Chapter 25
CHAPTER 25
L ily
The walls of my apartment close in on me. “Please hurry,” I whisper to myself. Glancing down at my phone screen, I will the car to arrive. It’s still five minutes away.
The photo catches my eye. The one that sits on the edge of my bookshelf. One I haven’t had the heart to get rid of. The picture was on my desk one morning, a gift wrapped in a white box with a gold bow. A pretty frame cradling the picture of me and him by the horses and carriage on the night of what I consider to be our first official date. He took a snap of me on his phone, then I insisted a passerby on the street take one of the two of us.
He hesitated at first, then relented. That should have been my first warning sign, him not wanting to take a picture with me, but I was wrapped in the protection of ignorant bliss.
I wear the white dress, fluttering in the breeze. He looks so handsome in his suit, hair back showing those peppery silver hairs that I love. We look deliriously happy. Of course, it didn’t last.
It never does.
I flip the little frame over, photo side down.
I have to get out of here.
I stare at the packages waiting by my front door. Last night in a fit of rage and tears, I filled them all full of the clothes he gave me, stacking them as neatly as I could, eager for the morning to come so I could be rid of them.
I know the memories, the hurt will linger, but at least I’ll no longer have to face the physical presence of what’s left from the ‘us’ that no longer exists.
Nerves. I feel like I could throw up—same as I did when I asked for some space from him in the bathroom that day—but thankfully, the feeling goes away as the car arrives.
Once we arrive at the store, the Uber driver lifts the last of the boxes onto the glass counter. Handing him two crisp twenties for his trouble, I thank him. He leaves me standing there, alone with the items I’ve carefully boxed up to bring back.
Anything I’ve already worn, I’ll keep, but it didn’t seem right to remain in possession of thousands of dollars’ worth of clothing and accessories Rockwell bought for me if we’re no longer together.
Since, I correct myself, draining the lingering hope from my heart and my mind. Since we are no longer together, and never will be, I think I should return the clothes I’ve not yet worn. I blink back burning tears. Thank goodness the calming scent of lavender and vanilla reaches me, a line of candles burning on a nearby shelf.
I still don’t really know why he broke it off.
Just that two weeks ago, I came home to a note.
It started with good news.
All my ex drama was over. The Bachmans tracked him down, let him know I was not pregnant, got my money back, and threatened him with death if he were to ever contact me again.
Which he was not at all interested in doing.
What a relief.
But the news only segued into the bad, the note officially becoming the very worst breakup of my life. Telling me that my services are no longer needed at Rockwell Enterprises. That a generous payment has been put in my bank account. That he’s really, really sorry.
Oh, and my favorite part. The line that made me laugh out loud in a manic way, while fighting back hot tears.
That it’s not me, it’s him.
And that there was a driver waiting to take me back to my apartment where all my things would be packed up and sent to me. I rode away from the Village in tears. Wondering if it was my cooking that sent him running.
I’ve been sitting on my new velvet sofa watching Hallmark movies ever since. Using my cream and orange Hermes Avalon blanket as a $5,000 tissue, drying my tears while stroking the soft cashmere, wishing it was his chest. I take breaks to open the bank app on my phone and stare down at the ridiculous sum he’s given me. Or to order food delivery, paying for it with his money, then spread it all out over the top of the gorgeous coffee table he bought me.
God, I love that couch. And the table. I know I should call the furniture company to come and collect them but… I can’t.
A familiar-looking woman about my age comes up to the counter, eyeing the tall stack of boxes. “Hi there! May I help you?”
“I’m here to return a few items.”
“Oh!” She eyes my collection, looking back up at me, confused. “I am so sorry. So sorry. We don’t accept returns at Daughtry’s. We can exchange these if they’re the wrong size but?—”
Embarrassment flows freely through me. “Right. Sorry. I should have realized that.” Everyone who shops here is rich. Of course they don’t accept returns. I would know that if I actually belonged in this family.
Rockwell could clearly see that I don’t. That’s probably why he called things off. I’m near tears as I try to gather up all the things I’ve just had the Uber driver help me bring in.
“Wait.” The girl’s soft, gentle hand covers mine. “Don’t go. I remember you. I was here the day you came in and bought these. Tell you what—I’ll take these back and maybe we can find some more…” Peeking in the opened lid of one of the boxes, she eyes a blood-red floor-length gown with thin gold chains for straps, “How about some more… casual… pieces for your day to day?”
I don’t need these beautiful clothes now, and there is no room in my tiny closet for them anyway. I offer her a grateful smile. “That would be nice. Thank you.”
She takes me past all the gorgeous I’m-having-lots-of-kinky-sex lingerie to the sad, single-women-sweatpants section, as Claudia calls the comfy stuff at the very back of the store.
On the way, we pass the bridal suite.
A gorgeous room filled with the promise of love and a secure future that you have to pass to get to the sad sweats. Stunning, important dresses hang on women-shaped hangers, showing off their elegance and beauty. I stop in my tracks, staring.
“Gorgeous, aren’t they?” She turns to offer me her hand. “I’m Kate, by the way.”
“Lily. Nice to officially meet you.” We shake hands.
I sigh, looking at the gowns. “They are gorgeous. I’d love to wear one someday but it’s not looking like my partner is going to commit anytime soon.”
She leans in, confiding in me. “My partner wants to get her masters in botany before she puts a ring on it.”
Starved for female friendship, I let the conversation flow deeper. “That’s too bad. Couldn’t you get engaged now, then get married after the degree, if being engaged is what you really want?” I ask.
