Before leaving, said assistant thrust a box into my hands, and when I opened it, there was a diamond bracelet. Again, who does that? Who buys off ex-girlfriends with expensive jewelry? It’s crazy, right?
My question is: what should I do now? My heart is completely broken, but I am also so angry. Plus, I feel conflicted by the gift. The bracelet’s exquisite, but it represents something so ugly. Should I send it back? What do you think?
* * *
Many thanks,
Diamonds Aren’t a Girl's Best Friend
* * *
I lean back in my chair, feeling bad for this poor woman. She must be crushed. Mortified, in fact. Who the hell is this terrible man and on what planet is he living on?
Against my will, my brain travels back to college. My senior year, I had a boyfriend named John. He’d swept me off my feet, telling marvelous tales of his school breaks spent in far-flung locations. Over the summer, he’d traveled through Europe by train. During the winter, he was off to Bali. But then the day before spring break, he broke up with me by letter, if you can even call it that. Out of the blue, he flew some skinny blonde chick to Paris with him for vacation. Very romantic, even as he destroyed my heart.
As a consolation prize of sorts, he’d left a long, dramatic Dear Casey letter on my pillow, along with an airline voucher. As if he could buy me off with a gift! Even worse, I’ll never forget my humiliation when I realized that everyone else living on my floor had seen him drop it off.
I’m years beyond that, of course. But hearing this poor woman’s story brings it all crashing back. The waves of humiliation. The feeling of being used and thrown away, with an airline voucher as a ratty consolation prize. The feeling of being paid to get dumped. Everybody told me it wasn’t my fault, and that John was the asshole, whereas I was the victim. But it didn’t make me feel better because everyone knew. God. The pitying looks as I walked around campus crush me to this day.
I eventually did get over it. I swear, I really did. I realized that it was John’s fault and that he was the dickhead. I did nothing wrong. But somehow, we never get over our teenage angst. So yes, I’m lost in a web of emotions reading this letter: fury, pain, and indignation race through my veins. Suddenly, I make an executive decision. I’m breaking my Wednesday habit and writing my response before looking over the other pieces of mail. The others can wait. Almost involuntarily, I begin typing up a quirky yet compassionate answer to my reader’s query.
Usually, these things take a bit of time, but today, my fingers fly on the keyboard. The reply is kind, but also bracingly honest because she needs to hear the truth. Her boyfriend is a douche, and someone’s got to tell her.
I do a few quick revisions and check my spelling. When I’m this charged up, there are bound to be a plethora of words completely wrong. A few copy-paste jobs here, a few edits and rearranging of words there, and I’m on a roll.
Once I’m fully satisfied, I email the letter and my reply off to Rhonda, my editor. I hope my letter writer, whomever she is, finds as much comfort in my response as she can.
I finish my coffee and toss the cup in the trash. Confidence surges in my veins and I feel like a conquering hero. Because there are so many asshole guys in the world and Casey Henderson, feisty advice columnist, is just the one to call them out.
2
Pierce
I’m late for work today. Fuck it. It’s my company and quite frankly, they’re lucky I still show up at all.
It’s not my fault, anyhow. I have a beautiful woman in my bed right now. What am I going to do, kick her out with a wing-tip up her ass? Leave her to pilfer through my things and eventually traipse out of my penthouse, as the doormen look on with amused expressions?
While she showers, I think back to last night. The gala had been a success, that was for sure. And afterwards, well, that was quite the success as well.
But frankly, my lovely visitor isn’t really my type. With her perfect blonde hair and pert little body, she certainly has a look that many men crave. I can see her teaching yoga or reminiscing about her glory days on the cheerleading squad. Something like that. I certainly respect and admire her beauty, but as I’ve learned over the years, blonde cheerleaders aren’t my thing.
Despite that, we had a good time. She certainly could keep up with me. We were on the same page about the “one night only” aspect of our tryst, which is the most important part.