Page 2 of Tanner

She’s right. Aaron stated early on in our relationship that he didn’t like when women wore short skirts or bared their cleavage. He said less was more.

Obviously, when it came to relationships, less was not more to him. Turns out, he was sleeping with—no, correction: as he stated it, he was “just fucking” his friend Nicole. The same friend I would invite over for dinner. The one who, when he told me he was having “drinks with Nicole,” I thought it was safe because the relationship was completely platonic. Silly me for thinking people could be true to their word.

My heart was completely broken.

It broke for a second time when he showed up at April’s door a week later, begging for me to come back home.

I almost—almost—agreed to give him another shot until he uttered the phrase, “I knew you weren’t that upset about a little side piece.”

Frustration seeps into my veins for the thousandth time when memories of him begging me to come home flood my vision.

No, I’ll never be okay with him doing her on the side.

“Fine,” I say reluctantly as I grab the dress from her hands.

She jumps up with a clap. “Get ready, and I’ll do your hair.”

She turns to leave her room, and I glance at the floor-length mirror leaning up against the wall. I try not to cringe at the sight of my slumped-over shoulders and torn, baggy pajamas. I used to take pride in my appearance. I loved to get dressed up and have a fun night out.

April wants me to get over Aaron with the snap of her fingers. How can I get under someone when I’m still not over Aaron?

“You’re over me? When were you under me?”

Of course a Friends reference pops up in my head.

I look at the dress in my hands. Well, if I’m gonna wear this bad boy, I’d better shave my legs.

A half hour later, I’m out of the shower with legs that are the smoothest they’ve been in weeks. I dry my hair and keep my makeup pretty simple. I hate a face that looks painted on. And, no, it’s not because that’s how Aaron liked it.

Well … maybe just a little.

Damn it. Let me add some eye shadow.

I emerge from the bathroom, pulling down on the sides of the material, feeling more feminine than I have in a while. The dress fits me like a glove, rounding my curves and leaving the perfect amount of cleavage on display. The long sleeves are a great counter to the short hemline.

I slide on my Christian Louboutins—my one and only pair, which I got from Aaron for my birthday. I got rid of most things that reminded me of him, but I kept the shoes. I mean, I’m heartbroken but not crazy.

“Hell yes,” she says as I enter her bedroom where she’s finishing up her makeup. “Sit.” She points toward her desk chair, and I do. She rewards me with a pat on the head. “Good dog.”

I stick my tongue out at her through the mirror.

She smiles as she picks up her curling iron. “Just like old times, right?”

Our eyes meet, and I can’t help but smile at the memory. April and I have been friends since grammar school, following each other to the same Catholic high school and parting ways only when we went to college in different states.

The distance didn’t keep us apart, but being adults had. April is an attorney while I’ve dedicated my life to a school in Harlem and every free minute to pleasing Aaron. I guess you could say the only good thing about learning my boyfriend, the man I was certain I would marry, was sleeping with someone else was that I got to reconnect with April in a way we’d neglected for so long.

She curls my short blonde hair in ringlets and then sprays it to give it a messy look. “There! Now, you’re complete! And, when you do the walk of shame tomorrow, your hair already has the just fucked look, so it won’t matter.”

I laugh and shake my head as I leave her room. “Not a chance.”

I grab a clutch from one of my boxes near the futon. Everything else I own is in a storage unit on the West Side Highway until I figure out what’s going on with my apartment. The one I own and he won’t leave. I’m currently in the process of trying to sell it. I don’t want any memories of our time there, and with it being a seller’s market, I’m going to walk away with a pretty penny. I guess that’s another upside to this mess I’m in.

We take the stairs and exit the lobby, deciding to walk the few blocks. The cool breeze brings the stubble back to my legs in full force, reminding me why I haven’t bothered to shave lately.

“So, where are you dragging me to again?” I stop her mid-stride. “Please don’t tell me it’s a college bar. I refuse to be the oldest person in the room.”

“Thirty is hardly old,” she deadpans.