Moments later, he responds.
G: Glad it’s in safe hands. It’s my favorite shirt. Even more so now. Looks much better on you anyway. I bet it would look better off you too.
I’m smart enough to throw my phone across the room without replying. With the wine flowing through my veins, sexting seems like a great idea. Thankfully, I have enough sober brain cells to know that if I open that can of worms, I’ll die of humiliation in the morning.
Twelve
Planning a funeral is one of the hardest things a person has to do in life. Planning a funeral for a lying, cheating husband while hung-over? So much harder. Em and I meet Darlene the next morning. Em lectures me about my wearing sunglasses inside, but not all of us are blessed with the amazing ability to drink all night and wake up bright-eyed and bushy-tailed the next morning.
After a strong Bloody Mary that’s really just vodka with a splash of tomato juice, we make plans for Ash’s memorial. Having only recently planned Franklin’s funeral, I’m able to contact the same vendors we used then and ask them to replicate what they did before. Em, being the best friend in the world, has already contacted all of our old school friends that would want to be there. I log onto Ashton’s Facebook account and make a post with the date and time of the service.
Initially, I’d wanted to skip having a service. I’ve been so mad at Ashton that I’d wanted to give him the same respect he gave me—absolutely nothing. He doesn’t deserve to be memorialized. But after planning the service, I’m ultimately glad I did. Not for him, but for me. Now I can fully close this chapter of my life.
Because of the circumstances, we decide to have an Irish wake. Ashton was in no part Irish, but he would have appreciated any opportunity to have an open-bar party held in his honor.
As weird as it seems, Gavin has been the biggest help for me through the whole ordeal emotionally. I have so many conflicting feelings. He’s listened as I tried to sort through them. Guilt, anger, relief, frustration. It should have been awkward talking to him about my roller coaster mental state, but it hasn’t been. When I try to talk to Em, I get, “Well, you made your bed” or “I told you not to marry him.” I can be honest with Gavin without judgment.
The day of the funeral is sweltering hot, one-hundred-degree heat with one hundred percent humidity. It feels like Ash’s still getting the last word even from the great beyond. If he has to rot in hell, so do we. Like most interactions with Ash, we all leave feeling dirty and in desperate need of a shower.
The nice thing about being the widow at a funeral is that no one really expects anything out of me. I refuse to sit there and say what a wonderful man he was or how I am going to miss him. Thankfully, people get that. No one tries to rewrite history and make him into a saint. I can’t count how many times I hear, “He was lucky to have you,” and, “It may not have seemed like it, but in his own fucked up way, he loved you.” There may be some truth to that, but I’m still so hurt that I can’t see anything redeeming in our relationship. So many years of my life wasted that I can’t get back. But it was my choice. I could have left, but I stayed to take care of Franklin. I made my choices, lived with the consequences, and now it’s time to move on.
The reception is somber and quick. In just a few short hours, it’s over. The bill is paid, the servers clean up. Signing the receipt brings finality to it. This is the last time that bastard’s going to stick me with a huge bar tab. As the limo pulls away, I look over my shoulder and realize he’s really gone. I shed my final tears for him on the drive back to the hotel. Ashton is now just one of many tragic memories of my past.
The next day, I wake up and go straight to Social Security to change my name, effectively erasing the last thing connecting me to this life. Goodbye, Lily Preston. Welcome back, Lily Clark.
We spend the last day of Em’s visit hanging out by the pool, drinking fruity drinks, and watching attractive men. She’s already plotting my next fix-up. I want to tell her about Gavin, but I decide to hold back the details.
I take a sip of my margarita. “There’s someone, but I don’t want to talk about it yet. It probably isn’t going to amount to anything but a good friendship.”
Sitting up, she slaps her hands on her thighs. “OMG, were you cheating on Cocksucker? Good for you. See, your balls didn’t totally disappear.”
