Page 5 of Weddings, Revenge & Fake Dating

“Last night is blurry. I got drunk. I have no clothes. The guy in the elevator . . .” My focus drifts. I’m not sure how to frame that part. Rambling on, I say, “Don’t be mad⁠—”

The emotions on Roman’s face ricochet, but when he doubles over in a laugh so uncontrolled and grabs his stomach like he has a side stitch, I’m blindsided.

“What’s so funny?” I ask as he wipes tears from his cheeks.

“Jeanie, don’t you get it? I don’t care about that guy. The sad fact is you’ll never get over me. When you’re a hundred and eighty, you won’t be over me. That means you will never find another guy, not even a drunk hookup in an elevator,” he says in his Chicago fast-talk.

My spine stiffens. “First of all, I’m trying to save our family, and second, you say you’re not mad, but you sound mad.”

“I’m not mad about him; I’m mad at you. You shouldn’t be here.” Roman tosses his hands in the air.

“I found your wedding invitation in Dex’s things. You’re making a mistake. Please don’t marry Sophia.” I grab his hand but shrink away when I find his wedding band missing. Only a pale patch of skin remains.

As the jarring image blanks my mind, Roman brushes me off.

“Listen to yourself. You’re pathetic. Go back to Chicago.”

His painful words knock the air from my lungs. I fold forward and grab my knees to dry heave. By the time I recover, he’s halfway to the roaring waves of the Atlantic.

Above, seagulls cackle as if they listened to our exchange like they’re laughing at me too. The breeze kicks up, and I cover my bare shoulders with my hands, suddenly feeling cold, even though it’s ninety degrees.

I’m not pathetic, am I?

Farther away, Roman meets his fiancée, Sophia. She’s sunbathing on a lounger in her neon-pink bikini. Her blond hair is piled on her head in a way that looks sophisticated.

Roman leans down to kiss her, and I look away. I can’t bear to watch.

After all those years together, I can’t fathom how he’s okay without me. Why doesn’t he miss me the way I miss him?

Not only is heartache worse than a vampire hangover doused in sunshine, but it’s the second dagger plunged into my cold, dead heart today.

“Mom?”

The voice I love most pierces my spiraling thoughts. I swallow and turn slowly like I’m about to face a firing squad. My fifteen-year-old son, Dex, stands across from me with his best friend, Freddie.

Dex is wearing the lopsided swim trunks he sewed especially for this spring break vacation. Somehow, though, in all his domestic-god preparation, he neglected to tell me he was here for his dad’s wedding too.

“Surprise.” I halfheartedly flash jazz hands, playing off this encounter.

Disappointment paints Dex’s face. Through it all, he’s been there for me, so he knows my struggle to accept the divorce. He can guess why I’m here.

“Balls.” Freddie nods with admiration. He’s puzzled out my game plan too.

Dex smacks him in the gut. Wiry Freddie bends over and groans.

Peering at me with confusion, Dex asks, “Why can’t you hate Dad after what he did to you?”

“I don’t know.”

My body shivers with nerves. I’m still confused about what went wrong in our marriage. Roman and I weren’t perfect, but once upon a time, our love was special. Most of all, we have so much history that it’s hard to figure out where I stand without the security of that foundation.

“We’re family,” I say, reasoning out loud in the simplest terms.

“When will you get it?” Dex shakes his head. “You still have me and Grandma. We’re all the family you need.”

“And me.” A recovering Freddie waves.

“I signed the divorce papers.” I cross my arms and defend myself. I did what Dex asked, what I promised him I would do, but it turned out to be the easy part.