3. Andy
Andy
He's already gone when I wake up, but today I don't mind.
His side of the bed is cold, barely disturbed — he left before dawn for meetings.
The house settles into its usual quiet, but the silence has a different texture this morning because tonight we have plans. Real plans.
Tonight is our anniversary, and he promised me dinner.
My phone sits dark on the nightstand. No messages from him, but that's normal — he'll be in back-to-back meetings until this afternoon.
The promise he made sits solid in my chest, something real to hold onto.
For the first time in months, I have hours ahead of me that feel like a gift instead of something to survive.
I stretch in bed, toes pointing toward the footboard the way they used to every morning when I danced. Today I get to be someone who has somewhere to be tonight. Someone worth getting dressed up for.
The spa downtown opens at nine. I haven't been to a spa in over a year, not since Vinny started scheduling every weekend with appearances or travel. But today is mine, and I'm going to take up space in it.
The massage therapist works knots out of my shoulders I didn't know I was carrying.
Her hands are strong and sure, finding tension in places I've been holding tight for months.
The oil smells like eucalyptus and something floral, and when she kneads the muscles along my neck, I realize how long it's been since someone touched me with the intention of making me feel good.
Not posing for photos or walking red carpets where every gesture is calculated for the cameras.
Just this — hands that want to help, pressure that serves no purpose except my own comfort.
"You carry a lot of stress here," she says, pressing into the space between my shoulder blades.
"Yeah," I manage, face pressed into the cradle. "It's been a long few months."
When she finishes, my body feels loose and warm, like I've been unknotted from the inside. I tip her extra because I remember what it's like to work for tips, back when Jameson and I were splitting ramen packets and I taught ballet to seven-year-olds for twenty dollars a class.
The nail technician files my nails into smooth ovals and fans out colors on the small table between us. I skip the nudes and the pale pinks that show up better in photos and go straight for the wine red, deep and glossy and unapologetic.
"Special occasion?" she asks, painting the first coat.
"Anniversary dinner," I say, and the words feel good in my mouth. Real. "With my husband."
She smiles and keeps working, layering color onto my nails with careful precision. The red catches the light, rich and bold. These are nails that say I have somewhere to be tonight. Nails that belong to a woman whose husband picks her up for dinner at a place with white tablecloths and wine.
The blow-dry comes last. The stylist runs her fingers through my hair, sectioning it with clips before working the brush through each piece.
The heat from the dryer is pleasant, almost hypnotic, and I watch my reflection in the mirror as my hair transforms from damp waves into something smooth and polished.
She curls the ends under just slightly, the way I used to do it myself back when I cared about things like that.
"Beautiful," she says, spraying something that smells like vanilla to set everything in place. "Your husband is a lucky man."
The words sting for just a second — not because they're untrue, but because it's been so long since anyone said them. I tip her too, probably more than I should, but today feels like a day for small generosities.
Lunch passes in a blur of salad and sparkling water at a café where no one recognizes me.
The anonymity is a luxury I'd forgotten I missed.
No one watches how I hold my fork or whether I smile at the right moments.
I can just be a woman eating lunch, thinking about the evening ahead, checking my phone not because I'm desperate for contact but because I'm excited about the night to come.
The jewelry store is three blocks from the café, tucked between a bookshop and a place that sells overpriced candles. I'm not looking for anything specific when I walk in, just killing time before I need to head home and start getting ready. But then I see them in the display case and stop short.
Cufflinks. Sterling silver, sitting on black velvet like they're something respectable and classy. Except they're not respectable at all — they're two tiny hands, perfectly crafted, flipping the bird with precision and style.
The laugh that comes out of me is loud enough that the salesperson looks over, probably wondering if I've lost my mind. Maybe I have. These cufflinks are hideous and perfect and exactly the kind of ridiculous thing that would make Jameson lose it completely.
I can picture his face when he opens the box — that moment where he tries to keep it together in public and fails, both of us dissolving into the kind of laughter that makes other people uncomfortable.
