I pitched the ring as far as I could manage and looked around for the paparazzi. Surely they’d followed me from the private airport to my mid-scale hotel and there would be photos of me tossing that ring away in the news tomorrow. Surely everyone in America would feel sorry for me, and by the end of the week my first scandal would be more than over.
I raised my hands in the air and waited to hear the click clicking of the cameras, for a group of them to rush under the balcony and start taking close-up shots, but nothing happened.
Fayetteville was quiet.
There was nothing but a chorus of crickets chirping amidst the cool night air.
Disheartened, I stumbled back into my room and opened another bottle of tequila.
I drank three more shots and passed out on the carpet.
I sat in the backseat of a cab and tried to stifle my sobs with the sleeves of my jacket. Everything around me was falling apart and I knew it would take much more than a public statement and a six week hiatus to put it all back together.
On Friday, Cover Girl issued a statement regarding my behavior, saying, “The actions of Miss Ross are in no way indicative of the character we seek in our valued spokespersons and we have unanimously decided to revoke her campaign contract for the upcoming year.”
On Saturday, after I drunkenly-tweeted my twenty million followers that I wanted Phillip to come back to me and that he should hurry up and divorce his wife, Katy called to let me know she was quitting.
Effective immediately.
The only person I had left was Joan. She’d agreed to come to Fayetteville and be my new personal assistant if I patched things up with my mother first, but I figured she would overlook that part of our agreement once she saw how distraught I was.
I looked out my window and winced as we passed another “Arkansas, The Natural State” sign. Things were beginning to look familiar, and as hard as I tried to block out the memories of my past, they played out right in front of me: There were the River-bend Gardens—where Taylor and I shared our first kiss, the Farmer’s Market—where Jessica and I went every weekend to do the bakery shopping for my mom, and Tiffany D’s Ice Cream Parlor—where my dad took me once a month to lecture me on the laws of life before he passed away.
When we pulled into the main streets of town, I slouched down in my seat to avoid my mother’s Sweet Seasons bakery. I knew it was closed on Sundays and that no one would strain to see through the cab’s windows, but I didn’t want to risk the chance of anyone noticing me.
When I finally sat up, I saw that we’d passed Autumn Wonder, where Joan asked me to meet her.
“Stop!” I yelled. “Can you drop me off at that coffee shop back there please?”
“Right away ma’am,” the driver made a reckless U-turn.
I sent Joan a text and eyed the colossal Autumn Wonder store. It had to be new, really new—even the ones in New York City didn’t look as nice as this one.
The cab driver looked at me through the rearview mirror and put the car in park. “That’ll be $24.89, ma’am.”
I handed him my credit card and he shook his head. “I don’t have a credit card machine, ma’am.”
“Ugh! I forgot I was in Fayetteville,” I sighed and handed him a hundred dollar bill. “I see you all have yet to catch up with the rest of the world. Keep the change.”
I slammed his door shut and adjusted my blonde wig. I popped a mint into my mouth and tried to walk in a straight line. I whispered “One, two, three…sober!” and made my way inside.
As soon as I stepped in, a whiff of dark roast coffee and cinnamon wafted against my face. I held myself against a wall and looked around the store: It was like something out of an Architectural Digest, like a massive Barnes & Noble and Starbucks all in one, but better.
The first level featured beautiful black bistro chairs and tall iron-wrought tables with touristy-landscape photos engraved into their tops. The café was in the back, and a see through kitchen with state of the art coffee machines and state of the art double ovens stood right behind it. To my right was a glass wall that extended down the entire store, where hundreds of pastries and pies sat in a lovely display.
Behind the black railings that guarded the upper level, I could see plush leather couches, rustic tables, and floor to ceiling bookshelves.
I whispered “sober” to myself one more time and walked towards the counter. I was halfway there when a gorgeous man in a brown leather jacket looked up at me and smiled.
Whoa…Who is he?
I clumsily smiled back.
Out of nowhere, a woman brushed past me—nearly knocking me off balance, and sat down at his table.
Of course he wasn’t smiling at me. I should have known better… This wig makes me look like a wet mop.
I approached the counter and the barista beamed. “Good afternoon ma’am! Welcome to the awesome world of—”
“Spare me. I need a Venti Frappuccino: One pump caramel, one pump white mocha, two scoops vanilla bean powder, and extra ice with two espresso shots. I want caramel drizzle under and on top of the whipped cream, two dashes of chocolate chip coffee creamer, with melted cinnamon flakes lightly mixed in. And I need it double cupped.”
She blinked.
“Am I speaking Spanish? Do I need to repeat myself?”
“No ma’am,” she turned around and began to work.
I took out my wallet and snuck glances of the leather jacket guy here and there. He turned to the side and I realized that he was the type of guy I used to dream about, the type of guy that didn’t used to exist in Fayetteville.