This week, TMZ reported that Selena was interested in opening a dance theater with me. According to Us Weekly, she and I were trying to have a baby. Three days ago, on The Today Show, Matt Lauer asked if she saw herself spending the rest of her life with me.
Since all of our “dates” were mere photo opportunities, our conversations were always about what we’d seen in the press. We could no longer come up with interesting things to talk about on our own.
We were simply making the most out of the publicity—at least I was anyway. I wasn’t sure if she still had feelings for me and I honestly didn’t care.
I opened the breakfast box Joan brought in and realized that I needed to “break up” with Selena as soon as possible.
I took out the cream cheese and felt my phone vibrate. A text message from Selena: “Happy 2 year anniversary baby! Can’t wait 2 C U tonight!”
Shit.
Chapter 3
Melody
I lay in bed and looked up at the ceiling. I’d spent the past two weeks trapped in the same routine: Eat, cry, sleep. Eat, cry, sleep. I didn’t have the energy to talk to anyone except my parents, but I could barely utter two sentences without breaking into sobs.
The one person I wanted to call, the one person that always came running when I was hurt, was unavailable—unacceptable to even consider. I often dreamed that he called me, that he showed up in Memphis, that he got down on one knee and begged me to forgive him and take him back.
Yet, every morning was the same. I woke up alone. After failing to see his name cross my phone’s screen in five days, I just let my phone die.
In an attempt to break my mundane routine, I wrapped a blanket around my shoulders and made my way to the back deck. Ignoring the soft drizzle, I sat in a lounge chair and looked out over the lake.
Small children were tossing balls at the far end, ducks were following one another near the edge, and several teenagers were taking turns on a jet ski.
I couldn’t remember the last time I came home and relaxed on the lake. CUNY’s writing program and my job at The New York Appeal kept me away for years and I never needed to come home, never wanted to.
In fact, my parents insisted on flying to New York for the holidays and cooking Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners in my tiny apartment. Sean had promised me that we would visit them in Memphis after our honeymoon.
Oh well.
As the drizzle turned to rain, I stood up and headed back inside. I caught my reflection in the screen door and gasped.
My skin was the color of porcelain. No matter how many times I pinched my cheeks, no color returned. My eyelids were inflamed. My eyes were bloodshot. My lips were gray and cracked, licking them just made them look worse.
Despite looking horrible all over, the one thing that struck me hardest was my hair, my Sean-influenced-this—ugly-shit-brown-colored-hair.
I rushed to my room and dumped the clothes out of my carryon. I put on white jeans, a T-shirt, and my mismatched tennis shoes. I ran to the garage and found the spare keys to my mom’s Jeep.
Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman red. That’s what I wanted. That’s what I told the beauty clerk at CVS.
I carefully eyed the box as I stood naked in the bathroom. I dragged the elastic band away from my matted ponytail and shook my head back and forth.
My hair didn’t move.
I stepped into the shower and applied the dye generously. I let it sit for twenty minutes longer than necessary and stayed in the shower for another hour.
I wanted to go back to sleep, but I forced myself to take out my laptop. I’d missed two weeks of film and book reviews, and my work inbox was surprisingly empty.
I decided to log in to watch the latest Matt Sterling film, Summer Nights, knowing that I would never get that hour and thirty minutes of my life back.
In between watching that dreck and taking notes, I painted my nails black—a color Sean loathed.
I should’ve tackled him at the wedding. Why didn’t I tackle him?
As the movie came to an end, I typed a review and emailed it to my office.
I walked into the living room and eyed the mountain of unopened wedding presents. I didn’t think I was ready to face that part of my pain, but I plopped down in front of the pile anyway.
I picked up a small red box and gently tugged its silky white ribbon. Exhaling, I removed the top.
There was a card: “Dear Mrs. Scofield, I know you’re probably going to open this one first. You’ve always loved red and I’ve always loved you. Your husband and love for all eternity, Mr. Scofield.”
Ugh. What the f**k!
I crumpled the paper and tossed it across the room. I rummaged through the tissue paper and took out the gift: A multi-strand pearl necklace by Kenneth Lane. It was an exact replica of the one Audrey Hepburn wore in Breakfast at Tiffany’s.
I clasped it around my neck and ran my fingers along the pearls.
I picked out another box, a blue one, and like a two year old at Christmas, ripped the packaging apart: Cookware.
Boo!