This is who we used to be. Two people with the humor of teenagers, crude and silly and completely unashamed of finding middle fingers hilarious.
"I'll take them," I tell the salesperson before I even ask the price.
She wraps them in tissue paper and slides them into a small velvet box, then into a bag with the store's logo printed in gold foil.
I handle the bag carefully, already imagining the moment I hand it to him across the dinner table, the way his eyes will widen and then crinkle at the corners when he realizes what they are.
The drive home passes quickly, my fingers drumming against the steering wheel to whatever song is on the radio. The bag with the cufflinks sits in the passenger seat, and every time I glance over at it, something warm spreads through my chest.
Tonight I get to surprise my husband. Tonight I get to watch him laugh the way he used to, before everything got so serious and scheduled and managed.
Back at the house, I set the wrapped gift on the dresser in our bedroom and lie down for a nap, setting my alarm for four-thirty. Enough time to shower and do my makeup properly and pick out something that will make him remember why he married me.
The sheets are cool against my skin, and for once the quiet of the house feels peaceful instead of lonely. In a few hours, I'll be getting dressed for somewhere I actually want to go.
* * *
The alarm pulls me out of sleep that felt deeper and more restful than I've had in weeks. I stretch, joints popping pleasantly, and pad to the bathroom to start getting ready.
The shower is hot enough to pink my skin, and I use the expensive shampoo that smells like jasmine, the one I usually save for events. Tonight counts as an event. I'm going to look like the woman my husband fell in love with.
My makeup goes on smoother than usual, maybe because my skin is still glowing from the facial or maybe because I'm actually relaxed for the first time in months.
I line my eyes with precision, add mascara that makes them look bigger and brighter, dust bronzer across my cheekbones. The woman looking back at me in the mirror is someone I recognize — someone who has plans that matter, someone worth picking up at six o'clock.
The dress hangs in the closet where I left it this morning after pulling it out of the garment bag.
Black, fitted but not tight, with a neckline that's elegant without being conservative.
I bought it months ago for an event that got canceled, and it's been waiting ever since.
The fabric slides over my skin like water, settling into place as if it was made for this exact night.
The wine-red nails look perfect against the black fabric. The heels I choose add three inches and make my legs look longer, shapelier. I twist my hair up into something that looks effortless but isn't, leaving a few pieces loose to frame my face.
Six o'clock comes and goes while I sit on the edge of our bed, hands folded in my lap, listening for the sound of his key in the front door. Maybe he's running late. Maybe the meetings went longer than expected. Traffic in LA is always unpredictable.
Six-fifteen. The house stays quiet around me.
I check my phone — no messages, no missed calls.
The screen shows the time in bright white numbers that seem to mock the effort I put into getting ready, into believing this night would be different.
But fifteen minutes is nothing. People run late all the time.
Six-thirty. I try calling him, pressing his contact photo with my thumb and listening to the phone ring.
Except it doesn't ring — it goes straight to voicemail, his recorded message professional and distant and nothing like the way he talks to me when we're alone.
Or the way he used to talk to me. I hang up without leaving a message because what would I say? Hi, it's your wife, remember me?
Seven o'clock. The dress that felt perfect an hour ago now feels wrong, too tight across my ribs, too short, too much effort for someone who isn't coming.
The nails I picked out this morning look ridiculous under the bedroom lights, too bright, too hopeful.
I call him again and get the same voicemail, the same professional politeness that could belong to anyone.
Seven-fifteen. I sit in the growing dark of our bedroom, phone face-down on my thigh, and try to remember the last time Jameson kept a promise that was just for us, just the two people who used to stay up until three in the morning talking about everything and nothing because we couldn't stand to fall asleep and miss each other.
Seven-thirty. The house has gone completely dark around me, and I haven't bothered to turn on any lights because I was supposed to be gone by now.
I was supposed to be sitting across from my husband at a restaurant with good wine and jazz music, watching him open a box with cufflinks shaped like middle fingers.