Chapter 6
It’s All About Perspective
? Fabulous – Meek
Angelina
I gave myself twenty-four hours to be sad, wallowing in the aftermath of the Vegas trip.
I didn’t shower or brush my hair. I drowned myself in a pint of mint-chip and followed that up with a marathon of sad movies, starting with The Notebook.
I let myself cry until the well dried up, and all that was left was an empty pit where my heart used to be.
This morning, I woke up feeling renewed.
I called my hair stylist and set up a last-minute appointment, then I took an everything shower, put on my favorite wide-leg jeans with a black lace corset top, and an oversized shacket for a bit of coverage—wouldn’t want to give any of the older ladies at the salon a coronary.
With a few hours before my appointment, I rip the dust cover off my black cherry convertible and take the top down. I only take the car out on rare occasions. It was a gift from my parents upon their retirement and one of my most prized possessions.
After a quick lipstick check in the rearview, I push my sunglasses up the bridge of my nose and back out of the driveway.
Stiletto on the gas, I point my car in the direction of the nearest strip mall and crank up the dial on my favorite playlist. Ironically, the first song that comes on is Bad Bitch Scorned by none other than Ruby Lynn Hayes—Griffin’s sister.
Ignoring the connection, I sing along at the top of my lungs, wind whipping through my hair.
With no one to answer to, I make a stop at a coffee shop and head into the mall with my platinum card and an unlimited budget.
God, I love free will.
Retail therapy might not fix a broken heart, but it can’t hurt to try.
How many pairs of shoes is too many? Screw it. It doesn’t matter anymore. I have a whole closet to myself now. I can fill it floor to ceiling with shoes and accessories to my heart’s content, and nobody can stop me.
Unsurprisingly, plus-size clothing options are limited, but I don’t let that get me down.
I love my body, and I refuse to let the fatphobia that’s ingrained in the fashion industry and society as a whole dictate how I see myself.
I’m quite fond of my curves, and if my memories of our wedding night are anything to go by, so is my husband—not that I should be thinking about that.
He won’t be my husband for long, and I’ll have to settle for manual orgasms for the foreseeable future.
An hour into my shopping spree, I stop in front of a new independent plus-size store at the end of the mall, where I manage to find several new pieces to add to my wardrobe, plus an armload of accessories to style them with. Leather pants? Yes, please.
Fashion fell by the wayside when my career took center stage, but from time to time, I still like to trade in my scrubs and remind myself I’m so much more than Doctor Angelina Rossi. My career is only part of who I am. In hindsight, I may have lost a bit of myself when I was with Tyler.
It’s time to get her back.
On my way out of the mall, I spot a familiar kiosk in the center of the thoroughfare.
I smile as the distant memories resurface.
I miss my best friend, but she’d kill me if I didn’t stop and have my main character moment.
Before I can change my mind, I deposit my bags on the floor inside the booth and take a seat in front of the camera.
I fix my hair in the reflection and wipe the smudge of burgundy lipstick from my teeth.
Shoulders back, chin out, I plaster on a bright smile and channel my inner diva as the first flash illuminates the enclosed space.
I run my fingers through my hair and tilt my head to the side for the second shot, then I frame my face with my hands and purse my lips for the next one.
Before the last flash goes off, I put on my sunglasses and pull a sultry look, feeling more like myself than I have in a long time.
Vegas did something to me. In some ways, it broke me, but it also reignited a spark Tyler worked diligently to extinguish over the span of our relationship.
I didn’t see it when I was in the thick of it, but it’s hard to ignore now that I’m on the outside.
I’ll piece myself back together, stronger than ever, and I won’t let another man break what I’m working so hard to rebuild.
Not even a six-foot-seven cowboy with soulful eyes and talented hands.
God, those hands.
The strip of photos drops into the printer slot with a quiet thud, derailing me from that dangerous train of thought. I look lighter and more vibrant despite the monochromatic coloring. I guess that’s what happens when you drop over 200 pounds of dead weight.
Ok, so maybe he dropped me, but he clearly did me a favor. At least, that’s how I’m choosing to look at it. Like my dad always said, it’s all about perspective.
The midday sun beats down on me as I pull up outside the salon on Main Street. I secure the top back on my convertible and lock up.
“You’re here!” Sarah says as soon as I step through the door.
The vibes are immaculate in this place, with real plants scattered throughout the interior, and an earthy, relaxing aesthetic.
It’s eclectic, much like its owner. Sarah was one of the first people I met when I moved to Oak Ridge.
She’s one of those extroverts who randomly adopts friends wherever she goes.
Nia waves as she crouches over a pedicure chair, elbow deep in foamy water. Maybe I should’ve scheduled a mani-pedi, too.