“I don’t know. I’ve got one of those skittish partners. The ones that don’t want to commit. You know?” She looks at me for confirmation.
“Hmm, yes, I know exactly what you mean.” I stare at the beautiful dresses. “I don’t think I’ll need one, ever. I’ve been dumped. Badly. Twice.”
“Ouch,” she says with a wince. “Give me all the gory details. Make me feel better about my sad life and apathetic partner.”
“My ex broke up with me over a note. And get this—to add to the insult of not even telling me in person, he wrote the dreaded words; ‘It’s not you, it’s me.’ In a note.”
She laughs, saying, “I’m sorry! That is not funny.”
“You want to know what else is not funny?” I say. “The one before him ran off with my savings account.”
“God, that sucks!” she says. “Men are even worse about committing than women.” Kate pulls down a Vera Wang. “Wanna try one on? Just for fun?”
I eye the gorgeous dress. “Isn’t that bad luck or something?”
“Not if you’re not even dating, I don’t think. It’s just for fun. To cheer you up. Besides, it’s soooo slow today. All the Bachman men are at some event across the street and their women are shopping down on Fifth. No one’s come in today. That’s why I lit all the candles. To keep myself awake.” She holds the dress up against my shoulders, the cool, silky fabric brushing over my skin. “This one is perfect for you.”
“You think?” I turn to glance at my reflection in the mirror. The off the shoulder pearl-white gown is sheer perfection. It’s stunning. Absolutely perfect. I lie, “I don’t know.”
“Just try it on. What’s a better way to get over a breakup than start planning for Mr. Right to come along? The third time’s a charm, isn’t it? The next man you date will be the one.”
“And if not, I’ll give up on men altogether.”
“I have some single girlfriends I could introduce you to,” she laughs.
“I’ll keep you in mind.”
“Come on. Look. I’ll try on a dress, too.” She pulls down a slinky pale pink gown. “I’ll be your bridesmaid.”
“I love pink. That’s perfect.”
We giggle like fifth grade girls at a sleepover while we change into gowns that probably cost more than my first car—had I bought the tiny Honda new and not ten years used from Dan the Car Deal Man back in my shady hometown used car dealership.
I emerge from the dressing room in a gauzy cloud of couture and false hopes. But boy, is it fun! I sashay out into the ring of mirrors, turning and getting a glance at every angle.
Kate comes out looking lovely in her pink gown. She rushes over to me, eyeing the dress. “Oh, my god, I’m going to cry!”
“You look so good in that shade of pink.”
“Not as good as you look in white,” she says with a smile. “Always the bridesmaid, never the bride.” Smoothing her hands over the tops of her thighs, she breathes, “This fabric is unbelievable.”
There’s a faint beeping sound coming from the front of the store. “What’s that?” I ask.
As it gets louder, Kate’s eyes widen.
Finally, she shouts, “Oh, no! The candles! They may have set off the fire alarm. I’d better go blow them out.”
By now, the sound is blaring. I rush behind her to help. She’s already blown out all the candles by the time I reach the front desk. But we’re too late to stop the damage from happening.
The sprinklers in the ceiling above the shelf where she had the candles lit are now streaming down with water.
“The dresses! They can’t even be dry cleaned, much less get stuck in a downpour. We cannot get these wet. Run! Outside… now!”
We rush outside, tumbling onto the sidewalk in a fit of giggles and fear that we’ve damaged the dresses we had no right trying on in the first place.
We stand there, inspecting one another. Totally dry. “Thank goodness. But what do we do about the sprinklers?”
She grabs my hand. “Come with me around the back. They showed me the main water valve when I first started work. We need to go shut it off.”
Hand in hand, we run off to stop the sprinklers from damaging more inventory.
We get the water turned off, then run back into the store, changing, and carefully hanging the dresses back up. She flips the Open sign to Closed before we do our best to dry up as much water as we can with stacks of blue and orange SFERRA Sorrento beach towels while we wait for the cleaning service to show up.
“You don’t have to help,” she says for the thirtieth time, pressing the towel into the carpet under her bare feet. “This was my fault.”
“I’m so happy to help. Really.” I crawl across the floor on hands and knees, mopping. “You’ve been so nice. I kinda needed a friend.”
“God. Me, too. Obviously. I mean, look at my life!” We laugh and I hand her a dry towel to aid her in the water on the walls she’s now tackling.
“Wait.” A cramp tightens in my belly, making me do a cat yoga pose on the floor where I’m still on my hands and knees. “Is there a weird smell in here?”
“You mean extinguished candles and wet carpet?”
“Yeah.” I nod, the scent of essential oils and dampness making another wave of cramps tighten my belly. “Oh, no. Oh. No.”
I see it in my mind’s eye before it even happens. The sickness comes up from my belly, a violent projectile of this morning’s Pop-Tart and orange juice flying all over the casual black work pants of my new friend, Kate.
I’m instantly filled with disgust and embarrassment. I can’t believe that just happened. I hold the towel to my lips, tears pouring down my face. “I’m so, so sorry.”
“No problem. Don’t worry.” She quickly steps out of her pants, folding them carefully to hold in the semi-digested Pop-Tarts. “It’s okay. It’s okay. We’ve got this.” Now wearing her casual sweater, nametag, and her underwear, a black thong, she rushes over to me, butt cheeks hanging out, and kneels beside me, wrapping a clean towel around my shoulders.
“Well. This is a mess.” I wipe the tears from my face.
“They say it’s good luck if it rains on your wedding day.” She smiles, looking up at the silver sprinkler, water still dripping from its metal head. “Does this count?”
I fall into a fit of giggles and fresh tears.