I didn’t give it much thought after that. When I told Melly that my fiancé would be spending weekends alone visiting wedding halls with itty bitty Ilana Shapiro, she encouraged me not to worry. “He’s marryingyou. And the way you describe her, she sounds like one of those Minions fromDespicable Me.”
I laughed.
Little did I know, the joke was on me.
After more than two months of searching, Scott still couldn’t comeup with a top-three list of event spaces for me to check out. I was busy incessantly, between researching ramen noodles, creating a new Pinterest-inspired binder of house decorating ideas, meeting with our Realtor, and endlessly preparing for the details of our upcoming nuptials—which was particularly challenging without the venue booked. I should have thought it odd when he showed up at my place after 10 p.m. after long Saturdays with Ilana, but I chalked it up to him being diligent and genuinely searching for the right place for us to say, “I do.” I did not expect that he would be depositing his seed inhergarden instead, in the back of her stupid Jeep Cherokee, or—worse—in one of the catering hall bathrooms.
That was last July. By August, the stick turned blue I guess, because he told me we should “put a pin in the wedding plans for now.” At the time, he cited feeling “confused about things.”
Tori made me a voodoo doll of Scott, and I put pins in every part I could think of: through his eyes, in his mouth, up his ass, and in the empty space between his little stuffed legs where his dick should have been.
I kicked him out of my apartment, but, thanks to his own laziness, he never fully moved out of his place in Williamsburg, so he just went back there. He told me she was pregnant just before Thanksgiving, once she decided to keep the baby. Suddenly, his “confusion” made a lot more sense.
I never got a refund back from Ilana Shapiro for “services rendered,” and I am now the proud owner of a $1,500 Maggie Sottero wedding gown that I can’t return. Beauty and the Beast gave birth to a healthy baby boy, six pounds, fifteen ounces, twenty-two inches long on Friday, April thirteenth. Nobody saw the irony in that but me. And sure enough, they got married on Long Island—Ilana Shapiro was the wedding planner. “For my own wedding!” she boasted on Facebook. They moved into a house thatmyRealtor found for us and completelystolemy happily ever after, leaving me with a bitter taste in my mouth for all things romance. It gotso bad that this year, I bought myself a box of chocolates on Valentine’s Day just so that I could light it on fire in my bathtub.
The struggle is real.
TO:Colin Yarmouth ([email protected])
FROM:Grace Landing ([email protected])
RE:Good morning
No, you’ve probably never heard of any of my novels—I write women’s fiction. Well, romance, to be honest.
I’m impressed that you get up so early to work out. I jog sometimes, but I’m not super faithful about it.
Speaking of faithful, that sucks about your divorce. I mean, it’s good that you’re happier now but it sucks to have to get divorced, especially only a few months into a marriage. I understand what you went through though. My ex-fiancé got our wedding planner pregnant. So yeah, that didn’t work out as planned. It was also fairly recent. Their baby was born last week—oh!—in fact, it was the day before my initial drunk email to you. I went out for a girls’ night to celebrate not having made the worst decision of my life and had one too many. (So, not exactly a work celebration—you can call me amentirosaif you can figure out what that means—lol!)
Well, I gotta run. I have a big deadline coming up and I should really try and focus on my page count. Hope you have a good rest of your day.
Sincerely,
Grace
Big breath.Concentrate, Gracie. Connor’s been stabbed. Gotta help him out now.
First, he needs to try and remove those scissors from his ass. Nope, no good. He can’t reach. Plus, as Presley points out, blood stains hardwood floors. He’s screaming and yelling but Melinda’s gone, so Presley’s stuck calling 9-1-1. He’s whining like a baby—though, in fairness, this isn’t exactly a paper cut. Presley asks Connor why he evencameto the open house, and he says he wanted to see her again. He starts to explain that his marriage is “complicated,” comparing it to a “business arrangement,” but leaves it at that. The first responders arrive and make a big scene, which includes cutting his leg out of his pants, so Presley gets a good long look at what he’s packing inside them. The EMTs are reminiscent of strippers, leaving Presley to fantasize about starring in a porn movie with them.
I shake my head. Ridiculous.
Whatever. I’ll edit it later to make it sound less absurd. I don’t love what I’m writing, but I guess it’s better than writingnothing.
I check my page count and then the time. Whoa! It’s after four and I didn’t even stop for lunch. This never happens. I’m spent from writing, and don’t have it in me to cook something healthy, so I order a pizza, because that’s the easiest way to get hot food into my mouth without having to wait very long.
Then, I check my email, because… No, you know what? No explanations. I’m awriter. Email is just another form ofcommunication.
TO:Grace Landing ([email protected])
FROM:Colin Yarmouth ([email protected])
RE:Good morning
NowI’mthe one who’s impressed. Sounds like you’ve got a great work ethic. Makes me think I should be working onclient files instead of sending you more email, but I couldn’t just let your last note sit for the whole day without a response.
Your ex sounds like a total douche, if you don’t mind me saying so. I’m really sorry you had to go through that. Whatisit with people these days? My ex-wife gave me an STD—it’s a long emasculating story that I’m sure you’d rather not hear. Nothing a few dozen years of therapy can’t fix though, I’m sure. (Sorry for the overshare. It’s all cleared up now, by the way!) Makes you wonder though—doesn’t anyone believe in the sanctity of marriage anymore?
Anyway, I completely understand why you might have been as drunk as you appeared in your original email. I would be wasted too if I were you.
