Chapter 3 #3
I leaned in closer to the mirror, studying my skin in the same way I had my hair.
I had a few freckles, which would multiply as soon as I spent any time in the sun, even though I wore sunscreen almost religiously to protect my fair skin.
The fine lines around my amber colored eyes – by far my best feature – were a little more prominent than I would like, but overall I felt as if I looked pretty good for turning forty-one today.
I squinted as I leaned in even closer, my gaze zeroing in on my arch-nemeses…
the two surprisingly coarse hairs that had sprouted on my chin several months ago.
I heaved an aggravated breath, then grabbed the tweezers that now had a place of prominence in the top drawer of the vanity, next to my toothpaste and dental floss.
I plucked those two bastards, then tossed the tweezers back in the drawer and nudged it shut with my hip.
Seeing that the tub was almost filled, I quickly clipped my hair back and gingerly climbed in, turning the faucet off as I sank down into the warm water, letting it lap around me as I settled back to relax.
The warmth of the water, combined with the calming effect of the essential oils in the bath salts soothed me, and after several long minutes I could almost feel the stress fading away.
I resolutely pushed all thoughts of Ryan, my birthday, and that colossal asshole, Mitch, out of my mind and focused instead on whether I should schedule an appointment with my hair stylist, and what I should have for dinner, and if I should replace the bath towels that were starting to show some wear.
I filled my mind with anything and everything, except for the state of my marriage.
By the time I’d topped off the hot water twice and my fingertips had turned into wrinkled prunes, most of my stress had melted away and I felt more at ease than I had since I’d first heard Ryan’s voice mail message about flying to Vegas.
I took my time drying off, moisturizing every inch of my skin and paying special attention to the lines and creases around my eyes.
I slipped into a pair of jeans and a cozy sweater, then pulled the clip out and brushed my hair until it shone under the bathroom lights.
Before leaving the bathroom, I applied a swish of mascara to my lashes, and a dab of concealer on the undereye circles that never completely disappeared no matter what I did to cover them.
Taking one last glance in the mirror, I was satisfied that I at least looked better on the outside than I felt on the inside.
During my bath, I’d decided to make the best of my time alone by treating myself to a trip to the bookstore, and then the nail salon for a manicure and maybe even a pedicure and then topping the day off by picking up some Greek food for dinner, which was something I loved but didn’t have often because neither Ryan nor our sons were fans.
I grabbed a quick snack in lieu of lunch – an apple and a handful of almonds – then headed out.
My newly acquired, almost-but-not-quite-positive attitude took a nosedive when I stepped outside, only to be smacked in the face by a blast of frigid air as the wind whipped around the side of the house.
It made my eyes water and my nose almost instantly start to run, despite the heavy coat, scarf, and gloves I was wearing.
The temperature had dropped, but the snow still held off for now at least, although the updated forecast indicated that we would receive several inches overnight.
As I hustled down the steps and around to the driveway, I saw Mitch’s car blocking the garage, reminding me of the reason I was currently freezing my ass off.
The mere sight of it pissed me off all over again, obliterating the relaxing effects of my bath.
“I hope they both get sunburns,” I muttered angrily as I slid into the driver’s seat and started my SUV.
My body was hit with an uncontrollable shiver as I hurriedly cranked up the temperature.
Since I always parked in the attached garage, I hadn’t splurged on the remote start or heated seat features when I’d picked out my SUV a few years ago.
It had seemed like an extravagance that my frugal heart just couldn’t justify for myself.
I was regretting that decision now more than ever.
A halt hour later, I was enjoying a leisurely stroll through the aisles at the bookstore, picking up a book about World War II for my dad, who was a history buff with a birthday of his own coming up in a couple of months.
I also bought a book for myself when I spotted the latest release in a romance series that Jen and I had been reading.
At the nail salon, I chose a shimmery plum polish on my fingertips, having decided to forego the professional pedicure since I wouldn’t be wearing open-toed shoes any time soon anyway.
An at-home pedicure would be just fine for now, and I planned to do that later tonight while I watched the cheesiest rom-com I could find on TV – something else I didn’t get to indulge in often when the men of the house were around.
As I sat in the salon parking lot afterward, waiting once again for my SUV to warm up, I checked my phone which had been silenced during my appointment.
I was hoping to see something from Ryan but was left feeling deflated when the only thing on the screen was a missed call and voice mail from Lindsey, who was married to Ryan’s brother, Derek.
Ryan and Derek weren’t all that close, mostly due to their five-year age difference, and neither Ryan nor I cared for Lindsey much at all, so I was surprised that she had called.
I pressed the button to listen to her message, then instantly regretted it.
“Happy birthday! It’s a shame that your hubby is out of town, but I hope you’re out doing something fun anyway, especially since he’s rubbing elbows with celebrities and supermodels at the pool.
Derek is still drooling over the picture Ryan sent of Mina Lockwood, that actress who’s dating Trevor Chatham.
Derek’s had a crush on her for years, you know, and that thong bikini she was wearing was practically see-through!
Of course, it still covered more of her than the collection of strings the other women were trying to pass off as swimsuits.
Did you see the yellow scraps of fabric that other woman was wearing?
I swear I could almost make out the color of her nipples, for God’s sake.
Some women just have no class. You’re nicer than I am, let me tell you, letting him loose in Vegas like that.
I would have killed Derek for going somewhere without me on my birthday, especially somewhere like Sin City. ”
Lindsey finally ended her rambling diatribe with another “happy birthday”, as I sat fuming over the fact that my damned husband couldn’t find a spare moment to call or text me, yet found plenty of time to take pictures of nearly naked women and send them to his brother.
My stomach clenched then, partly because I hadn’t eaten much today and partly because of my rising anger, and I spent the next several seconds cursing Ryan, and Mitch by association.
“Those stupid, inconsiderate, rat bastards,” I yelled as I smacked my hand down on the steering wheel hard enough to make my palm throb.
“I hope they get sunburns and lose their luggage. Food poisoning from one of those casino buffets would be perfect. I wouldn’t even mind if they get beaned in the head with a rogue golf ball at this point. ”
When my stomach grumbled again, I snatched up my phone and pulled up the online menu for the restaurant.
It was still a bit early for dinner, but I didn’t care.
I dithered over the moussaka or the souvlaki, before deciding to order both.
I could always eat the leftovers tomorrow.
I added spanakopita for my appetizer, just for the hell of it, and baklava for dessert in lieu of birthday cake.
Last but not least was a bottle of ouzo, because getting a little tipsy seemed like a damned good idea.
The restaurant wasn’t busy since it wasn’t even five o’clock yet, so it didn’t take long for my order to be ready.
The aroma of the food – especially the delicious honey syrup with hints of vanilla and cinnamon on the baklava – teased my senses and made my stomach growl almost non-stop during the thankfully short ride back home, and by the time I parked behind Mitch’s stupid car again I was ravenous, which also tended to make me a little hangry. OK, so maybe a lot hangry.
That might explain why I used my fingertip to draw a limp penis with a pair of shriveled balls in the frost coating his back window. I snickered as I stood back to admire my work, then added a few straggly pubic hairs to my artistic masterpiece.
Later that night, I watched through bleary eyes as the movie drew to a close and the credits rolled across the screen.
I turned off the TV with a slightly unsteady hand and carefully reached for the crispy, flaky, mouthwatering baklava, chewing slowly as I savored the last bite.
Swaying just a little as I leaned forward to set the plate down again on the coffee table, I picked up my ouzo.
The ice clinked against the side of the glass as I raised it in mock salute and shouted, “Happy fucking birthday to me,” into the silent void surrounding me.