And now, I’m alone, feeling like the other half of my soul is missing. Azna aside, this apartment now feels like a massive structure of emptiness. The copious space this place provides only enlarges the void I feel from the king of the castle being gone. I feel a flicker of grief in my chest as I snuggle into bed. I seriously doubt this is what the honeymoon phase feels like.
The following day at work, my mood improves, at least. I’m in the groove of my day almost immediately, seeing patients and being wished years of wedded bliss by those Sharon manages to share my news with. Before I know it, I’m sitting behind my desk, scarfing down a tuna sandwich when my cell goes off. I don’t recognize the number and therefore let it go to voicemail. I know it’s not Azmir or work, so I’m fine. But then I think of Erin: what if someone’s calling with an emergency concerning her? We’re due to hang out Thursday evening and I’m greatly looking forward to that headful of sandy blonde curls to aid my blue mood.
I decide to check the message, and I’m surprised to hear April’s voice on the other end.
“Rayna, it’s April. You know…April Miller from undergrad?” her voice drips sarcasm. “Anyway, I’m just going to get right to it. It’s sad that I hear about your wedding through a third party,” Third party? “I mean, I know we’ve never been besties like you and Michelle, but we’re not exactly enemies either.” My mouth forms into a moue as I hear April sigh. Is she really angry? Why? “Well, so that you know, mine and Gerald’s wedding date is set for June and you and your husband are on the guest list. Contrary to what you may feel about me, I still consider you a…friend,” she pauses, sounding to be holding back on boiling emotions. “Look, Rayna,” her voice is almost strained. “I’ve changed. If you give me a chance to explain a few things, you’ll see. I want to be friends. I hate the way we left things that day at Holy Deliverance Tabernacle. I would like an opportunity to…talk. Please call me back; I don’t want to hear about the next event of your life on SandraRose.com and The YBF.”
After she ends her rant, with my head spinning, I go straight to those sites, starting with the first that she called out. I’m only recently familiar with them because of Azmir’s recent rise in interest for bloggers. We’ve been grist for their gossip mills for months now, which is why I requested no pictures at the wedding! Sure enough, there are pictures on both sites of the boat, several cabins, the main deck as it was being broken down to suit the ceremony, and something else far more revealing and personal than all before it: my wedding gown!
My breathing increases along with my heart rate; my mouth goes dry. I can’t believe anyone would go through all that trouble just to betray someone’s privacy. Who would be so deceptive and guileful? I note that there are no photos of the ceremony or guests, none of the cocktail hour, reception, me or Azmir, which could only mean the perpetrator didn’t have the heart to sneak flicks during the event—or they didn’t have access to the festivities.
Mechanically, I lift my office phone and dial. After two rings, he picks up. “Yeah, Jacobs?” His new moniker for me almost melts me, but his tone definitely puts me on ice. He sounds irritated. I remind myself that we haven’t exactly made up from our fight before he left for New York two days ago. He’s now in Tennessee for business.
“I hope I’m not disturbing you.” What a thing to say to your HUSBAND, Rayna!
“I’m in a meeting. Is everything okay?” his voice is hard, terse even.
I guess there’s nothing to do but get right to it. “Azmir, do you know our wedding pictures are on the Internet?”
“What?” he grates so coldly that I can’t decide if he’s angry at the news or annoyed with hearing from me.
I swallow hard. “Yes. I’ve been on Sandra Rose and The YBF, but haven’t made it to Bossip or the others yet.”
“Fuck!” he whispers on an exhale.
“Someone snuck on the yacht to steal these pictures, Azmir. Someone who knew we…I didn’t want them public…” I end tentatively.
“Sounds like you have someone specific in mind,” he somewhat snorts.
“Azmir, Tessie told me Dawn was there. She gave Tessie some bogus excuse for arriving, flashing her PR title for entry,” I speak through gritted teeth, growing angrier by the word. “She wasn’t invited.”
“Are you suggesting that someone that’s contracted with me would risk their reputation and job to get a few shots for what…a few bucks?”
My eyes fall in annoyance. Already he’s ready to disprove my theory. To defend Devious Dawn. “Azmir—”
“Someone who, by the way, is paid to quell bullshit like this? C’mon, Rayna. That’s like having security orchestrate an attack. It’s possible, but not all that plausible for a simple businessman like me. I’m not the fucking ruler of the free world.”
Him putting it that way not only reduces me to a child with a hyper-imagination, but it pisses me off, too. I don’t know where to go from here. When Azmir’s Brooklyn-block-boy persona is out, I don’t have any wins.