Well, I wasn’t going to be one of those.
Every time I saw him after that, I ignored him. I made ignoring him my second job. My preferred pastime.
Thanks to being placed in the same class, I’m given the chance to exercise my ignoring muscles every Tuesday and Thursday, and by now, I’m swoll.
Per usual, I keep my gaze laser-focused on the lectern as I drop off my short story. The professor accepts my paper with a curt dip of his chin.
My answering smile is perfunctory, my head lowering just in time for my hair to cover my face so a certain someone isn’t on the receiving end of my adulation.
I haven’t felt this buoyant and happy in a long time. The last thing I need is to catch Klein’s eye and risk him thinking my smile is for him.
No.
This smile is forme.
For the words I have written, and all the words I have yet to write.
CHAPTER 1
Paisley
My college sweetheart’swedding invitation arrives in my mailbox on a Thursday afternoon.
I’d been expecting it, but still. It smarts, snapping at me like a rubber band that has reached into the past before zinging back into the present.
I’d prepared for the invitation’s arrival by telling myself my feelings don’t matter to anybody but me. They simplydon’t. But preparing for an eventuality, and living through it, are two different things. You can tell a person they will one day feel angry, but when that one day arrives, anger doesn’t come solo. Erratic heartbeats, sweaty palms, a decrease in common sense,thoseare the feelings that accompany the emotion.
That’s how I feel now, and it’s not only anger. Add humiliation to the mix. Also, a splash of anger’s close cousin, indignation.
Abandoning the small stack of mail in the mailbox, I take only the large envelope with me as I hurry up mydriveway. I live on a block full of cute, tidy homes and even cuter, tidier neighbors, most of whom love to chat.
Today is not the day for chatting. Or answering curious but well-meaning questions about why I’m using a two-fingered hold on the corner of an elegant-looking envelope.You’d think she’s holding a used gym sock,Bill would joke.Or my sports bra after hot yoga, his exercise-addicted wife Jessica would add.
Head down, I make it to my front door without incident. Tossing my purse on a side table, I drag a deep breath through my lungs, releasing it noisily. With zero poise I flop onto my couch, one leg tucked beneath me. My finger slides under the flap of the fancy envelope with the gold filigree in the corner. A paper cut seems apropos, but no such injury occurs. I am undamaged by the invitation. Physically, anyhow.
I remove the invitation, turning it over in my hands. Ivory cardstock, heavy and textured. The text in black ink, the font a readable serif with a touch of whimsy. Classic, simple, tasteful.
Like my sister, the blushing bride-to-be.
Wine. I need wine.
I’m up from the couch, gliding into the kitchen and uncorking a crisp white kept in the fridge. After a long, decadent swallow, I deposit the bottle on the counter alongside the offensive invitation.
A deep breath crashes through my lungs as the sweet sting settles into my belly. I am fortified. If a girl can’t use booze to numb the indecency of her little sister marrying her ex-boyfriend, when can she use it?
Bent over the white quartz counter, I remove an insertfrom the envelope. It’s a personalized note from the happy couple, the text printed in shimmery copper.
You are cordially invited
to make the event of the summer
even more memorable.
Please be on the island
one week prior to our nuptials
to accommodate a forthcoming itinerary.
