I slide from the bed onto the floor and hold my face. Hot tears soak my hands. Everything I thought I knew just slipped through my fingers like water in a sieve. Hugging my knees to my chest, I rock myself and replay the past few weeks to determine how I missed the signs.
I’ve always secretly assumed that women who claim they’ve been blindsided by a cheater probably weren’t paying attention. Is this karmic payback for my arrogance? Convinced he’d shown no change in behavior, and no sign of guilt or remorse, I begin questioning what other elaborate lies he might have told. How many secrets does he keep?
Lying on the floor, I take stock of the hours wasted worrying about wedding plans, anticipating and planning to prevent crisis, following the expected path and working toward the life I’d been taught to desire. None of my preparation prevented disaster from striking. Worse, I didn’t even see it coming.
The humiliating blow bites hard, irreparably breaking my heart. On some level, I know no one gets through life without pain. Had I truly understood it, however, I’d have wasted less time trying to manage circumstances beyond my control.
In a small way, perhaps the glass shattering is a sobering opportunity to revisit my life choices. Three years with Rob. I’ve felt comfortable and content with him. Is that enough? Can I forgive him?
Even though he’s several years older than me, we share similar backgrounds and educations, have the same taste in movies and books, and both want a family and life similar to what we’ve always known. He’s never forgotten a birthday, anniversary, or other special occasion, always treated my parents well, and been kind to my friends. He must love me if he wants to marry me. Does the positive outweigh the negative?
My open wounds sting in response to conjured images of him kissing and touching another woman. It’s too soon to make a permanent decision, but I can’t marry him in two weeks, if ever.
Eventually, I pick myself up off the floor and pack the suitcase on my bed, plus two others, now caring very little about what ends up inside them. On my way out the door, I take off my three-carat, colorless, cushion-cut diamond and place it on the entry table with a note that reads simply, I can’t marry you in June. I need time.
CHAPTER THREE
Malibu, California
June 2, 2013
Levi
The noisy racket coming from my bathroom wakes me. I squint at the sunlight flooding through the open sliding-glass door of the bedroom. Familiar cries of seagulls and the crash of waves on the coast greet me, reminding me I’m not in Vegas anymore. Shoving aside a mostly empty glass of tequila, I roll over and squint harder at the clock on the bedside table. 10:48 in bright green numbers. Morning.
I flip the lid off of an Altoids tin and pop a cinnamon mint in my mouth, then notice the box of my pop’s belongings sitting on the table. Neither the poker tables nor the women of LA have been able to erase the images of my pop in that morgue. Throughout the week I’ve been plagued by sudden bursts of gloom, just like now. I pinch the bridge of my nose to brush the feeling aside. More clattering in the bathroom catches my attention again.
She’ll be coming out of there soon. Turning back over, I prop my head up on my hand and try to recall her name.
Comfortably naked as a jaybird, she halts in the doorway when she notices me watching her. Sexy, but she’s just another Barbie doll. Straight, blonde hair; blue eyes; unnatural proportions. You’d think a smart girl chasing fame and fortune might try to distinguish herself, rather than imitate others. Then I decide smart people don’t want fame—fortune yes, but fame’s a life sentence in a fishbowl. No sane person would choose to live that way.
“Mornin’, doll.” I smile, lifting one brow. “You want to shower before I take you home?”
“Sure.” Barbie doesn’t even fight the brush-off. “I’ll be quick.”
I drag myself up to brush my teeth, make the bed, and peel the dirty clothes from the floor. Grabbing a fresh pair of jeans and clean T-shirt, I carry last night’s tequila glass downstairs to the kitchen. I’ve nearly finished my orange juice when she appears from around the corner.
“All set.” She combs her fingers through her wet hair.
“Hungry?” I ask to be polite, although I suspect she’ll decline, since few women out here eat very much.
“A little, actually.”
Damn. Nothing personal, but I don’t want to spend much of my day with her, or anyone else for that matter. Pop always warned me of the dangers of trusting folks—of letting others know my heart and mind. His conditioning keeps me wary. For better or worse, those younger years hardened and shaped me.