“I did not cheat on Ashton, although I wish I had. It’s been five years since I’ve had sex. Five Years! Do you know how long five years is?”
She narrows her eyes and glares at me. “How is that possible? You and Ash used to fuck like bunnies.”
“Once he started screwing every other bunny that shook her tail in his face, there was no way I was going anywhere near his penis. Which is a shame. The sex was the best part about us, until coke became part of his daily regimen. By that time, he barely had two brain cells to rub together, and he became… let’s just say soft and uninspired. I’ve had root canals that were more pleasurable. It has been a long drought.”
She looks at me as though I have three heads. “How did you do that? A b.o.b.?”
“Oh, a lady never tells. But I will say one thing: spin cycle. Old-school but effective.”
“I suddenly regret never trying to do my own laundry,” she replies. She pats me on the arm. “So, tell me about this mystery man?”
“Nothing to tell yet. He’s been there for me while I’ve been dealing with everything. He’s a wonderful guy, but it’s complicated and probably won’t go anywhere.”
As I take a sip, she asks, “Did you bang him yet?”
I choke on my drink and start coughing. “No,” I reply once I can breathe again.
“No one would judge you if you have.”
“It’s not that I haven’t thought about it, but it hasn’t been the right time. We haven’t had enough alone time. He’s not the type of guy you screw and walk away. He’s a guy that, once he gets under your skin, he’ll become so imbedded that he’ll become a part of you. It’ll be painful to cut him out of your life. I’m not sure I’m ready for that, so I’m proceeding with caution.”
She applies more sunblock to her shoulders. “You know I don’t speak commitment, so I didn’t follow a word of that. You’ve been tied up in a bad relationship for too long. It’s time for you to have a little fun. Casual fun. If Mr. Imbedded can’t handle that, maybe it’s not the right time.”
I shake my head as I rub in a glob she missed in the middle of her back. “No, it’s not the right time for either of us. And when I am ready, I don’t want it to be wham, bam, thank you, ma’am. I’ve learned my lesson. A relationship can’t be all about sex. Just a lot about sex,” I say with a wink. I take the last sip of my drink, and Em motions to the waiter to bring another round. “If I’m being honest, I’m kind of scared. Which I know sounds completely afterschool special, but I am. It’s been a really long time. I’ve only slept with two people in my life—Ash and Garrett.”
A wide smile spreads across her face. “Ah, Garrett Stone,” she says in a dreamy voice. “Now there was a high school hottie.”
I nod. “He sure was. Hot, but a terrible lay. But, we were seventeen, what the hell did we know?
The waiter drops off our drinks, and Em takes a sip of hers. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I had amazing sex when I was a teenager. But then again, I’ve always been better at spotting the boys with God-given talents than you are.”
Ignoring her comment, I say, “So are the rules different when you’re an adult? I’m guessing there isn’t so much angst about when to sleep together.”
She shrugs. “It depends. Me, if I want to screw, I do it. I’ve never been one to worry about if he’ll respect me in the morning. I’m interested in his penis, I don’t need his respect. I have enough respect for myself. But that’s not you. You’ve never been able to see sex as a mutual pleasure transaction. So, you may want to take things slow. You married Ash, so clearly you don’t have that need for mushy feelings to have sex, but if a guy didn’t call you a
fter, you’d probably be heartbroken. It’d be like he’d liquidated all of your self-worth and lost it in a Ponzi scheme. I know you. So, take it slow.”
“Probably sound advice.”
Emily chatters on about all her conquests. Working in such an intellectual field, the academic types she works with are not used to a girl with as much freedom of sexual expression as she has. She thrives on it. Emily is all about stirring the pot and adding shock value.
The conversation slowly turns to work, and she asks what I’m going to do next. My degree is in journalism, and right out of college, I’d had a great job at The Washington Post. The pay was crap, and I wrote about things like co-ed kickball and how to turn empty lotion bottles into cell phone charging stations, but it was a start. After Franklin was attacked, my career was put on hold, and I have no idea how to get back on track now that I’m this far removed from the workplace. “I don’t know what I should do,” I respond. “But I have to do something, and fast.”
