“Yes. A six-miler in the park.”
“Good for you! Glad the scone powered you through,” he grins, obviously fishing for a compliment.
“Oh, gosh! Yes. The scone. It was delicious! Thank you!”
“In that case, take another! It’s raspberry oatmeal today.” He grabs a paper bag and reaches into the refrigerated case.
“You’re like a drug dealer aren’t you? First you get your clients hooked with just a taste and then—”
Interrupted by a tap on my shoulder, I turn around. “Excuse me,” says the man in line behind me, “but please flirt on your own time. Some of us need our coffee to get to work.”
“Oh!” I start and feel my cheeks, which are already flushed from running, begin to burn from embarrassment. He’s wearing a crisp charcoal-colored suit and an equally expensive-looking watch that he pointedly checks, because unlike me, he is very busy and important.
When Eric looks up from the display case, I notice his pupils dilate at my tomato face as he hands me the bag. “Thanks,” I say quickly, grabbing the bag and then hurrying to the other side of the counter to wait for my drink.
I overhear Eric take the man’s order in a perfunctory manner as he also asks for a scone. “Seeing that you’re offering them for free.”
“Of course,” Eric says smoothly. “First scone is on the house. Gotta get my new customers hooked.” He glances my way, a twinkle in his eye.
Luckily “Mr. Busy and Important” just orders a large black coffee, and I don’t have to wait next to him at the barista counter. When the same bearded hipster from last time hands me my coffee, he shakes his head. “Never mind that guy. He doesn’t know you’re engaged, and so he’s just jealous that you weren’t flirting with him.”
I nod and give the barista a nervous smile. Even though I’m no longer wearing my ring, my engagement is none of his business, and so I simply thank him and then head home to deal with the mess my ex-fiancé has left for me.
ONCE HOME, I take my time showering, put on makeup, and armor up in my work clothes complete with heels. Get up, dress up, show up: Take Two. Even though the vendors won’t be able to see me, I somehow can’t “face” them while sporting old yoga pants and a scrunchie. It’s already too sad.
Most are professional and discreet and don’t ask for a reason; the band, florist, and makeup artist all seem as uncomfortable as I am with the whole conversation. However, the larger the price tag, the larger the huffiness factor, and the venue proves to be the biggest example of that.
“But that’s less than three weeks away! That’s a huge loss for us since we can’t possibly fill that large of a space within that time,” says Pierre, the hotel’s special events manager. Preempting my next question, he continues, “I’m very sorry for your situation, but at this late date we can’t refund any portion of the payment.”
His cold concern about the hotel’s bottom line makes me want to tell him where he can shove that payment, but then I remember that we booked the hotel with Neil’s credit card.
“I understand,” I say, ever-so-sweetly. “Please go ahead and charge the full amount to the credit card on file.” I smile wickedly to myself imagining Neil’s expression when he opens his credit card statement this month.
Pierre’s tone softens, and I realize that this isn’t his first rodeo and he must regularly deal with deranged ex-bridezillas demanding full refunds. “I’m so sorry about your wedding,” he says, sympathetically. “If there’s anything we can do for you in the future, I’d be happy to take care of it. Room discounts, thirty percent off in the restaurant, complimentary drinks at the bar, please do not hesitate to call me.”
“Thank you. I might take you up on those comped drinks.”
After hanging up with Pierre, every ounce of graciousness and bravery has left me. I’m sure there will be repercussions when Neil sees the charges on his card, but maybe he should have thought of that before sleeping with Stacey.
There is only one more call to make, but I can’t do it. Like my ring, the other thing I can’t face losing is my wedding gown. I still have my final fitting, where the full payment will be due. And I want that fitting. I want to see how my dress looks on me after it’s been hemmed and altered to perfection. While I might not have a job to pay for it, dammit, I want that dress.
I’m surprised to find that it only took a couple hours to undo months upon months of planning. The beautiful wedding I so carefully orchestrated is no more, and I’m not sure what’s more upsetting—losing my fiancé or losing my wedding. I know the rational answer, but I’m not feeling very rational these days.
Tonight I’m meeting Jordan for a drink after work—her work that is—but that’s still hours away. In the meantime, I still have to get through the afternoon and time seems to be moving so slowly. I should start informing guests the wedding’s off, but decide to give it another day. I could call the recruiters, but I don’t want to harass them this early in the game. A quick online search doesn’t show any new job postings. I debate whether to post to LinkedIn or Facebook saying I’m looking for a new job, but that would invite questions—questions I’m not emotionally prepared to answer.
So what am I supposed to do now with this lonely stretch of afternoon? Did I really not have any hobbies or interests other than working out, work, and wedding planning? And isn’t this the free time where people say, “I wish I could just take a week and get my life in order?” Although the big things in my life are horribly out of order, the little things aren’t, and I suddenly wish I had a junk drawer to declutter or that my closet needed purging. My computer files and contacts are up-to-date and organized. My pantry and spice drawer are in order, which is easy enough since I rarely cook. There’s no mail to sort since I go through it as soon as it arrives. The wedding gifts are waiting to be returned, but they can wait a little longer. I appear to be the model of efficiency and organization—except for the fact that my life is a complete mess.
With a sigh, I lie down on the sofa and decide to indulge in my new favorite hobby—falling asleep while watching television—and set my alarm to meet Jordan at six.
Sitting at the bar under an antique chandelier at a cozy River North wine bar, I’m two-thirds of the way through my first glass of sauvignon blanc as I wait for Jordan. I’m ten minutes early, and of course, she will be ten minutes late.
“Hey, lady,” Jordan says as she hugs me. “The sauv?” she asks.
“Yep.”
I catch the bartender’s attention and do a “peace sign” signaling that we’d like two more. Meanwhile, Jordan dumps her computer bag on the floor, hooks her purse under the bar, and slings her jacket on the back of her chair. By the time she’s shed her lawyerly accoutrements, there’s a glass of wine in front of her.
After a quick clinking of our glasses, “Cheers,” and first sips, Jordan asks cautiously, “So how was today?”
I shrug and take another sip of my wine before responding. “Not better, but not worse.”
“Any job news?”