The Next Mrs Russo

And sure, the actual patio is, well, concrete. So that’s why it’s not exactly comfortable. I probably could have found a cushion before I sat down, but to be honest, I didn’t really think this through.

I was inspired and just decisively sat down.

Also, I thought it’d be done by now.

But it’s fine, because there’s a nice breeze, and the flowers that line the patio smell incredible. The lawn has been freshly mowed, the birds are tweeting, the chipmunks are zigzagging and the rabbits are hippity-hopping.

Fine, I made that up about the rabbits. I haven’t actually seen one today, but I’m confident they’re alive and well and hopping joyfully around the back lawn of the governor’s mansion.

The point is, I am hardcore feeling my inner Snow White.

I’ve probably been here for at least twenty minutes, sitting cross-legged and trying to stay as still as a statue. I’m definitely going to feel this in my back later.

But it’ll be worth it to clear my conscience. With the chipmunk, obviously. Because my conscience is super, super clear about my night with Warren. Crystal-clear.

Unlike my thoughts. Those are a mess.

The morning after the first time you have sex with a person you are in a fake relationship with is awkward.

Or it might be, if I’d seen said person yet today. Which I have not. But I’m afraid it might be awkward. Because I’m having an assortment of awkward how-soon-can-we-do-that-again but also what-are-we-even-doing thoughts.

So I’m getting some much-needed fresh air to help me think. Like, right now I’m thinking about having sex with Warren again.

No. No. No, I’m not. I’m focusing on the chipmunk situation. Every single one of my thoughts is laser-focused on chipmunk reparation. Which is why I have prepared a small dish of peanuts and placed it between me and the edge of the patio, while I wait like a zen Snow White for the chipmunk to appear and accept my offering.

And yes, technically Gary should be the one making reparations to the chipmunk, but he’s a cat so I think it falls on me to make this right.

I’m also using this time to visualize my work day. For example, the clouds are offering a great deal of inspiration. One of them looks like an honest-to-God wedding dress, a little A-line number with an overlay of vintage lace.

Listen. I one thousand percent do not have wedding dresses on the brain because I had sex with Warren last night.

Obviously not.

That would be weird, even for me.

I have wedding dresses on the brain because I am a designer, and wedding dresses are a bit of a holy grail item in design. Especially in upcycling, because finding the right dress to work with is key.

What I wouldn’t give to get my hands on a vintage wedding dress. Not some awful polyester monstrosity you’d find at Goodwill. God, no. Not even I can help one of those. Nor would I want to. I’d love to get my hands on something classic, but in need of an added sleeve or a shortened hem to make it modern and chic. Or perhaps a dress that is in need of being completely destroyed and given a new beginning, worthy of the fifty-year-old fabric.

It was one of my customers who planted the bug in my brain. She was in looking for a wedding guest dress. I made her daughter’s homecoming dress, and she was so thrilled with how it turned out, she wanted a dress for herself for an upcoming wedding.

But when she first asked, I heard “wedding dress,” and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about all the ideas percolating in my brain.

Or, at least, I haven’t been able to until now.

Because now, I’m on a mission.

An important one, so I need to focus. Because the chipmunk and I are at a bit of a standoff on this apology.

I take in a breath and exhale, trying not to be distracted by clouds or filthy memories of last night with Warren.

It takes a while, but finally, Dale appears. Back at the scene of the crime.

Or, I guess more correctly, the scene of his abduction. Because this is probably where Gary picked him up in the first place.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, while Dale sits on two feet and stares at me. He’s clutching his front paws together like a worried old lady while he eyes me and the bowl of nuts. “I’ve prepared this dish of nuts as a peace offering. They’re salt-free,” I add, which is ridiculous. Not ridiculous that they’re salt-free. That’s just common courtesy when feeding wildlife, even an amateur Snow White knows that. What’s ridiculous is that I’m explaining any of this to a chipmunk.

Dale drops his front paws to the pavement and inches forward towards the nuts, eyeing me the entire time. He’s quite possibly the cutest thing ever. I wish I had thought to bring my phone out here so I could document this beautiful, miraculous moment of—