I was ready for anything but that. It surprised me.
I hate surprises. Usually when I’m taken off guard, someone starts to bleed.
But now I know. The next time I see her, I’ll be prepared. I won’t let that face or those legs or those incredible eyes distract me from what I came here to do.
Or that hair, either. I’ve never seen hair so glossy and black. It’s like something from a fairy tale. I wanted to plunge my hands into that thick, shining mass of waves and pull her head back and—
Fuck.
I know better than to mix business with pleasure. I just need to focus and do what I came here to do.
If only she wasn’t so goddamn beautiful.
I don’t like to break beautiful things.
4
Nat
I wake up in the morning with a throbbing headache and Mojo snoring in my face.
“Geez, dog,” I mumble, poking at his furry chest. “Could you keep it down? Mommy’s hungover.”
His response is to grumble, burrow deeper into the pillow, and release a fart that might peel the paint off the walls.
I roll to my back and heave a sigh, wondering if I did something terrible in a former life. Sometimes I think it’s the only logical explanation for the shit show of my existence.
When the phone rings, I flail around in the direction of the nightstand until my hand closes over my cell. I hit the answer button, but before I can even say hello, Sloane is jabbering in my ear.
“I’ve figured it out. He’s a widower.”
“What? Who?”
“Don’t be dense. You know who. The stud who turned down the two hottest babes on the West Coast, because…” She pauses for dramatic effect. “He’s in mourning!”
In Sloane’s world, the only legit reason a guy isn’t interested in her is if he’s gay, married, brain damaged, or his wife died recently. Very recently. Like, within the week. I also think she secretly believes that given enough exposure to her charms, a man in any one of those situations will come around anyway.
I wish I had that kind of confidence.
I run my tongue over my furry teeth and pray for a fairy godmother to materialize and bring me water and aspirin. With a chaser of beer. “Why are you calling me so early, you heartless witch?”
She laughs. “It’s not early, it’s ten o’clock. I’ve already taught two yoga classes, had breakfast, and reorganized my closet. And you promised you’d call me by now, remember?”
I don’t, but that’s probably due to all the white wine at dinner…and all the red wine after I got home. Thank god I didn’t get into the bourbon.
Yet. I’ve still got the whole day ahead of me.
“Why did I promise I’d call you?”
There’s a loaded pause. “We’re taking your dress to Second Wind.”
Oh god.
Whimpering, I throw an arm over my face and close my eyes, as if that will help me hide.
She says firmly, “Don’t even think about coming up with an excuse. We’re putting your wedding gown on consignment, Nat. Today. You have to get that thing out of the house. It’s haunted you long enough.”
I’d accuse her of being too dramatic, but haunted is the right word. The damn thing appears in my dreams, rattling chains and groaning. I can’t walk past the closet where it’s stored without getting chills. It’s taken on an otherworldly presence, and not an entirely friendly one.
“Okay.” My voice drops. “But…but what if…”
“Please don’t say it.”
We sit in silence for a moment, until she relents. “If David ever comes back, you’ll buy another dress.”
I bite my lip, hard. Having a friend who knows you so well is both a blessing and a big, fat curse.
When I stay quiet too long, she gets nervous. “Look. The one you have now is bad juju. It’s got too much negative energy attached to it. Too many painful memories. If you need another dress in the future, you buy a fresh one. You don’t keep the one that makes you cry every time you look at it. Right?”
When I hesitate, she repeats loudly, “Right?”
I blow out a hard breath so hard, my lips flap. “Fine. Yes. You’re right.”
“Of course I am. Now take a shower, get dressed, and put some food in your stomach. I’ll be over in an hour.”
I mutter, “Yes, Mother.”
“Don’t sass me, young lady, or you’re grounded.”
“Ha.”
“And I’ll take away all your electronic devices.” She snickers. “Especially the vibrating ones.”
I say without heat, “You’re a terrible friend.”
“You’ll thank me later. You probably can’t even have an orgasm with a real penis anymore because you’ve been hammering your vagina with all those power tools. Your cooch is a construction zone.”
“I’m hanging up now.”
“Don’t forget to eat!”
I disconnect the call without replying. We both know I’ll be eating a liquid breakfast this morning.
Five years. How I’ve survived this long, I don’t know.
I drag myself out of bed, take a shower, and get dressed. When I head to the kitchen, I find Mojo lying like a big shaggy rug in front of the refrigerator, smiling in my direction.
“Do you need to go pee before breakfast, buddy?”
He pants and thumps his tail but doesn’t move, indicating his preference.
The dog has a bladder the size of an aboveground pool. If he wasn’t so solid, I’d think he has a hollow leg or two where he stores all his pee.
“Breakfast it is.”
After I’ve fed him and taken him out to the backyard for a potty break and a frolic through the bushes to chase squirrels, we head back inside. He takes his usual spot on the living room rug and promptly falls asleep, while I arm myself with a light-on-the-OJ mimosa.
I can’t do what I’m about to do without liquor.
The idea came to me while I was in the backyard watching Mojo piss on a shrub. It’s stupid, I know, but if today’s the last day I’ll have my wedding dress, I need to try it on one last time. A final goodbye of sorts. A symbolic step into my future.
I almost hope it doesn’t fit anymore. Raising ghosts from their graves can be dangerous.
My hands don’t start to shake until I’m standing outside the closed closet door in the guest room.
“Okay, Nat. Man up. Woman up. Whatever. Just…” I inhale a deep breath. “Get your shit together. You have to be calm by the time Sloane gets here, or she’ll flip.”
Ignoring how strange it is that I’m talking to myself out loud, I take a big gulp of the mimosa, set the champagne flute on the dresser, and gingerly open the closet doors.
And there it is. The puffy black garment bag that contains the memorial of all my lost dreams. It’s a sarcophagus, a zippered nylon tomb, and inside is my funeral shroud.
Wow, that’s dark. Drink up, Debbie Downer.
I guzzle the rest of the mimosa. It takes me another few minutes of pacing and wringing my hands before I work up the nerve to unzip the garment bag. When I do, the contents spill out with a sigh.