Chapter 14
No.
No, no, no.
I will not spin out. I will not.
I can’t.
I have absolutely no one to call if I do.
What, am I going to call my best friend on her fucking wedding night with this?
Oh, hi, yeah, it’s me, your best friend, and by the way, I’ve been secretly in love with your dad for eternity and oh by the way, last night he fingered me on the balcony and tonight we started to have sex but he stopped and left abruptly and um, can you ask him why?
Hell. No.
Standing at the front door completely naked, my hand still on the locks I just twisted, my breakdown begins.
Not some tears and some sniffles like may happen after not getting a gig I applied for or something, and not even the deep belly cries, like the kind that render you breathless and silent until the deep gags begin.
Deep sobs would be a gift right now.
What happens to me, I think, is an amalgamation of things.
The devolution of Harry and our relationship, his constant remarks about my clothing and career, my best friend in the whole world leaving the singles life for marriage, the man I’ve adored and loved my entire life actually reciprocating an ounce of affection only to steal it away and leave me feeling embarrassed and empty.
Then there’s my career, which is still, by all measures, floundering.
The focus is, most obviously, Ford Mercer walking out of my apartment without finishing what we started, without so much as a word as to why, leaving me feeling colder, less loved, and worse off than before.
I should have known it was too good to be true. I should have believed Harry when he said that Ford Mercer doesn’t like women like me. Because one thing that I have always believed in is: if he wanted to, he would.
And what he did was leave.
From my spot on the floor as a human naked puddle, amidst the tears and dry heaves, I pull myself to my knees, and then to my feet.
The dancing, the party prep, the booze, the arguing, getting sick–it all comes rushing back, a weight too heavy to shoulder at this early hour in the morning.
I make it to my bed and face-plant, tugging the covers over me as much as I can before I give in to sleep.
I need a facial, and not the sexy kind but the kind that removes hours worth of sobbing from my under-eyes and makes me feel invincible.
Instead of a facial, I roll out of bed and trudge to the kitchen, where I dig through my box of face care items I keep in the fridge. Settling on a lavender sheet mask, I smooth it over my face and get coffee going, snagging my t-shirt from Saturday night off the floor.
I’ve cried so much.
I woke up in the middle of the night to the sound of myself sobbing. I spent all of Sunday crying in the fetal position. A full day of just crying. Seriously.
My chest aches from my heartache, and from the humiliation of putting myself out there to someone as large as life like Ford, then being shot down, in my most vulnerable state. “Oh Jesus,” I moan, as the night rushes back to me, a reverberating ache running circles on my brain.
When I catch a rush of Ford’s cologne imprinted on my t-shirt from two nights ago, and spot the dehydrated roses on the counter left by Harry, I want to get sick.
But I don’t.
Instead, I slam a glass of water and two Tylenol, force down a packet of oatmeal, and get in the shower. I refuse to shed anymore tears over something that was nothing.
Ford isn’t a bad guy, he just realized it was a mistake. That’s all that happened.
He was probably drunk. He may not even remember what happened the other night. I’ve seen Ford with so many women over the years, to think that I would be memorable on a drunken night is foolish.
Kat is my best friend.
She just got married.
Confronting Ford about what happened has no benefit. If he wanted me or thought we were a good idea, he wouldn’t have left. And if Harry wanted me, he would’ve stayed, too.
But just because they don’t want me, doesn’t mean a damn thing.
After giving myself a solid blowout (and only having to stop to prevent myself from crying three short times), I put on my favorite Charlotte Tilbury makeup and my favorite baby blue linen jumper, the one with the tie around the waist, and slip into my Sambas.
When I get to the coffee shop around the corner, Rise & Grind, I order a latte the size of my head, and a muffin that’s even bigger. Yesterday was so tearful that I didn’t eat at all.
That night was a mistake, and whatever happened on the balcony was a mistake, too. Clearly. Ford isn’t an asshole. I won’t put that on him. He acted out in an emotional time, and I’m comfortable to him, and that’s all that happened.
I’m moving on.
I have to.
Because moving through life believing that the man I adore left my apartment because he didn’t want me specifically is just too fucking much for nine in the morning on a Monday.
The barista drops off my muffin, and I take the first bite as I open my email, and almost choke. Bits of blueberry splutter across the table, and I take a hasty sip of my hot drink to clear the debris caught in my throat. I burn my tongue, and my eyes water, but I can’t take them off the screen.
An email from Ford Mercer. Sent before the wedding on Saturday.
My heart ramps up, but I take a deep breath, and click open on the email.
Juliette,
Velvet Whisper broke ground on our seventh location in the Bay, and because this bar will be opening on the Velvet Whisper ten-year anniversary, we’d like to have this location open with photos on display from all of our locations, specifically, the entry points/secret passages.
Attached you will find travel vouchers, a prepaid credit card, and hopefully answers to any questions you may have. You can always contact me if need be.
You have one month to visit the other six locations, to take the photos and get them ready for print. Upon opening of the seventh location and completion of the photography project, you will be paid twenty-thousand dollars.
You will retain the rights to the photographs, therefore, each time we print one for another location, you will receive a royalty of $1200.00.
If these terms are unsatisfactory to you, please let me know and we can revise them.
Thank you again for the hard work and the opportunity to have your work grace my establishments. I am eager to see your photographs and I believe in you.
All pertinent details are attached.
Warm regards,
Ford Mercer
He mentioned this. He mentioned having me do this project instead of the photographer that’s done most of the work in the other locations.
He chose me.
I read the email again, hoping to find a secret message I missed before but alas, no sign that this is deeper than Ford simply extending me a professional opportunity that I’m actually interested in.
I close the email and remind myself that I am moving on from Ford Mercer. The other night was a mistake, and I’m lucky that Kat doesn’t know. And she doesn't have to.
We can recover. We can go back to normal. And we will.
But this email makes it that much harder.