I felt sick. I couldn’t believe he was doing this.
“Because it’s your place,” I said through gritted teeth. I could feel my eyes narrow. It had been a point of contention between us for the past year. Brett, with his bigger salary, had made the down payment on our MetroWest Orlando house. Each month, we split the mortgage payment, but Brett was the only one with his name on the deed. The few times I’d complained that the arrangement didn’t seem fair to me—after all, I was paying half the mortgage but earning no equity—Brett had smiled and reminded me that once we were married, all of our assets would be shared anyhow, so what was the point in worrying about something so inconsequential now?
It had all sounded so reasonable at the time.
“Right,” Brett responded, not even having the decency to look embarrassed. “We’ll figure something out about the mortgage, Em. I’m sure I owe you some money since you’ve made some contributions over the last year. I’ll talk to my father and see what we can do.”
I gaped some more. Contributions?
“Anyhow, I’m sorry, sweetheart,” Brett continued. “This is really hard for me, too, you know. But in all honesty, it’s not you. It’s me. I’m sorry.”
I almost laughed. Really. And perhaps I would have if I wasn’t currently absorbed in fantasizing about stabbing him with the knife I’d used to cut the bread.
“You’ll be okay?” Brett asked after a moment of silence.
“I’ll be fine,” I mumbled, suddenly furious that he would even ask, as if he cared at all.
I hadn’t known what else to do the next morning when I awoke alone in an empty, king-size bed that was no longer half mine. I was numb; I felt like I was in the middle of a bad dream.
So I did what I did every morning: I got up, I showered, I blew my hair dry, I put on my makeup, I picked out a sensible outfit, and I went to work. At least there was solace in routine.
The offices of Boy Bandz Records were in a converted old train station in downtown Orlando, just a block from Brett’s law firm. Sometimes we would run into each other on Church Street as he went to get lunch at Kres with a colleague or I went to pick up a greasy slice of pizza from Lorenzo’s. I prayed that I wouldn’t run into him today. I didn’t think I could handle it.
I sat down at my desk just before eight thirty and stared numbly at my computer screen. It was as if I had lost all ability to function. I had a million things to do today—a press release about the 407 boys, a CD mailing for O-Girlz (the girl band our company’s president, boy-band impresario Max Hedgefield, had just launched), several media calls to return—but I couldn’t imagine doing something as banal as work when my life had just fallen apart.
Just past ten, Andrea, my boss, stopped by my desk. I had just put in my third series of Visine drops that morning, in an attempt to mask my bloodshot eyes. I hoped that the tactic was working. I knew how the emotionless Andrea despised it when her employees brought their personal problems to work.
“Great job with the 407 account,” she said. They were named 407 because Max Hedgefield—whom everyone called Hedge—had apparently run out of silly phrases to string together and had thus resorted to using the area code for Orlando, the birthplace of modern boy bands.
“Thanks,” I said, forcing a smile at her through blurry eyes. I had done a good job, and I knew it. One of our 407 boys had decided to come out of the closet the week their album was released, and I thought I had handled the resultant media storm gracefully. Thank goodness Lance Bass had blazed the way for boy-loving boy banders everywhere. Danny Ruben, the out-and-proud lead singer of our band, had been welcomed by the media with open arms, and as a result of all the publicity, 407’s album had climbed the charts even more quickly than expected.
“We need to talk about something,” Andrea said. She looked down at her left hand and examined her perfectly manicured fingernails intently.
“Okay.”
Maybe, I thought with a little jolt of hope, I’m about to be promoted. After all, I certainly deserved it. I’d been with the company for four years, and although I was running the 407 and O-Girlz accounts by myself, I was only a PR coordinator. I’d heard rumors lately about a company reorganization, and I had my fingers crossed that I was next in line to move into a PR managing director position, which came with a substantial pay bump.
“Emma, sweetie,” Andrea chirped, glancing now at the perfect nails on her right hand, “Hedge has decided to downsize a little bit, so I’m afraid we’re going to have to let you go.”
I could feel my vision cloud up, despite the Visine.
“What?” I must have heard her wrong.
“Don’t worry!” she went on brightly, glancing away. “We’re offering four weeks’ severance, and I’d be happy to write you a nice letter of recommendation.”