And then some.
CHAPTER SEVEN
ELLE
The afternoon sun blinds me as I step out of the matinee production of Unconditional Splendor. Just as I’d hoped, it was magnificent—and it wasn’t just the acting. Granted, the performance was superb. But minus three other theatergoers, I had the entire place to myself, prompting one of the ushers to graciously offer me a front-row seat. I was so close to the stage I could smell the pan makeup that caked their faces and the spray paint they’d used on the backdrops. So close I could see the tears rolling down the heroine’s face as she professed her undying devotion to her long-lost love.
With my phone off and my never-ending to-do list wiped clean, I found myself present and in the moment for the first time in recent memory. My heart ached for the characters as I watched their love story unfold in the midst of tragedy, and for two straight hours their pain was my pain, their triumph was my triumph, and their joy was my joy.
Had I not quit my job, I’d have missed out on all of that.
Hitting the pavement, I dig my phone from my bag and power it on—only to find dozens of missed calls from Tom with a side of frantic text messages peppered with emojis, expletives, and exclamation marks.
“Hey,” I say when I call him back. “What’s going on?”
“My God, Elle. I thought something happened to you again.” He exhales his words in one long breath. The morning of my aneurysm, he was the first to realize I hadn’t shown up to the office, and he spent his entire day calling every hospital and precinct in Manhattan, trying to track me down. “I’ve been running around my office like a damn lunatic. Was about to start calling hospitals again.”
“I went for a walk this morning, and then I caught a show.” I suppress a yawn—the all-nighter is finally catching up with me. “Didn’t realize you were still keeping tabs.”
“West wants to talk to you,” he says, monotone.
My smile fades. “What? Why?”
“No clue. He wouldn’t say.”
Of course he wouldn’t say—the man gets his rocks off on being as cryptic as humanly possible.
I stop at a crosswalk and wait next to a couple engaged in a heated argument over whether they should go to the Hamptons for their anniversary in June.
“We go every year.” The woman tosses her hands up in drama queen fashion.
“That’s the point—it’s tradition.” Her partner grips fistfuls of air, bending at the knees as if he’s going to drop to the pavement in frustration.
In eighteen months together, Matt and I never once fought. Looking back, I realize it’s because he was too busy pretending to be Mr. Wonderful and I was too busy playing the part of some cool, modern girlfriend. We were both being the person we thought the other one wanted.
But none of it was real.
Because real couples fight.
Real couples aren’t afraid to get their hands dirty.
Real couples don’t hide their true feelings—or in Matt’s case, their true identities.
“Tell him there’s nothing to discuss,” I say when I cross the street. “His ego’s probably bruised, and he just wants the last word.”
Tom sighs. “He says he’s not going to berate you, Elle. But he would really like to speak with you.”
“I’m sorry, but no,” I say. Another call beeps in. “Tom, hold on . . . it’s my mom . . . I should take this . . . again, I’m so sorry.”
Ever since my aneurysm, my mother has full-blown anxiety fits every time I don’t answer her call. If she gets my voice mail, she’ll leave a rambling message before firing off a handful of texts asking if I’m okay and demanding I get back to her as soon as possible. And if I don’t respond within precisely three minutes, she has my father and sisters blow up my phone, and always in the same order: Dad, then Emma, then Eden, then Evie.
“Hey, Mom,” I answer.
“Elle, sweetheart. My goodness, your phone’s been off all day, and I called your office, and they said you weren’t there. Is everything all right? How are you feeling?”
“Everything’s more than all right,” I say. “And I’m feeling amazing, actually. Having a pretty incredible day so far. What’s up?”
“Well, thank the good Lord for that. Had me worried half to death.” Her drawl is sweet and patient. “Anyway, I was just calling to see if you’d received your bridesmaid dress yet? Evie said she mailed it Priority last week. I know you’d had some stolen packages earlier this year, so I thought I’d check . . .”
I picture her strutting along the wraparound porch of our Louisiana colonial, her tea-length dress flouncing in the breeze as she twirls her pearl necklace around one finger.
“I got it Thursday,” I say.
“And have you tried it on?”