Em rolls her eyes at me. “Man, you really are oblivious aren’t you? How many people came up to you telling you how impressed they were with the article you wrote for The Post?”
I had been rather proud of the article I wrote about Franklin and the changes he’d helped foster in real estate development in Washington over the last forty years. It had started out as an obituary but turned into something far more reflective. When the obit editor had called asking for my piece, I told her it wasn’t fit for print. She insisted I send it to her anyway. The next thing I knew, it was in the Living section. I’ve always found it odd that the obits are in the living section…
Em snaps her fingers in front of my face. “Hey, you still with me?”
I nod and reach for a bottle of water. “Sorry, the heat’s got me a little dazed. What were you saying?”
“You’re an amazing writer. You have a voice that captivates people and draws them in. Start writing feature stories and sell them freelance,” she suggests.
I feel the rusty gears in my brain starting to rotate.
She lowers her sunglasses and fixes her gaze on the group of guys in the cabana across the pool. “Eh,” she says, returning her glasses to the bridge of her nose. “Cute from far, far from cute. Now, what was I saying? Oh yeah. Between all the people Franklin was connected to and all the people you know from college and high school, you should be overflowing with stories. I actually have a great idea for one that would make a good series, and I can get you a connection when you want to sell it.”
I look at her skeptically. “Do you really think I can make a living at that? It seems like one of those things that everyone says they can do before they quickly learn that all that glitters isn’t gold.”
She rolls her eyes. “With that attitude, it sure won’t be. I said you could do it and be successful. I never said it would be easy. You’ll need to work your ass off, but in the end, it’ll be worth it.”
I tap my chin as I consider her idea. “I did get a lot of attention from that article. I bet I could talk to the guy from The Post and see if he can point me in the right direction. Amazon may have bought The Post, but I’m guessing the news still works the same.”
Together, we plot some article ideas, and I actually think I feel a spark of hope for the future. Writing is the only thing that has ever come naturally to me.
“Oh,” Em says as she hands me another daiquiri. “You need to write a blog too.”
“About what? What the hell would I write a blog about?”
“Who knows? Surviving a cheating husband. Starting a new career in a bad job market. Or, how about this? You can write about starting your life over. People in this economy are constantly reinventing themselves. So are you. The journey won’t be easy, but it’ll give you lots of material to blog about. You know how hard it is to start over, how isolating it can feel. Wouldn’t reading about how someone else was getting through it make it all easier?”
I’m less than certain about the blog idea, but at least for the first time in a long time, I see a path for my life. A chance to make my own choices and be who I want to be, not an abridged version of myself created to fit in.
*******
After we tire of the pool, we go back to our suite, and my real estate agent calls to tell me that someone has already inquired about the land. The fire marshal has declared that the house is no longer a crime scene. It is, however, still a danger, and I’ve received a notice that we need to raze what’s left of the house. Apparently, someone must have been watching the situation closely because almost as soon as the house was released back to me, the bid was put in. Thirty thousand dollars higher than I would have listed it, in fact, all cash with a ten-day closing. My agent couriers the papers over, and I’m shocked when I see the buyer’s name: Lorenzo Grimaldi.
I’m not sure what to think about it. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d wondered if Lorenzo were connected to the fire. I’ve never been able to figure out how burning my house could benefit him, but now that he wants to buy the land from me, my curiosity is piqued. When I hear the words “all cash,” I wonder if he’s using counterfeit bills or if this isn’t an elaborate scheme to recoup the money Ash had owed him. The list of possibilities is as long as the line of creditors looking for payment. Knowing I don’t have much choice, I sign the papers and hope the sale doesn’t come back to bite me in the ass.
