It was like a nuclear bomb went off in the hotel room that morning, blowing up every area of my life at once. As I’d feared, thePage Sixpiece proved to be just the tip of the tabloid iceberg. In the weeks following the gala, a slew of additional news outlets picked up the story, the tale of another Brawler mogul behaving badly apparently too juicy to pass up. While I didn’t escape unscathed—I probably deleted a hundred “request for comment” voice mails and emails in the days following the dustup—my no-namestatus in the media world clearly worked in my favor. I faded from the headlines fairly quickly, all things considered, while Jack bore the brunt of the bad press—though true to form, he never addressed the controversy in any sort of official statement.
Much worse than the sleazy gossip columnists digging for dirt on my personal life, though, is the fact that I haven’t heard from Jack since he walked out the door of that hotel room.
It’s strange. I think a part of me expected a cooling-off period, maybe even a couple of days of radio silence, or at least until he had a chance to take control of our (admittedly chaotic) situation. But I also assumed that once the shock wore off and he had a chance to calm down, he’d show up with his tail between his legs and apologize for reacting the way he did, for berating and accusing me, for leaving me to fend for myself when I needed his protection the most.
Boy, was I wrong.
It’s been weeks and I haven’t seen hide nor hair of him. Despite the way we left things, I’m stunned by his indifference, that he could cast me aside like yesterday’s mail, then carry on like I never existed.Like none of it ever happened.How could he spend the night making love to me, confessing his feelings in a way I know was heartfelt and true, then walk away without looking back?
I’ve never been an overly emotional person, even-keeled and unflappable to a fault, but nowadays I find myself cycling through the five stages of grief multiple times a day. My mood swings from sad to hopeful to bitter so frequently I get whiplash. One minute I’m so angry I could kill him with my bare hands, the next I miss him so much I canhardly breathe. Some days I tell myself I’m better off, punctuating the point by taking a Peloton revenge ride and belting out girl-power anthems at the top of my lungs (I can love me better than he can, damnit!). But on others, the fog of depression is so thick I feel like I’ll never claw my way out of it. Couple that with the anxiety surrounding Gran’s fragile health, and my tears are on a constant hair trigger.
I think it’s the unanswered questions that hurt the most; the lack of closure. I realize I could reach out to Jack myself (and you better believe I’ve fantasized about showing up at his apartment and demanding atonement for his sins like a disgruntledBachelorcontestant), but I can’t ignore that in cutting me out of his life he’s sent me a very clear message, and how I choose to receive it is the one thing that’s still up to me. I don’t know why he’s ghosted me—the job, the breach of trust, the scandal, some combination of the three—but none of it really matters because he’s made his choice, and there isn’t a thing I can do to change it. I can fall to pieces or make a fool of myself chasing after a man who’s rejected me, or I can accept responsibility for the role I played in our relationship’s demise, learn from my mistakes, and move on with my life.
It was with that resolve in mind that I made another big decision: to quit my job at Siren and finally start writing my book.
Once the dust surrounding my newfound notoriety settled, I sat down with Cynthia to see if I even stillhada job. I figured she’d welcome my resignation—it would save her the trouble of having to fire me—but was surprised to find it was just the opposite. After apologizing profusely for Jack’s and my antics overshadowing the event, she informed me that the drama and subsequent press avalanche had resultedin a traffic spike that broke Siren records, making it the most widely publicized Women of the Year party ever. (And, ironically, netting me the week’s $100 bonus. Cold comfort, but I’ll take wins where I can get ’em right now.)
But after I explained the circumstances of Gran’s health and my now not-so-secret dream of writing a book, she encouraged me to take the leap, even offering to get my manuscript in front of the right people when the time comes. Her vote of confidence helped solidify my decision to leave—as did her promise that no matter what, there’d always be a job for me at Siren.
