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There are thousands of other business articles I could be reading right now as I wait for my turn at the coffee shop, but no, I decide to mark my return to California by pouring salt on the wound that apparently hasn’t quite healed.
Don’t do it.
You’re stronger than that.
Don’t do it.
I will myself not to scroll down the article, but the masochistic part of me wins. The evil grin of a woman wearing inch-thick makeup, hanging off Glach Tech’s CEO’s arm in another photo makes me want to smash my newly acquired iPhone to pieces.
I hate you, bitch. You’re nothing more than a stupid tart.
I scroll down further.
More photos of the happy couple—my scumbag cheater ex and my backstabbing cousin.
I want to vomit.
The urge to run away sparks.
I’m this close from turning on my heel, return to the sublet I’m renting, pack my suitcases and hop on a plane far away from LA—never mind if I arrived two days ago.
It’s futile because the internet knows no borders.
Breathe.
Don’t let them get to you.
I swallow the sour taste of my bitterness.
And this is why I stay away from men.
God knows I’d love to rewind the movie of my life, but I can’t. My heart doesn’t cry anymore, but the humiliation… time doesn’t seem to dampen the crushing feeling.
Focus on the now, Arianne.
With a sigh, I type the name of the company I’m about to meet into the browser to see if anything new surfaced since I last checked.
Nothing.
Good.
Sinking my teeth into a new challenging project will erase Glach Tech—its CEO and his girlfriend—from my memory bank.
“Next!” A barista’s loud voice yanks me back to the present.
The guy in front of me steps up to the counter.
I tuck my phone back into my handbag and do a mental check to make sure I haven’t forgotten anything.
Nope.
I got this.
I smooth down my hair pulled back in a tight chignon. I do the same to the fabric of my three-piece light summer wool suit, congratulating myself on my selection. It screams business. My expensive high heels are the only touch of rebel on an otherwise conservative outfit. I’m going for the supremely buttoned-up version of Grace Kelly, since Mom always says I could easily pass for one of Princess Grace’s heirs.
Dressing the part is half the battle.
“Next!”
