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Yeah. That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.
Either way, I can’t keep running. Enough running. It’s time for a painfully honest discussion with my wife.
27
NADIA
Wrapped in my wet towel and staring at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, I shake my head in disbelief. If someone had told me one freaking week ago that tonight, I’d be getting ready for a dinner date withmyhusband, I would have sued them for slander. And won. Now, here I am.
I could have gone straight from work to meet Harry at the restaurant tonight. But I came up with half a dozen excuses to stop by my house first.
I wanted to drop off my computer.
I wanted to check my mailbox.
I wanted to water my plants.
But the honest-to-god truth that I refuse to admit to myself? I wanted to make myself pretty before seeing Harry.
Now that I’m showered and primped, I’m aware of how obscenely high-maintenance I’m being tonight. At present, I’m standing here in my matching bra and underwear, fussing over my frizzy curls and the dark circles under my eyes.
Once again, I remind myself that I’m practically getting ready for a business meeting tonight.
Not a date.
Not a date.
Not a date.
I’m not trying to seduce the man; I’m on a mission to get us out of our unplanned and ill-advisedmarriage.
At least that’s what I keep telling myself.
By the time I sit down at my vanity to apply my makeup, I’m totally and completely freaked out by the butterflies swarming my stomach. I’m so nervous about facing him that I could puke.
This just isn’t me, and I need someone to talk to before I lose my shit.
I know my sister’s probably feeding her kids dinner, and I don’t want to bother her. Plus, she’s pretty enamored with Harry altogether, so she’s a no-go. I should be chatting about this with my therapist, but I’m on the fence about her lately. Plus, she seems oddly pro-Harry, too.
It turns out that my husband’s overwhelmingly charismatic personality is starting to work against me.
In a moment of desperation, I pick up my phone and call my mother. Yes, she’s Team Harry, too, but I’d like to believe that somewhere deep, deep down, the woman who gave birth to me has my best interests at heart.
“How’s my favorite girl?” she answers. She and I haven’t spoken on the phone since my family went back home after their weekend at my place.
I laugh, setting the phone down and hitting the ‘speaker’ button. “We both know I’m not your favorite. But that’s okay. I’ll settle for being your first.”
She chuckles, too. “Okay fine—Madalyn’s my favorite. How’s my first-born daughter?”
I take a deep breath. “Well, I’m getting ready for a date.” I correct myself. “Not a date. Just dinner. Dinner. But it’s complicated, and I need some perspective…”
“Harry?” she asks. She knows me so damn well.
“Yeah. We’re meeting for dinner. Trying to figure out what to do next to clean up this mess we’ve made.” I give her a quick recap of yesterday’s run-in with my new hubby after the way he avoided me for two days straight.
All the while, I’m second-guessing my decision to go to my mother, of all people, for relationship advice. Her own love life has been a crazy ride. Heck, most days, I’m pretty sure my mom’s a bit crazy herself.
“I hear you saying that you don’t want this man,” Mom responds after listening to me rant for at least ten minutes. “But reading between the lines, I can tell that you’re interested in him. Give it a shot, Nadia. Give this boy a shot. You’re always so hellbent on doing things the right way, being so squeaky clean. How about you be messy for once?”
