Delicately, I tug it out of the box, and I’m about to slide it on my wrist when I spot something on the back. It’s been engraved with the wordsFor you.
I clutch it tight for several seconds as something dangerously close to happiness floods my chest. Not for the watch. But the gesture. Then, I click it open and slide it on. It fits perfectly, and I can hear what he said the day I tried it—it’s touching you now.
Like he wanted to. Like he did. Like he’s still doing. And in ways I never saw coming but now desperately want.
* **
For the record, Iama spa kind of person. As soon as the scent of lavender and the sound of soft waves greets me when I swing open the door of DeLaTour Spa in Russian Hill, my muscles relax. My mind breathes more regularly.
Maybe I’ve always needed the mandatory calm that the permission slip of a place like this affords.
Sure, I need to beonas the mistress of spa ceremonies this afternoon—maid-of-honor duties are no joke—but I also get a massage and facial for it.
That’s winning.
I’m fifteen minutes early, so I head straight to the counter and tell the attendant I’m checking in for the Hatmaker party.
When that’s done, I wander around the entryway, soaking in the ambiance of the plants hanging over the front counter, the photos of serene beaches, the soothing scents of the candles, lotions, and potions.
I peruse some bars of soap, sniffing each one.
For the first time in a long time, I don’t feel wound tight. I’m not checking and re-checking every detail to make sure everything is going to be okay.
Maybe everything is going to work out just fine. Caroline’s wedding will go smoothly, Fresh Face will be happy, I’ll get the job, and I’ll swim into a new romance, no one the wiser that it started as a revenge scheme.
I set down a candle as the door groans open.
“A bakery that serves beer. Right? Wouldn’t that be a perfect combo? It was my idea.”
All the good feelings are washed down the drain as Jameson walks in with a boast and a lie.
“Hmm. What about a brewery that serves baked goods?” a cheery woman asks.
And yes, that actually makes way more sense than Jameson’s newconcept restaurantas she lands on a better business model than him easily.
I want to tell him his concept is another ridiculous idea, but when I spin around, I’m struck with one thought—gratitude.
I’m so immensely glad he dumped me for the world to see.
Let his new girlfriend deal with his ludicrous ideas. Let her manage his hoptimistic ambitions. He’s not my problem anymore.
“Hi, Jameson. Hi, Chelsea,” I say, since I recognize her from the shower.
“Hi, Remy! Thank you so much for including me in this,” she says, enthusiastic.
“Same here,” Jameson says, then looks around, peering behind me. “Where’s your other half?”
“He has a hockey game,” I say.
“Bummer he couldn’t make it,” Jameson says, but he hardly sounds bummed, especially since his eyes flicker with plans. “But maybe we can chat about an idea I have for the wedding tomorrow for the best-man toast.”
Oh for fuck’s sake. I’d like to throw him into the sauna and let him bake and then give a toast about that.
I give him my best “so sorry” look. “Wish I could, but I need to greet all the other spa guests. Oh look, I see the bridesmaids right now.”
I don’t spot a soul but I leave anyway, choosing to wait outside for my sister.
When she arrives, sans Fresh Face, I’m inordinately happy that she’s free of her entourage. They’ve been like her wedding homunculus. I hug her and say, “Everything is going to be great tomorrow.”
