Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 92136 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92136 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
“Hello?”
“They invited me,” I said.
“What?”
“Lucy and Richard! They sent me a fucking wedding invitation!” I gestured wildly with my free hand.
She gasped. “They didn’t.”
“They did.”
“Why would they do such a thing?” Maren kept her voice low, which meant she was likely still at the yoga studio where she worked.
“To show off, obviously,” I huffed. “To rub my face in the fact that I am a loser and they are the winners.”
“Emme, come on. You’re not a loser.”
I began to pace back and forth in front of the big picture window overlooking downtown Detroit. Normally the view of the city lights coming on at twilight cheered me up, but not today. “Then why can’t I find someone nice? Why do I keep dating assholes who disappoint me? Why don’t my pants fit?”
She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Listen, can we talk about this later? I would be happy to help you find answers to some of these questions you have about yourself, but I’m at the desk and the studio is getting busy with the after-work crowd. Hey, why don’t you come down and take a class? I think it would be great for you, really help you find some peace and balance.”
I wrinkled my nose. I didn’t want peace and balance. I wanted wine and cheese. Maybe a cupcake. “I can’t,” I lied. “I have to work tonight.”
“Okay. Maybe tomorrow?”
“Maybe. I’ll call you.”
We hung up, and I stood there fuming for a moment, eyeballing the invitation, which lay on the floor in front of the television. Tossing my phone onto the couch, I picked up the envelope and took it into the kitchen, holding it away from me between my thumb and forefinger like it was a rotting vegetable. Then I set it on the counter while I yanked the cork from a bottle of Merlot I’d opened last night. Since no one was looking, I took a few swills straight from the bottle.
“Lousy motherfuckers,” I seethed, my nostrils flaring. “No class whatsoever.” After a few more mouthfuls, I set the bottle on the counter and pulled the RSVP card from the envelope. It gave me two choices—I could regretfully decline or accept with pleasure.
If I were really the bigger person, I thought, I would put an X on the regretfully decline line and simply send the RSVP card back. That’s what Stella would have done, but Stella has way better control of her emotions than I do. It’s easier for her to be a bigger person because she hogged all the sensible, rational genes. I got all the wild, unbalanced ones, which was great for enthusiasm and creativity, but meant my feelings occasionally got the better of me.
Okay, often got the better of me.
Better make that usually.
Maren says this is because I am not centered and lack inner homeostasis (which I think sounds like some sort of infection, so I’m pretty glad I don’t have it). If this had happened to Maren, she might have gotten angry, but then she would have gathered herself with a few deep breaths, repeated some sort of soulful affirmation about letting it go, and tossed the invite into the recycling bin. But while I agreed that the tree deserved a better purpose in its next life, there was no way in hell I could let this go—not without a retaliatory move.
Lifting the bottle to my lips again, I considered my options. I could show up at their stupid wedding and cause some kind of disturbance, but that would be a little bit public, and I prefer to keep my crazy hidden whenever possible. So that was no good. But maybe I could send the RSVP card back with a little message from me. Like I could cross out regretfully and pencil in a more accurate word, like disgustedly. Or revoltingly. That might be satisfying.
I set the bottle aside, pulled a thick black Sharpie marker from a drawer, and stuck the cap between my teeth. But instead of merely adding a word, I decided to add my own response.
There. That was better.
But it still wasn’t enough.
Maybe it would have been enough if I hadn’t told him I loved him. If I hadn’t thought he might be the one. If I hadn’t confided all this in Lucy, who’d probably been sleeping with him at the time.
No, I couldn’t send this back. I didn’t want them to think they had broken me in some way, or shaken my faith in love. They’d shaken my faith in humanity, perhaps, but I still believed in love. I still believed in soul mates. I still wished on stars and blew the fluff off dandelions and read my horoscope every morning, hoping for romance on the horizon.
I just wasn’t sure I believed in myself.
I mean, I must be doing something wrong to be single at thirty when I didn’t want to be. And this wedding invitation felt like a kick in the gut, a reminder that I was the butt of the joke, a giant signpost from the universe that said YOU CAN’T HAVE NICE THINGS.