Marissa #2
My mind flashes back to tonight’s bedtime routine with my son. His anxiety was visible, his stimming heightened as he repeatedly flicked at his ear. He’d refused to go to sleep until he’d taken out all his Matchbox cars and lined them up around the perimeter of his room.
Gradual introductions to change are essential for keeping his anxiety at bay. I’ve already started preparing him for the trip to Cabo, showing him pictures of the beaches and the private villa where we’ll be staying. I’m not sure how well he’d react to a sudden change in itinerary.
My thoughts are interrupted by the buzz of my cell phone. I pick it up off the floor and squint at the screen. It’s Riley, my publicist. I answer the call and groan into the receiver.
“I know,” Riley says by way of greeting. “Trust me, my phone has been ringing nonstop. The press is ravenous, and they want to know if you’re going to make a statement.”
I feel bad for Riley. I hired her just before Rocky and I announced our separation, and she probably assumed I’d be an easy paycheck.
After all, I’ve been on hiatus for years and am usually in bed by 9 PM.
How much work could I possibly be? She quickly learned it’s not me but my proximity to Rocky that’s so strenuous.
My ex-husband is a tornado, sweeping everyone around him into his vortex of chaos.
I put her on speaker and take another fortifying sip of wine. “Here’s a statement: Rocky Ramirez is an overrated, under-talented urn of disappointment whose ego has never quite aligned with the size of his dick.”
“Got it. I’ll let them know that you said you wish the happy couple well.”
I hear her fingernails tapping lightly on the keyboard and then she clears her throat. A telltale sign that she’s about say something I don’t want to hear.
“Do you have a few minutes?” Riley asks hesitantly. “We need to discuss a plan for crisis management.”
“Geez, Riley,” Pooja says. “Can we not allow the woman one night of wallowing in self-despair before we start working on a PR spin?”
“Who’s wallowing?” I grumble, draining the last of my wine.
Riley tsks in disapproval. “Fine. One night. But tomorrow, we need to set up a meeting and get on top of this before the press writes their own narrative.”
“Can’t wait,” I mutter.
“While I have you, can we review the press clippings that have run since the news broke?”
I blow out a sigh. “Why not? I’m always eager to learn how my life is disintegrating in real time.”
“Okay, let’s see,” she says, dutifully ignoring my tone. “Harper’s Bazaar ran a listicle of seven celebrities who are still happily single. You were number one.”
“Because I’m the happiest,” I mutter. “Obviously.”
“BuzzFeed also mentioned you in a listicle,” she continues. “It was titled ‘Ten Celebrity Love Triangles That Are More Complicated Than the Bermuda Triangle.’”
Pooja snorts and I throw her a glare.
“Come on,” Pooja chides. “You know that one’s funny.”
Riley clears her throat again, reminding us that she’s still on the line.
“Also, Glamour magazine wants to add you to an upcoming spread called ‘Jilted but Quilted: Chanel Bags Inspired by Famously Divorced Women.’”
I groan. “That’s so bleak. Will Chanel at least send me a pity purse?”
“Not sure,” Riley says. “But I can definitely reach out to the VIP team.” She pauses for a sympathetic beat.
“I know this is a shitty thing to deal with, but we need to get a handle on this before it spins out of control. There will be a lot more of this coming your way tomorrow. Especially when the tabloids begin circulating your statement.”
“You know,” Pooja points out, “the press would have more to write about than your love life if you signed on to a new project.”
I lean back against the doorframe and close my eyes. I know she has my best interests at heart, but I’m not in the mood to rehash this conversation right now. “You know why I can’t do that,” I mutter.
Since Levi’s diagnosis, and my subsequent departure from the A-list, I’ve turned down every (albeit rare) project that came along.
Even though Levi completed his early intervention services and will start kindergarten full time in the fall, I still can’t convince myself that it’s okay to take another job.
There’s something holding me back, a feeling of uncertainty.
Like I’m perpetually waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“I know why you think you can’t do that,” she counters. Pooja crosses her arms, emitting a loud squeak of latex.
“Jesus, are you two wearing the Felicia Fox costumes again?” Riley asks.
I grab the phone off the plush carpeting of the closet floor and hiss loudly into the receiver.
“You’re breaking up. I’ll call you tomorrow, Riley!” I disconnect and hurl the phone across the floor like it’s a venomous snake.
Pooja levels her no-nonsense gaze at me.
“Listen to me. You need to get out of here. This thing with the lake house is a sign.”
“You think everything is a sign,” I tell her. “You thought you met your soulmate at Erewhon because you both ordered a shot of sea moss in your smoothie.”
“And my skin has never looked dewier.” She grins. “From both the smoothie and subsequent orgasms.”
“Thank you for clarifying that.”
I tug at the zipper on my costume. Red wine always makes me sweaty. Or maybe it’s just the fact that I’m already seriously considering this change in summer plans.
“I don’t even know what kind of condition the house is in,” I admit.
“My grandma had been in assisted living for the past eight years, and my mom rarely went out there after she remarried. It’s mostly sat vacant.
” She never told me why her visits to the lake house became less frequent after she and Dad split.
It was her mother’s house, after all, not his.
But I suspect it’s the same reason I haven’t been back, either.
Some memories are best left undisturbed.
Pooja shrugs. “Even better. You can give it a little spruce-up while you’re there. You love a good DIY project. At the end of the summer, you can either sell it or gift it back to your family.”
I bite down on my bottom lip. Pooja’s right.
Since taking a break from acting, I have discovered a passion for minor home renovation.
My projects have always been small: switching up drawer pulls, painting kitchen cabinets.
I’ll need to hire a professional to take care of any major repairs on the house, though.
I vaguely remember my stepdad mentioning warped floorboards last time he and my mom visited, so I’ll need to deal with that.
But the more I think about it, the more I like the idea.
Escaping to the East Coast for a wholesome summer by the lake, making s’mores and fixing up my family’s house, sounds like an absolute dream.
I could give my kids the same type of summer I once had, before everything changed.
The problem is that I’m not sure it’s workable.
At this stage of my life, I can no longer make choices based solely on what I want.
There are too many other people to consider now.
Specifically, the two sleeping down the hall.
“Rocky is joining us for the second week in Cabo. He’ll be pissed if we change the plans,” I say.
Pooja rolls her eyes. “Don’t give me that conscious uncoupling bullshit.
If Gwyneth Paltrow wants to vacation with her ex, that’s on her.
It doesn’t mean that everyone else in Hollywood should be robbed of the pleasure of a messy divorce.
You’re now a card-carrying member of the First Wives Club.
To paraphrase Bette Midler, He don’t own you. ”
I snort out a laugh. She’s not exactly an objective party, but she isn’t wrong, either. My therapist has been telling me to stop centering Rocky’s comfort and make a concerted effort to put my needs ahead of his. And I can’t think of a more pressing opportunity to do so than this one.
“Well, I guess that settles it. Pennsylvania, here we come.”