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“These pearls are a family heirloom!”
This piece of jewelry is the only thing I have left of the mother I never met, since she died giving birth to me. The only thing my evil stepmother didn’t sell after my father died, because I kept them hidden under my mattress on the floor. It’s the only piece of jewelry I still wear and haven’t sold on my own—which is what I did with all of the pieces Brian gave me over the years. They meant nothing to me. I didn’t even flinch when I handed them over to the man at the pawnshop.
PJ chuckles as I watch him start to get into his truck—a big, shiny, black Ford that’s a hundred percent manly and makes him look rugged and hot as he pauses in the open door to look at me with another smile that makes my heart flutter in the most annoying way. Brian drove a BMW. A pretentious, sleek, silver car that made him look like he was trying too hard, especially when he’d pull a handkerchief out of his pocket to wipe a stray fingerprint off of that stupid thing. PJ probably doesn’t have a handkerchief in his pocket just for his truck. He probably rips off his shirt and balls it up in his hand to wash that thing down, while holding a hose above his head and shaking the water out of his eyes in slow motion.
For the love of God, Cynthia, get a grip.
“Ten P.M. Friday. Less housewife, more exotic dancer,” he reminds me. “If you can handle that.”
He folds himself into the front seat, closing the door and backing down my driveway as I shout after him again, even though he can’t hear me.
“Oh, I can handle that! You don’t even KNOW what I can handle. I’m going to show my boobs and maybe even put glitter on them! I’M GOING TO HAVE STRIPPER GLITTER BOOBS AND YOU’LL BE THE ONE WHO CAN’T HANDLE THAT!”
I immediately stop shouting at his truck, which takes off down Fairytale Lane, when I see Phillip, a neighbor who’s on the homeowner’s association with me, pause at the end of my driveway, with his dog tugging on the leash in his hand. I lift my chin and give him a wave, refusing to be embarrassed by what I just shouted for the entire neighborhood to hear.
“Lovely evening we’re having!”
Phillip doesn’t say a word, just looks away and quickly resumes walking his dog.
Going back inside, I close the door and lean my back against it, finally turning toward the mirror in the foyer. Sure, I look a complete mess, but my eyes are bright, and excitement is coursing through my veins. I don’t even care that I just screamed about stripper glitter boobs and probably traumatized my neighbor. All I care about is the fact that I’m going to make PJ eat his words.
As soon as I reevaluate the clothing in my closet.
Chapter 11: Clone-a-Willy
“I still don’t understand why you felt it necessary to bring ten garment bags, two suitcases full of shoes and . . .” I pause, lifting the lid off a giant plastic tote and peering inside, “ . . . what looks like half of Sephora over to my house.”
Replacing the lid, I look up as Ariel sticks her head out of my walk-in-closet holding up a pantsuit from Nordstrom’s.
“Because everything you own is beige and boring.”
Sitting on the edge of the bed, I shake my head at Ariel. When I told her PJ invited us back to the club and what he said to me about dressing less like a 1950s housewife, I expected Ariel to be indignant on my behalf. Instead, she called an emergency meeting with Belle and showed up here an hour later carting so much stuff with her, it took three trips to get everything up to my room.
“That’s not beige, it’s golden wheat. I wore that suit to a charity even for the Animal Protective League last year. It was anything but boring. I had two glasses of champagne and almost adopted a litter of four-week-old puppies.”
The haughtiness in my words lose their significance when Ariel snorts and rolls her eyes at me.
“Whoa. Two glasses of champagne. Slow your roll there, Crazy Cindy.”
Ariel disappears back into the closet, and a few seconds later, Belle comes out, holding a dress on a hanger up to her body.
“I like this one. It’s very elegant,” she tells me with a smile.
I open my mouth to thank her when Ariel squeezes into the doorway next to her, pointing at the dress with a cringe on her face.
“Beige and boring. Toss it.”
“That’s ecru,” I argue. “It’s not boring, and I’m not tossing it.”
“Let me guess: You wore it to a business dinner with Boring Brian and after several hours of positively stimulating conversation all about him, the half glass of Merlot you sipped turned you into a wild woman who ordered coffee and dessert. I bet it was total anarchy,” Ariel deadpans.
