“Hi, Mom.”
“Allison, darling, where have you been?” She sounds worried and I feel guilty. “And why aren’t you returning my calls?”
“I’m sorry. It’s been a busy week.”
“I called you yesterday at work and the number didn’t go through. Then I called the main switchboard and they said you didn’t work there! First this crisis with the wedding and now work? Heavens! What is going on with you?”
Oh, god. I need to come clean now. How clean, I’m not sure. I know that if I tell her I was fired, she will ask me what I did to make them fire me.
“That’s right. I don’t work there anymore. My last day was Friday. I’ve been there twelve years and it was time to move on.”
“You took another job?”
“Not exactly.” I take another deep breath, crossing imaginary fingers behind my back. “I felt I needed the time off to think about what I want next.”
“So you quit without another job lined up? Allison, what is wrong with you?” When I don’t respond because I’m too busy gritting my teeth, her tone softens. “Did you quit for Neil?”
“No!” I say quickly and emphatically.
“Then this is too much. I just don’t know what is going on with you,” she says, her voice harsh again, which feels like tiny pins puncturing my eardrums. “You should talk to your father. Do you need us to come down? Actually, don’t answer that. We’re coming down tonight and bringing you home.”
“Mom, I’m thirty-five. I don’t need to come home.” The idea of my parents dragging me out of my condo and back to their colonial in the western burbs is a bit over the top. Perhaps I should consider expanding my job search to out of state. “I’m fine, okay. I don’t need to discuss all my career moves with you.”
Through the phone, I can hear my mother maniacally tapping her fingernails on the honed marble countertops in her oversized French country kitchen. “And what is happening with the wedding?” she asks. “Have you talked to Neil?”
“No progress on that front.”
“You two are being ridiculous. You really must sort this out quickly,” she scolds me, as if Neil and I are just having a juvenile skirmish because he pulled my hair on the playground. “Invitations were sent. People are expecting a wedding in three weeks.”
“I know, I know. We’ll take care of it.” Or more like “I” will take care of it. The fact that my mother can’t seem to understand that there is no wedding, that this isn’t just some misunderstanding, adds to my growing list of things that make me want to scream today.
“Mom, I have to go. I have an appointment.”
“An appointment? It’s Saturday.”
“Yes. I, uh, have a nail appointment,” I lie. Any twinge of guilt is surpassed by the need preserve my sanity, which means ending this call through any measure.
“Should you really be spending money on your nails when you have no job—”
“Goodbye, Mom.” I hang up before she can say anything else.
Argh! I can’t win with her. If I’d told her that I canceled a manicure appointment, I’m pretty sure she would have said, “Are you sure that’s wise? You need to look your best to get your man back!” or something along that line.
I’d been pacing back and forth while talking to my mother, and in doing so I kept passing the door to the office where all the wedding presents are piled up. Since the great Neil cleanout with Jordan, I’ve kept that door closed, not needing the constant reminder (and the kitchen table has sufficed as my new office space). Standing in front of it now, I pause and consider opening it. But as soon as my hand is on the doorknob, the thought of all those prettily wrapped presents with each well-wisher’s card taped to the corresponding gift gives my heart a pang. A lump forms in my throat. I sigh and head to the bathroom where I take out my nail polish and supplies for a DIY manicure. Lying to mother has made me feel like a bad person and, frankly, my nails could use some love.
While my nails dry, I numb my mind and heart with a mindless Bravo marathon for the rest of the afternoon. Moving forward can wait until Monday.
Defeated, I go to bed at six.
I’m awake early and make it to my regular Monday six thirty barre class. It’s soothing to see the other regulars and to pretend for an hour that everything in my life is exactly the same. The only change is that I now head to The Cauldron rather than Starbucks for my post-workout latte. The Cauldron is also beginning to feel like routine since the same guy, Eric, is working the cash register and the same twenty-something hipster barista is working the espresso machine.
“Morning!” Eric greets me with his friendly, easygoing smile. “Good workout?”
“Good morning!” I smile back. “And, yes, it was a good workout. Thanks.”
“What can I getcha?”
“A large almond milk latte and this banana,” I say, taking one out of the basket.
“No scone?”
“No, thanks. Not this morning,” I say, handing over a twenty.
As he makes my change he says, “Sooo, you didn’t like it?”
Shoot! That’s right—the free scone from my first visit. I inwardly cringe at appearing rude when he’s been so kind to me. “The scone? Oh, I loved it! Totally delicious. But, carbs, you know?”
It’s subtle, but I notice he’s giving me an appraising look as he hands me my change. “But not good enough to tempt you for another?” I can tell he’s teasing me more than trying to push his baked goods on me. “You look like you can handle it.”
“Ha!” I fumble putting the change into my wallet. “Well, I don’t want to undo all my hard work from the gym.”
“Your fiancé is a lucky man.”
The word fiancé punches me in the gut, and I look down at my left hand where my engagement ring sparkles up at me, as if winking to say hello. Even though it’s been a little over a week now, I can’t yet face taking off the beautiful ring I’d selected when I thought I was going to live happily ever after. I promise myself that once I officially cancel the wedding, then I’ll take it off.
“You know, maybe I will take a scone,” I say, wanting to change the subject from my nonexistent fiancé.
Eric looks a little surprised at my change of heart, but says, “Great! I have orange cranberry this morning.”
“Sounds perfect.” I reach back into my purse for my money.
He waves his hand toward my purse. “No, no. Don’t worry about it. This is a new recipe. You can pay me back by giving me your honest opinion.”
“Oh. Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.” He puts a scone in a small paper bag and hands it to me. “Just let me know what you think the next time you come in.”
“Will do. Thank you very much.” My latte is ready, and the hipster barista hands it to me with a smirk, looking back at Eric and then at me.
As I leave Eric calls out, “Have a great day, Allison.”
“Thanks! You too, Eric.” I wave and leave with a smile on my face.
MY SMILE DISAPPEARS the second I open my door.