Thirteen
Em gives me a lift back to my sublet on her way to the airport. It’s a cute one-bedroom on N Street with parquet floors and a retro chic design. The kitchen cabinets are bright blue, and the furniture looks as though it was lifted from the set of Happy Days. There’s even a jukebox in one corner. The playlist is full of nineties alt rock. The fifties décor mixed with angsty grunge is an odd mix, but I don’t mind it.
With my meager possessions, moving in doesn’t take long. I put my toothbrush in the toothbrush holder, set my few items of clothing in a drawer, and poof!—I’m moved in. A few hours later, FedEx delivers a package for me, which takes me by surprise since I don’t even know my own address yet, let alone anyone else. It’s a collection of random but sweet gifts: some wine goblets, framed photos of London, and the highest thread count sheets I’ve ever seen— a housewarming gift from Gavin. The sheets seem like a curious choice of gift as I would only give sheets to someone if I planned on breaking them in together. If I read between the lines, I wonder if he’s extending a subtle invitation to get between the sheets.
Since moving in has taken less than five minutes, my afternoon is free. I call Owen, my contact at The Post, to invite him to buy me lunch. Owen was my boss when I first started at The Post, and he’s always had a sweet spot for me in an older brother sort of way, so he readily agrees. One we meet up, we walk down L Street to a trendy salad bar restaurant. Fifteen dollars for weeds that someone calls a salad seems like a rip off to me, but I won’t turn away a free meal. Even if it has dandelions in it.
Owen gives me some great advice about delving into the world of freelancing and even gives me my first lead. DC is in no short supply of corrupt jackasses with trails of collateral damage in their wake worth reporting on. He knows of a few families with children with special needs that have been screwed over by shady lawyers working for the public school system.
I’ve even started to give Em’s blog idea a whirl. I create a pen name—Rose Evans, my mother’s name. In case I end up making a huge ass of myself, I don’t want it to undermine my professional writing. Em’s right—there are lots of people starting their lives over, either after divorces, starting new careers, or any number of other situations. I call the blog Taking a Mulligan. My vision is Sex in the City meets the unemployment line.
Despite the fact that he’s an ocean way, Gavin has been the supportive drive behind all of it. He’s full of creative inspiration and unique perspective that’s always giving me something to mull over. He may be swamped at work, but he still always makes time to talk to me. We Facetime often, which helps. Video chatting makes it
feel as though he could be in the next room rather than on another continent. He, of course, looks as amazing as ever and keeps my imagination running wild. For me, on the other hand, the webcam and camera phone make me look terrible. It’s worse than fluorescent lighting, a really bizarre combination of shadowy in some areas and washed out in others. He keeps calling, so I suppose he can’t be that put off by my less-than-stellar appearance.
It’s already been three weeks since he left. Every time we speak, the words, “When can I see you again,” are just on the tip of my tongue, but I don’t have the guts to ask. Once I ask that question, I go from a good pal he talks to daily to a needy girl with unreasonable expectations, and I lose my own good pal.
When Friday afternoon rolls around, I’m finishing up a batch of interviews for my article when Gavin starts texting me trivia questions. All of the answers have to do with Washington. He must be really bored, so I indulge him. On my way back home, I climb the stairs up from the Metro, texting Gavin about my interview, when he writes back,
G: You look amazing in that skirt today.
I can’t recall if he saw what I was wearing when we video chatted earlier. Kind of random, but I’ll always take a compliment from a hot man. I write back,
L: Thanks for noticing.
He then writes back,
G: I can’t wait to take it off with my teeth!
Gavin, you naughty boy!
L: Promises, promises. I look forward to collecting on that! I’ll have to remember to wear this when I see you next.
Suddenly, I feel a hot breath against my neck. “How ‘bout we give it a go now?”
I spin around to find Gavin’s azure blue eyes staring back at me. He sweeps me up and spins me around, kissing me passionately.
“I can’t believe you’re here!” I literally squeal with delight.
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