There’s still a lot of commotion around their group. Marcie—who wasmyfriend, not John’s—walks up to them as Bill Russell moves toward his wife, blocking my view.
Instinctively, I rush onto the patio and hide behind the fountain, certain that with the light of the ballroom, nobody looking out into the darkness is going to be able to see me out here. I inch out from behind the fountain, but as I do, the motion lights fromup above come on, lighting up the whole patio like searchlights from a helicopter.
The sudden burst of light is like an instant shock, and without thinking, I hide in the only place I can think to hide.
The cold water of the fountain is another shock, and it almost burns as I dunk myself down behind the statue. My right foot slips on the slick, wet floor, and I topple over, losing a flip-flop. I instinctively let out a yelp as I splash, and I flounder to stand up straight, slipping again. I find my footing, slap my hand over my mouth, and press my body into the back of the stone statue, hoping it’s big enough to keep me hidden, even in my oversized sweatsuit.
I screw my eyes shut as I hear the door of the ballroom open. Heels click on the brick patio as someone steps outside.
Cold water seeps deep beyond my sweatpants, and I’m struck by a frigid wave of panic and the sudden urge to pee.
“Claire?” I don’t have to open my eyes to recognize John’s voice, but when I do, I see he’s not alone.
He’s standing there with a small group of my once-closest friends, staring at me in a frumpy sweatsuit that’s soaked from the waist down as I stand with flip-flops in a fountain at a formal function in the middle of February.
Even alliteration has given me an F.
I close my eyes, wishing with every fiber of my being to be whisked away like Dorothy Gale or teleported like Marty McFly—zapped back in time to right before I made the decision to follow the Lexus here.
I wait. I wince. I mentally plead. But nothing happens.
I open my eyes and see that now a larger crowd has gathered.
Their expressions range from disgusted to amused to horrified, and I can’t even blame them. Because if I didn’t know it before, I know it now—thisis what rock bottom feels like.
Chapter 2
I still don’t have any milk.
I grumble that thought to myself as I push open the door to my house, blaming John for that fact too.
The door closes behind me, but it does nothing to shut out the competing feelings of embarrassment and red-eyed anger.
“Go back to your stupid party with your stupid, fake friends and your fetus of a girlfriend, and stop pretending to be the bigger person here!”I had shouted at him from the fountain.
He thought I was drunk.
He told me to move on.
I told him I would drive away right now if he would stand in front of my car.
Everyone was watching, looking down at me from their perfect little perches, sharing whispers about the crazy lady in the fountain.
I shut my eyes, my fists, my whole body tight, and hold it, trying not to scream at myself for beingso. Incredibly. Stupid.
I kick off my soaked shoes, then peel off my wet sweatpants right there in the mudroom and fling them down the hall at the washing machine in the laundry room. They land with a mucky squelch a good three feet from the open lid, and I think,Great. Now I have to mop that up.
That’s your fault too, you idiot.
I head upstairs to find new clothes, feeling the footprints I’m leaving with my wet socks. As I pass the bathroom, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I stop, move back a bit, and standfully in front of my reflection. I take my baseball cap off and my wavy brown hair falls out, somehow wetandgreasy at the same time and in dire need of highlights.
I look like I’ve been strapped to the hood of a car that just went through the Super Suds.
I spent years carefully keeping up my appearance—going to Pilates with Roxie and Dana and Marcie, eating only the allotted number of calories each day, visiting the salon every six weeks like clockwork to keep myself from ever knowing my hair was possibly turning gray. I got my nails done every other week, waxed my eyebrows, and went for a spray tan regularly.
Misty, the new flavor of the month, looks exactly like that.
And Marilyn looks exactly like a wrinkled version of that.
