At minute number six, Gillian’s phone played her father’s ringtone, and she closed her eyes. She might as well face the music, face the day. Face her mother. The woman wouldn’t give up.
Barbara had been the perfect compassionate, caring mother when Gillian first told her about the breakup. She’d said all the right things and acted exactly the way Gillian had needed. Then about a week ago, something had changed. Her mother had quit coddling and started prodding. She had some secret, special project she’d commenced in her sewing room at home, and she wanted Gillian to run the shop.
Gillian doubted there really was a project. More likely, Barbara had concluded that she had allowed Gillian sufficient time to wallow in her misery and the time had come for Gillian to get over it, to get over Jeremy.
What her mother didn’t understand, what Gillian couldn’t really understand herself, was that she was over Jeremy.
What she mourned was the life she’d planned to have with Jeremy. Losing her dreams hurt worse than losing the man.
That had to mean that she hadn’t loved him, not the way she should have loved the man she’d been about to marry. The fact that she’d ignored that truth shook her to her core. She should be devastated over this breakup. Instead, she was relieved. She’d almost married a man she didn’t love. How could she have been so blind?
Gillian didn’t know where to go from here. Did she want to pursue Blissful Events by herself? Or would she take a pass on that now that the McBrides owned the building and she was solo? Would she find a new dream? Maybe she’d sell her share of Bliss Bridal to her mom and move off to Paris and learn to paint. Except she’d never wanted to learn to paint.
What did she want? Who am I now?
She didn’t know. She’d been with Jeremy for three years. Three weeks was not enough time to come up with a new plan. A new me.
She threw off the pillow and glared at her nightstand and the offensively ringing phone. “Hello.”
“So, you’ll speak to your father and not to me?” Barbara said with a slighted tone in her voice.
“I knew it was you, Mom. Today is Thursday. Dad’s playing golf.” Her father believed that phones didn’t belong on the course. “It’s early for you to be calling.”
“I need to be sure you’ll be in to open the shop like you promised.”
“I said I’d come in, Mother. I will be there.”
“On time?”
Gillian clenched her teeth, but then relaxed. Her mother’s heart was in the right place, like always. She was just doing what she thought was best for her daughter. Barbara and William Thacker raised children, not snowflakes. “On time.”
“You’ll wash your hair?”
“Mother! I’m not five. I know how to groom myself.”
Barbara let her silence speak for her.
Defensively, Gillian responded, “One day. I ran late one day and I put it up in a bun, and no one but you could tell I hadn’t shampooed. Don’t worry, I’ll wash my hair and brush my teeth and change my underwear.”
“Gillian, don’t even joke about not changing your underwear. Otherwise, I’ll worry myself to death. You’ve been fastidious since the cradle!”
Gillian looked at her flecked and peeling fingernail polish and thought, Times have changed.
Her mother’s voice softened as she added, “I don’t mean to nag. I just worry about you, sweetheart. I always have, I always will. It’s a mother’s lot.”
“I know, Mom. Don’t worry any more than usual. I’ll be okay, and I’ll be at the shop in time to open at ten. I promise.”
“Thank you.” Briskly, she continued, “We don’t have an appointment until noon, so I want you to use that time to add a few touches to our new display window design. I have a theme I’m going with.”
She paused as if waiting for Gillian to ask for information about the theme. Gillian didn’t care enough to do so.
Eventually, Barbara continued, “I’m sure you’ll have some good ideas once you see it. Now, I’d better let you go so you can hop into the shower. Give Peaches a cuddle from Nana. I’ll be in this afternoon and see you then. Bye, sweetheart.”
“Goodbye, Mom.” Gillian let her phone slide from her hand onto the mattress, then started to pull her pillow back over her head. A yip stopped her. She lifted her head and looked toward the foot of the bed where her dog lay curled in the comforter that Gillian had kicked off during the night. Peaches stared at her with reproach. “You’re in cahoots with her, aren’t you? You heard your name.”
The dog rose, stretched, then padded up the bed and onto Gillian. One of Peaches’ hind legs landed in the general area of Gillian’s bladder. When the pup followed that up with a sandpapery lick to her cheek, Gillian admitted defeat and rolled from the bed.
Twenty minutes later, with her clean hair wrapped in a towel and while Peaches feasted on her morning kibble, Gillian stared into her refrigerator in search of something appetizing. Nothing appealed to her, but knowing that her mother was bound to ask if she’d eaten, she grabbed one of the cartons of yogurt Maisy had stocked in the fridge when she visited over the weekend. Key lime pie was one of Gillian’s favorite flavors. Today it tasted like cardboard.
She did not want to go in to work. She didn’t want to look at a wedding gown, much less make nice with a bride. All that white blinded her. The happiness and laughter and excitement and anticipation that were part of every Bliss appointment made her want to throw back her head and howl at the heavens.
She needed to get over it, of course, and she would. Bliss Bridal was her business, her career. She wouldn’t sell her share of the business to her mom. She couldn’t—she wouldn’t—let Jeremy take that part of who she was away from her. But right now, she didn’t want to be around that much white. Walking into the shop was like pouring alcohol on an open, oozing wound.
The yogurt hitting her stomach made it churn with nausea. Or maybe just thinking about the tulle trenches had done it. Whatever. She tossed the half-empty carton in the trash and returned to her bedroom and connecting bath to get ready for work. She dried her hair and pulled it into a simple ponytail. She moisturized her skin, but didn’t have the heart to even glance at her makeup drawer. When she opened the top drawer of her dresser, she froze. It was empty. Nothing there but the lavender-scented paper liner. “Oh, hell.”
She’d forgotten to do laundry. Again.
She was entirely out of clean panties.
Her gaze stole toward the corner—nowhere near her laundry hamper, where she’d kicked her clothes after undressing last night—and the pair of pink panties. Just how far had she sunk?
No, not that far. Mom would rise up out of her grave to come after her, and the woman wasn’t even dead yet.
Gillian had to have a clean pair stuck away somewhere, right? An old pair with worn elastic or tattered lace? Surely, she did.
No, she didn’t. Pre-breakup Gillian kept her drawers cleaned out. And her nails done. And her legs shaved.
Not even post-breakup Gillian could wear yesterday’s underwear.
“That’s probably a good sign, don’t you think?” she said to Peaches. Two weeks ago, under similar circumstances, she may well have made a different decision.