know, Mom,” I interrupt her before she can read me the itemized statement. “That was Liam.” Breaking our trust and breaking my heart. But my mind circles back to the night Liam showed such admiration for Tarek’s way with the ladies after he went home with those two waitresses from Open Market. Liam got really close to Tarek after that, and I can’t shake the feeling that it was Tarek’s bad influence that gave my fiancé ideas he wouldn’t otherwise have had.
“That’s right. It was Liam, the dirty pig who broke my daughter’s heart so she’s just a shell of the woman she once was, and no one else will ever marry her before her thirty-year-old eggs are shriveled and useless and unable to produce my grandchildren!”
Helpful comments like these are the reason I don’t want my mother here.
Against my will, though, stupid moisture gathers in my eyes at the thought of these grandchildren of hers, the children Liam and I won’t be having. I’d already pictured them, of course. A little boy and a little girl. Both with my nose, his cheeks, and ears we couldn’t decide on since his and mine already looked so similar.
“Mom, I’ve got to go.” I undo the tiny carpet braids which are too short to be braids and are really more like intentional tangles. Dreadlocks?
Mom sniffles. “Why? Is the pizza guy there again?”
“No. I’ve got friends coming over.”
“Oh, okay.” I can tell she doesn’t really believe me. My mom is smart.
“I do.”
“I know. I heard you. I believe you, sweetie.”
“Okay.”
“Because you’d never lie to your mother.”
“Right.”
“So I’ll send Kya over to check on you, and you’ll be telling me the truth. And eating pizza. Which isn’t good for you, but I know you must mourn in your own way.”
“Mom.”
“I know. You’ve gotta go. I love you. Bye.”
“I love you too. Bye.”
I push the button to end the call and briefly consider getting up from the floor. I rule against it as being too ambitious. The bottle of chardonnay next to me is already empty. Standing up to get another one seems like too much trouble. Maybe I’ll be lucky and Kya will show up with another bottle when she gets here.
There’s no point in my mother calling Kya and telling her to come over, though, because she’s been here every day since the incident anyway. She’s in full best-friend-support mode, showing up with ice cream and chardonnay, talking trash about Liam, and generally trying to bolster my spirits.
I think a part of her feels like Tarek really does hold some responsibility for this, and she’s trying hard to make up for it. Or keep me busy so I don’t notice.
Blaire has also been around and has tried to be helpful in her own special Blaire way which has included offering to fix me up with one of her many exes and giving me a homemade coupon for a free lap dance from Magic Matt whenever he’s recovered enough to return to the stage. She suggested I run off with Magic Matt after my lap dance to even the score with Liam, since Magic Matt is technically a stripper. Somehow I don’t think it would have the same impact.
A loud knock on the door makes my head pound. It’s probably only a normal-volume knock, but I’m still on the floor and my head is near the door. And then there’s the drinking.
“Come in, it’s open.” I don’t move, but I think about it. I should at least pretend I’m trying to get up so Kya thinks I’m making more of an effort.
“Did you bring more wine?” I ask when I hear the door shut.
“Sorry. Didn’t know there was a cover charge,” a deep, male voice answers, and the bottom drops out of my stomach.
I crane my neck in case I can shoot lasers out of my eyes at him. Tarek. The home-wrecking bastard.
“What do you want?”
He ignores the question and hunkers down near my head. His voice gets softer, but he doesn’t fool me. He’s no nicer at low volume. “What are you doing on the floor?”
“It’s where I live now. Don’t judge.” He’s the last person who should be judging. Tarek, all polished surface and slick veneer. No warmth. No feeling. Nothing real. Just the image of reality with his tailored dark tan dress pants stretched over his muscular thighs, smelling of Sauvage by Christian Dior—bergamot and citrus with a lower woodsy layer—speaking soft and slow like he cares that he ripped the love of my life away from me and crushed every dot of feeling in my entire being.
“I’m not judging,” he says, even though I can tell that he totally is. “Living on the floor is a valid life choice. Don’t let anyone change your mind.”
I take a deep breath and blow it out, my pulse high and my patience thin. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to see you, Duchess. See how you’re doing since the breakup.” He pauses and swallows. “Really well, I’d say. Yeah.”