Fucking Monroe.
She’s that artist who painted flowers that look like vaginas.
The downside of a neighbor who’s a therapist is there’s someone right next door to mock you.
I click over to my texts and fire one off.
Carter: Look for a delivery later. A book of Georgia O’Keeffe paintings. Think of it as a map. I know dinosaurs roamed the earth the last time you were up close and personal with a real one.
Monroe: Pot. Kettle.
Dammit. He’s too right.
But I still like the puzzle idea. I hop over to my to-do list and add Look for non-unicorn, non-Georgia O’Keeffe, non-pink puzzle.
Then, a new calendar item pops up. An invitation from Rachel. I open it. Water Jane, you badass plant daddy.
Damn, see inside my soul, woman.
I hit accept, grab the water bottle I’d forgotten about, and feed Jane. When I’m done, I head to the bathroom. As I brush my teeth, I pick up my day-of-the-week pill container to confirm what I suspect. Yup. I took it this morning right on time. I can’t take Adderall since it’s a banned substance in pro football, but I’ve been taking non-stimulant meds for years.
They help.
Mostly.
I’m sure Quinn would say they don’t, but whatever. She might not have liked that I was late now and then to pick her up for dates, but I’m not the one who ran off to join the circus after saying yes to a marriage proposal. A few weeks after posting her look at my ring pics, she skipped out of here with her diamond, leaving only a goodbye text that said Got a gig with Cirque du Soleil! Maybe we can date another time.
So, maybe the demise wasn’t about my occasional tardiness.
Still, I know what I was like without these, and I didn’t enjoy myself then. The meds don’t solve everything, but they make it easier for me to be present at most everyday moments.
Like this party tonight, when I will be all friendship all the time with Rachel. And, as Monroe suggested, I’ll try to find a moment to joke about yesterday.
After brushing my teeth, I take off to pick up our kicker on the way to practice. Thank fuck for the game. Football is one of the few times everything goes quiet and comes into focus. My brain settles down on the field and knows its place—working in synchronicity with my body. Another thing happens, too, when I play ball. Time makes perfect sense. The clock is my friend, not my enemy. When I play football, I can feel the passing of every single second and experience every glorious moment.
The sport is a little like magic.
And, after the last twenty-four hours, I’m craving the tricks football plays on my mind.
4
AND THE DRESS CODE TONIGHT IS…
Rachel
I should call it off.
I’m not a throw-myself-a-party person. It’s a little self-indulgent.
I’m pacing behind the counter of my jewelry shop on Friday evening, seriously weighing my decision to let Juliet talk me into this fête. It’s just me here, handling the shop solo since I sent Fable home early to work on her own jewelry designs.
Alone with my thoughts, I’m second-guessing tonight big time. Is an extravagant party really the best way to start over? Maybe I should stay home and find a new recipe to tinker with. I discovered a great new baking blog earlier this week. I bet there are all sorts of fun treats I can make. Maybe give out to my neighbors as I get to know them.
I grab my phone from my back pocket and tap out a quick text to my friend Hazel, who’s in town for my official divorce party. The one I might be canceling. We can all just grab drinks at my place instead. Maybe my friends can help me bake too.
Rachel: On a scale of one to ten, how much would Juliet kill me for canceling the party she insisted on throwing me?
Hazel: One hundred. Also, why, why, why?
Rachel: I should just focus on my shop. I’m here to grow Bling and Baubles, not call attention to my pathetic-ass self.
Lord knows, I inadvertently called enough attention to myself yesterday with my impulsive phone answering. The only reason I’m not suffering from next-day mortification is that Carter was a total darling about the eyeful. He handled my embarrassment so well.
Ten out of ten, I recommend accidentally flashing two of a kind to a man who’s a perfect gentleman.
But a party where I’m the newly single and kicked-to-the-curb-by-her-ex-husband guest of honor?
That’s a real look-at-me event. I never threw parties while I was married. I never let loose. I never wore flashy clothes. It’s all so…not me.
While Hazel’s typing—the dots tell me so—I add another text.
Rachel: I probably have more wound-licking to do anyway. I should do it with the lemon cheesecake blueberry bars, some Amelia Stone breakup tunes, and a binge of the new season of F Boys And Girls. I can even bake some butterscotch brownies. Get a good night of sleep for the first time in a while. I haven’t been sleeping great in my new place. Then I’ll take a HIIT class in the morning.
Hazel: First, friends don’t let friends binge-watch bad reality TV alone, so if you choose to do that, I’m coming over with my jammies to join you.
Rachel: Do they have pockets?
Hazel: Obviously. I refuse to acknowledge the existence of jammies without pockets. But here’s my second point—there are literally studies showing that surrounding yourself with friends is the best medicine after a breakup. Better than butterscotch brownies.
Rachel: Someone studies that?
Hazel: Someone studies everything. And I’ve researched everything ever studied—I’ve googled it for a book at some point.
Hmm. She probably has. She’s written a lot of romance novels, and all her characters have serious shit to deal with. But I feel guilty celebrating my failure in love. Is getting divorced really something to throw a party for?
Oh hey, my ex kept a secret second family for years! Have a glass of champagne!
Rachel: Maybe I should stay in the shop and do…inventory. Research some new looks. Work on a marketing campaign.
Hazel: That’s Edward’s voice talking. Shut. Him. Down.
I peer around at my empty shop, needing to do something to prop up my baby. It’s been a rough few weeks here. Heck, it’s been a rough few months, ever since I decided to return to my hometown and open the shop here in San Francisco. Until a few weeks ago I’d been flying back and forth from Venice, trying to manage both stores. Now I’m living here, and the Venice one is still swimming along, with my manager there running it.
But this store hasn’t found its footing yet. I know it takes time, but the only amazing days have been when the spa owner up the street has sent bachelorette parties and groups of pampered and massaged friends here. I haven’t even met her. Maybe I should make her some brownies. Yes, that’s what I should do tonight.