Moving on felt both inevitable and sudden, but ultimately, it was time. I’d grown stagnant in that job, a fact I’d avoided acknowledging for quite some time. Siren had become a crutch, an excuse not to take risks, and there’s nothing like being confronted by a loved one’s mortality to make you reconsider your life choices in a hurry. Besides, would there ever be a better time to go after this big, daunting dream than while on sabbatical in Connecticut? (At least, that’s how I’m framing this phase of my life to anyone who asks—it sounds better than “committing career suicide.”) And while I don’t want to jinx it, so far the writing’s actually been going pretty well. Who knew intense heartbreak and personal anguish would be just the thing to break through my writer’s block? (I mean, besides Taylor Swift.)
Another unexpected benefit of being in Connecticut? Proximity to my parents, as well as my sister, Greg, and my sweet nieces. I haven’t spent this much time with my extended family since I left for college, and I’m determined to cherish every minute of this unexpected sojourn—starting today, with Adeline’s fourth birthday party.
“Hellooo,” I call out as I let myself in Christine and Greg’s front door, juggling an armload of gifts and smacking directly into a wall of rainbow streamers hanging from the ceiling. I’m spitting crepe paper out of my mouth when I hear feet thundering on the upstairs landing.
“Aunt Cassidy!” the girls shriek as they race down the stairs, and I barely manage to drop the bags before Addie jumps into my arms.
“There she is! My big birthday girl,” I exclaim, squeezing her as tight as I can while she squeals with delight. “Wow, you are really looking older. I forget, how old are you turning? Three?”
She looks deeply insulted, jaw dropping to reveal a bright blue tongue. “No!”
“Two?” I guess, playing dumb. “I don’t know, you look too tall for two.”
I can smell her sweet, sugary candy breath as she inspects my dangly earrings with interest. “I’mfive!”
I tilt my head. “Hmm, I think you might be fibbing. And you know what happens to fibbers...” I warn in a mock-threatening tone, whipping my hand out from behind my back.
She shrieks. “Not the tickle monster!” She starts thrashing and wriggling, twisting out of my grasp, and I just barely manage to set her down before she takes off at a sprint.Sheesh, these toddlers are stronger than they look.I just got a better arm workout in two minutes than after an hour at Orangetheory.
I turn to Ella, patiently waiting her turn, and ruffle her hair. “How’s my favorite big sister? Ready for the party?”
“Yeah. I wish it was my birthday, though,” she says, gazing wistfully at my gift bags.
“Hmm. Does it have to be your birthday to receive a gift?”
Her eyes light up. “Did you bring me something?”
Pssh, did I bring her something. This ain’t my first aunt rodeo, darlin’. I learned long ago that if you bring gifts for one kid and not the other, you may as well be firing the opening shots of World War III.
“This one’s for you,” I tell her, handing her a glittery pink gift bag, and she beams.Thank God it’s so easy to buy children’s affection.“And these are hers. Maybe you can go put them on the gift table? But don’t let your sister tear into them yet, I want to watch her open them.” And watch Christine’s head explode when she sees what I got her: a set of “artist-quality” (read: permanent) markers, a toy bullhorn (with built-in siren function!), plus a few hideously tacky stuffed animals sure to make my clutter-phobic sister start twitching.
“We’re in here,” Christine calls out from the kitchen, and IMission Impossiblemy way through the crepe paper maze crisscrossing the hallway until I make it to the kitchen, andhoo boy, does it look like a party store threw up in here. I greet Christine, who’s standing at the island ripping open boxes of Capri Sun while Greg empties bags of ice into a galvanized metal drink stand.
I stash my purse away, then spin in a circle, surveying the room.Talk about sensory overload.Streamers dangle from every available surface, while bunches of balloons float up from chair backs and doorknobs and litter the floor. A color-coded array of chips, candy, and desserts cram a crowded snack table set up in the corner. The only thing I can’t really make sense of is the... well,eclecticassortment of posters taped up all over the walls.
“So far I’m seeing unicorns, mermaids, flamingos, narwhals, and...” I squint. “Are those pirates?”
Christine dumps the Capri Suns out on the countertop, knocking over a stack of Dixie cups in the process. “Addie took some artistic license with the under-the-sea theme.”
