It took controlling every muscle in my body not to lunge at him, so I resorted to doing the only thing I could do: Cry.
I told him that I understood his thoughts, but I wanted to go to graduate school. I’d already been accepted to Vanderbilt and agreed to go.
His response? Laughter.
“Tell them that your future husband is a lawyer now and you don’t need them. Law school and writing school are two different things and you know it. One makes money and one doesn’t. That’s just how it is, but I still believe in your talent. Trust me, things will be much better for us this way.”
Much better for us this way...
Everything is always “much better for us this way.” His way.
“You there, Paris?” He kisses my cheek, bringing me back to the present. “Can we go back to bed now?”
“Yeah.” I force a smile and lie down, wondering how long it’ll take him to go to sleep.
The second his soft snores begin, I slip out of bed and tiptoe into the bathroom. I look at myself in the mirror and flinch, knowing that the heavy bags under my eyes are from more than working late every day. Frowning, I unclip the photo that’s hanging on the wall.
It’s always been my favorite picture of us: We’re laughing at each other in an onslaught of winter wind, smiling as our hair flies high above our heads. And in the background is the bus stop where we first met.
This is the picture that I always pick up whenever I’m frustrated. It reminds me of the “us” that I remember, the “us” that I loved.
I stare at it for a few more minutes, waiting for that flash of feeling—that “This is just a rough patch, it’ll get better” thought that’s supposed to click into my mind.
It doesn’t.
All I can think about is the fact that we haven’t had a two-sided conversation in years. We haven’t had sex in forever, and smiling? I honestly can’t remember the last time I smiled to myself, let alone with him.
I place the picture where it belongs and look into our bedroom, making sure that Adrian is still sleeping. Then I decide to do something that I’ve dreamed about doing for years: Leave.
I walk over to my closet and grab my largest purse, quietly stuffing it with whatever I can get my hands on. I make sure I have my wallet, my laptop, and my cell phone, and I rush out of our bedroom.
The second I make it into the kitchen, I stop.
I have no idea where I’m going. No idea what I’m doing.
I consider saving my dramatic exit for another day, but my eyes suddenly catch the ivory invitation that’s hanging on our fridge:
“You are cordially invited to the (Shhh! It’s a secret!)
engagement party of
Paris Weston
&
Adrian Smith III.
Cocktails will be served at 6 p.m. sharp,
and the unsuspecting bride-to-be will arrive at 7 p.m.”
My blood begins to boil.
That damn engagement party is something I definitely don’t want to do—something I begged him not to do, but he’s done it anyway. And he told me all about the “big secret” weeks ago, telling me that I should once again trust him about this: “Just pretend that you don’t know anything about it when you walk in, okay? Oh, and make sure you smile really big. The ring is two carats so that practically guarantees a smile from you. Could you also do a little gasp once you actually see the ring? I want all my colleagues to know that you’re impressed with my selection.”
Enraged, I snatch that stupid paper off its magnet and rip it to f**king pieces.
Then I calmly pick up each and every shred and throw them into the trash can. (Adrian is a neat freak...)
Nonetheless, I quickly find my rage again and storm out of the house. I slip into my car and slam my foot onto the gas, driving into the night with no destination in mind...
***
Four hours later...
I have no idea where I am.
All I know is that my car can’t possibly go too much further. The engine is starting to make a clucking noise and the wire hanger I’ve been using to keep my muffler attached is scraping against the ground.
Pulling over, I get out of the car and slam the door shut. The engine needs to cool off for a bit, so I walk to the rear and take a seat on the trunk.
With my head in my hands, I consider calling Adrian ahead of time to let him know that I’m not coming tonight, that I’m definitely rejecting his proposal. Then again, I remember that for the past three years he’s forgotten to tell me “Happy Birthday.”
And not just “forgotten.”
He hasn’t even had the decency to apologize for leaving me waiting at my favorite restaurant alone. Each time he missed it he’d say, “Aw. I’m so sorry, babe. It is your birthday, huh? Well, Happy Birthday! I didn’t get a chance to buy you anything yet, but I have something that’ll make you feel much better...I got an A on [insert something I don’t give a f**k about here].”
Fuck Adrian...
Before I can turn my phone off, I see that I’ve missed five calls—all from my boss, so I call him back.
“Paris Weston?” he answers.
“George Nicholson. Are we about to play the name game?”
“Spare me your shit today, Paris. Where the hell are you? We just got a whole new set of sweaters delivered and we need someone to get them ready. There are ties that need to be organized, women’s heels that need to be shined, racks of slacks that need to be...”
I listen as he goes on and on, as he reminds me of just how pathetic my life really is.