As if she’s read my mind, Sarah says, “Way ahead of you. We’re gonna give you the best blow job you’ve ever had, then I’ll let Nia take care of you.”
“You’re not my type, but I could kiss you right now.”
“Is it the pink hair?” she quips.
“No. I love the pastel vibes. It’s more about the equipment.”
“I can strap one on if it would help.”
“Huh. I’ll keep that in mind.” I frown and cock my head. “What about your boyfriend? What was his name again?”
“We don’t talk about him,” Nia interjects. “He’s dead to us.”
“Metaphorically, or did you just make me an unwitting accomplice?"
Nia mimes zipping her lips and throwing away the key before she turns back to her client—she looks vaguely familiar, with copper hair and blonde face framing highlights, but I can’t quite place her.
The amused smile on her face tells me she’s not the least bit bothered by the crassness of our conversation.
I nod once. “So, about that blow job…”
Sarah motions for me to follow with the sweep of her hand. She stops in front of one of the stations. I take a seat, and she spins me toward the mirror.
We do a quick consult before she takes me over to the sink for a wash and the most toe-curling scalp massage I’ve ever experienced.
I let out an exaggerated moan. “If you’re trying to make me fall in love with you, it’s working.”
“Tell that to the ring on your finger, you harlot.”
The ring. I’d almost forgotten about it. I got so used to wearing Tyler’s that I hadn’t realized I was still wearing Griffin’s.
She helps me sit up and wraps a towel around my head before guiding me back to her station. “So. Are the rumors true? Did you marry into the Hayes family?”
“Who ratted me out? Rosie?”
“By way of Olivia.”
As she drapes the cape around me, I cringe at the potato-like reflection staring back at me.
It’s a universal truth that nobody looks good in a salon cape.
Lucky for me, my husband claims to have a thing for potatoes—not that it matters.
I really shouldn’t be making a habit of calling him my husband.
The annulment papers are already drawn up, and once he signs, this whole thing will be nothing more than a distant memory.
I sigh. “Long story. Margaritas, blackjack, and a stripper show. You know how it is.”
She smirks at me in the mirror as she towel dries my hair. “I don’t, but please… go on.”
While she trims my hair, Sarah, Nia, and the unnamed client listen with rapt attention as I tell the story of my elopement.
I keep the details to a minimum; the memories almost feel sacred somehow, and I’m not ready to share them with the world.
I might never be ready. The intimacy of the wedding, the whispered words in the darkened hotel room, the tenderness in the light of day—those are just for Griffin and me.
I don’t stop to dwell on why I can’t or won’t share them.
When she’s finished with my blowout, she sends me over to Nia. I select a neutral shade for my fingers and toes, and the tension I’d been holding onto gets washed away with the bubbles.
“God, you have magical hands,” I tell her.
Sarah sinks onto the chair beside me. “Already cheating on me? Rude.”
I roll my head to the side and smile at her. “Maybe we should form a throuple.”
“Nia’s in a situationship with Mo,” she says. “I’m afraid you’re stuck with me. But feel free to invite that hottie cowboy husband of yours.”
“I told you, it’s not like that. We’re getting an annulment.”
“Ok,” she draws out the word, disbelief etched in every feature of her face. “But if I know anything about the Hayes men, it’s that when they want something, they don’t give up easily. Think of it like buying underwear. Once you’ve tried it on, you can’t return it.”
“And a man like that? You don’t just throw him out with the trash, either,” Nia says.
“I think we need to break up. You two are the worst.”
“Love you, too,” Sarah says.
When all is said and done, I head into the early spring air with a pep in my step, relaxed and reinvigorated.
I just hope I can hold onto this feeling when Tyler gets back from the honeymoon.
I’m not so delusional as to think I won’t have to face him eventually.
We live in a small town, after all. When I do, he won’t know what hit him.
Griffin
I’m parked along Main Street when a familiar figure walks out of the salon, capturing my attention.
Angelina has always been the most beautiful woman I’ve laid eyes on, but fuck me, I might never recover from the sight of her strolling down the sidewalk looking like a goddamn siren with deep red lips and silky dark hair blowing in the breeze.
That’s my wife.
My wife.
As she’s getting into her car, something falls from her purse. She doesn’t seem to notice, closing the door behind her. I try to get her attention, but she’s already pulling away from the curb in her little red sports car.
Even her car is sexy as hell.
I jog across the street and pick up the long, thin piece of paper. My jaw drops when I flip it over and see four photos of the most gorgeous woman alive. It’s not her physical beauty that stops me in my tracks this time; it’s her radiance, as though she captured the sun and kept it all for herself.
I could do the right thing—text her, let her know I have her photos, and return them to her.
But I don’t do any of those things.
Instead, I carefully fold it up and tuck it in my wallet.
Finders keepers.
And I will find a way to keep her.