“Hm, I just have to remember where I put the thing…” Jesika lifts the top on a moving box. She doesn’t seem to find what she’s looking for because she turns and pushes the door open that leads into her massive walk-in closet.
“Whoa, this is big,” I comment the obvious now that I can fully appreciate the closet in the daylight. There are two doors to enter, which I already knew—one entry from the hallway, which is across from the bathroom, and the other is the way we’ve just come in, through the primary bedroom. Where her bedroom is floor-to-ceiling windows, her closet is floor-to-ceiling luxury designers. I see Valentino and Balenciaga and Gucci labels on bags and heels stacked high, and glittering sequin and lace ballgowns and cocktail dresses—the resale value alone on these items would fetch more than the mortgage for a year on my condo in El Segundo.
“Here it is!” Jesika pulls out a small item from a box. It’s wrapped in a silky white dust bag. “It’s the first bag I bought myself when I cashed my first modeling paycheck. You’ve been such a good friend to me, I want you to have it.”
“No, I couldn’t. Really.” I pass the gift back to her.
She shakes her head. “Really, I want you to have it. I haven’t used it in years. It’s just collecting dust on my shelves.” She gestures to the luxury items surrounding us. “I bought it at the store just down Michigan Avenue. It holds a special place in my heart, and so do you.”
“You’re so sweet.”
“Open it,” she instructs.
I do, carefully opening the dust bag and pulling out a worn black Louis Vuitton camera bag. It’s a basic small rectangle, and the lining is stained with what looks like red lipstick. I’ve shopped enough luxury consignment in my life to know this vintage bag probably isn’t even worth a thousand dollars in this state. As far as designer items go, it’s pretty low-end and notsomething I would even feature on my Instagram feed. I think of my elegant Oscar de la Renta gown and sigh.
“Thanks!” I enthuse, holding it in my hands like it’s precious cargo. “You’re too sweet, really. I wish you wouldn’t.”No, really, I don’t need your castoffs.The more I stand here faking my enthusiasm for her secondhand generosity, the more I want to stab myself in the eye with one of the spiky Louboutin heels. “You’rethe best.”
“You are.” Jesika winks. “I got most of this other stuff for free anyway—as long as I post in on social media or wear it to a photographed event, I don’t have to pay a thing. Isn’t it crazy?”
“Totally crazy.” Annoyance bubbles in me when I realize I’ve been competing with this girl online without even realizing it. Here I am purchasing and returning luxury merchandise to maintain the Mia Starr persona, and this girl is living the life free of charge.Literally.
“Hang on. I’ll be right back—don’t move.” She grins and dashes out of the closet.
I frown, unable to move much for all the overflowing boxes of clothes and accessories. A particularly glittery pair of champagne-gold Louboutin heels catch my eye, their lipstick-red soles striking. I would have taken a pair of these beauties secondhand any day, but an old Louis bag? It’s almost an insult. A crazy idea enters my mind then.
Before Jesika returns, I chew the piece of Juicy Fruit in my mouth a few times and then spit it into my hand and press it into the toe of the fanciest and most expensive heel I’ve ever seen.
“Fuck you, Jesika. Fuck you and your secondhand designer bullshit,” I murmur as my eyes trail around the space. A glass-covered case catches my eye. Sparkling pieces of jewelry are nestled in rich red velvet, and the top drawer is wedged open slightly. In the first velvet pocket lays Jesika’s engagement ring. I’drecognize it anywhere after seeing it in my newsfeed. It’s even prettier in person. Bigger than I expected and the facets of the diamonds glimmer and shine in the bright fluorescent lights.
Unable to stop myself, I slip the ring out from its nook and ease it onto my ring finger. It’s a perfect fit. So perfect, my breath hitches with the pain of it. This ring should be mine. Where did Dean even get the money to afford a ring like this?
I should steal it.
It’s rightfully mine anyway. I’m the one who put in the years with this man, nursing him through the highs and lows, the mood swings, and drunken outbursts. I realize then this is stolen property already. As far as the state of California is concerned, the moment Dean filed for divorce, all shared assets were frozen until litigation is finished. So where did he get the money to buy a ring that easily costs more than he offered me in the divorce settlement?
Is there a way I can report this? I don’t even have a lawyer yet because I haven’t been able to wrap my brain around the reality of our uncoupling, but this…this is proof positive that the more I procrastinate, the worse this could be for me. The more he could hide or spend or squander before our money can be divided.
I want to steal it more than ever now. How else can I prove its existence to the court? I can’t afford to add jewelry thief to my growing list of crimes, though. As it is right now, I’m only being nosy, and that’s not a crime.
An idea crosses my mind to snap a photo, so at least I’ll have evidence. And if I never need the evidence, I can always post the photo on social media with the caption:the last gift from my love before he fought the battle for his life…
I can even tell my followers that I’m donating the ring to fund cancer research. The outpouring of love and charity will be overwhelming, The thought of it causes a wildfire of tinglesto rush through my system. They’ll be none the wiser that it was never mine to donate to begin with. Donations will flood into my accounts, and hopefully some will funnel into cancer research too. The idea of starting a charitable organization percolates to life as I imagine building a fulfilling career convincing people to donate their money to save lives.
My therapist will be so proud of who I’m becoming.
I pull my phone out of my pocket and hold up my bejeweled hand, making sure the angle clearly shows the sparkling Louboutins and designer bags in the background as I snap a photo of the massive diamond ring. Everything about this closet is exactly the Mia Starr vibe. Aching awareness consumes me when I’m reminded again that JesikaisMia Starr, not me. I’m no more than an impostor in a life like this. She’s everything I want to be, and now she has the one thing I thought could never be stolen: my love.
“Hey! I’m back!” Jesika’s tone is bright and cheery. “I poured us some faux champagne for a little midday celebration of friendship. Oh, you found my ring. Already it doesn’t fit because of the pregnancy. My fingers are fatter than sausages.”
I don’t think it’s the pregnancy that’s making her fingers fat. If I had to guess, I would say it’s the bags of potato chips she’s got hidden in every corner of this apartment like a starving squirrel hoarding nuts.
“Thank you.” I smile, taking the fluted glass from her hand. “Is this your engagement ring? I’m sorry, I didn’t realize. I feel weird now. It was just sitting out, and I couldn't resist trying on the most beautiful ring I’ve ever seen.” I slip it off and put it back in the drawer.
“Isn’t it, though?” We toast and then sip, and I’m about to gush about how good it is when a buzzer sounds through the apartment. “Dean spoils me. I’m so lucky.”
“Solucky.”
“That must be my stromboli!” Jesika is off again, blond ponytail flying behind her. I have half a mind to yank on it just to see what happens, but then, I wouldn’t want her to spill any of her faux champagne.
