“Then what is it?” I demand, eyes widening. “Were you inspecting each other for lice? Did she lose an earring down your pants?”
Grant rushes over. His sandy hair is standing up in wild tufts and there is lipstick smudged around his mouth. “Baby, let me explain!”
The sight of those lips—the lips that I thought were mine alone to kiss—sets fire to my blood, singing my skin from the inside.
He’s got big, soulful eyes. I remember falling for them, for him. They looked good in the candlelight at the Italian place he took me for our first serious date. Even now, part of me wants to soak up the emotion there and forgive him.
I put that part of me in a box, lock it, and throw away the key.
“Get out,” I demand coldly, jabbing a finger toward the front door. “Both of you need to get out right now.”
My heart is trying to climb up my throat. I feel like I’m going to throw up. How could he do this to me? I am two seconds from completely breaking down, and like hell am I going to let Grant be here to witness that.
Grant frowns. “But it’s my apartment.”
“I said get the fuck out before I throw you out!” My raised voice does the trick. With a yelp, the woman runs past me toward the front door.
Grant turns and reaches for a pair of pants. I must not’ve been clear; maybe he needs me to repeat myself one last time.
“Did I stutter? I said, Get. The. Fuck. Out!”
Hearing the venom in my voice, Grant abandons the pants and bolts out the door. Two seconds later, I hear the front door slam closed.
I collapse in the hallway, like a puppet whose strings have been mercilessly snipped.
The room seems to ring with the echo of my pounding heart. I am still and silent for a long time, my mind blissfully blank. I just stare at the wall, listening to my ragged pulse.
I remember picking out the paint for the hallway. The color is called Gray Steel. After I moved in, I wanted to make it feel more like our home, rather than just his, but Grant liked everything the way it was. He wouldn’t let me move furniture around, or redecorate the living room, or reorganize the closet. He eventually relented and allowed me to paint this one hallway, where the walls had been scuffed in a few places already. I was given a few square feet to make my own. At the time, I was grateful for it.
How could I not see back then that Grant wasn’t willing to make room in his life for me?
My eyes sting with tears. I throw my head back against the wall. We were supposed to get married. After all the sacrifices I made for him, all the times I put him first, and now I find out that our life together meant fuck-all to him?
I break out into wretched sobs. Fat tears roll down my cheeks, shoulders shaking, chest heaving as I struggle to breathe. I’m not sure whether I’m mourning the loss of my fiancé or the loss of the life I’d planned with him—marriage, babies, a family of my own.
Whatever it is, I lost something today. And goddamn it, it hurts.
I have not the faintest desire to get out of bed in the morning, but I know that work is the only thing that will remove the image of Grant’s lipstick-stained grimace from my mind. So I slog my way to the office and finish up the community center piece. Then it’s time to check out the dog show.
It feels good to do nothing. For a change, I’m actually grateful that Debbie loves handing me the nonsense assignments. I don’t have the brain capacity for legal drama or deep investigative reporting. A dog show of celebrity impersonators is about the most I can process right now.
As predicted, it is very twee. My favorite is a greyhound dressed like Ziggy Stardust, who howls into a microphone on command. He doesn’t end up winning anything, which is disappointing. The winner of the best costume category is a poodle with a laconic grin who goes by “Pawl Newman.” Second place goes to a weiner dog in a sparkly jumpsuit and a ginger wig who the owner would have us believe is Elton John. I leave thinking that Ziggy was robbed.
I head back to the office to start writing up the piece, wondering if this is it for me. Am I doomed to spend the rest of my days writing articles that nobody will read until I eventually retire to become a childless, angry cat lady? There has to be more than this.
During the day, I text my best friend, Clara Fitzgerald, to update her on the latest in my love life. She tries to call me several times during the day, but I don’t answer. When I finish work at five-thirty on the dot, I call her back.
“Finally!” she groans. “I was beginning to worry about you.”
“Sorry. It’s just been a busy day.” I fish a chocolate bar out of my purse and start munching on it on my way to the subway.
“I can’t believe Grant. What an absolute pig.”
“I know.” I sigh. “Look, I’m going to lose you in the subway soon. Can I call you later?”
“No need!” Clara says brightly. “I’m on my way over to your place now.”
“Clara …”
I really don’t feel like company tonight. It’s Friday, which means there will be a movie on TV and I can be as hungover as I want in the morning. There’s a bottle of wine on the rack that Grant’s boss got us for our engagement that we were supposed to wait until the wedding to drink. That bad boy’s getting cracked. I’ve also got a pint of Ben and Jerry’s in the freezer. My evening is set.
“Oh—I’m losing you,” Clara hisses into
