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We have to talk. We can’t throw everything away because I made a terrible mistake. You know I love you. We have to talk. You have to let me explain.
Every text had coiled up her anger. And the anger made her feel weak and stupid.
Today, she had to face him. She needed to feel powerful and cool and detached.
When she’d chosen jewelry—bold—and perfected her makeup, she went out to where Cleo sat, half dozing over coffee.
“Well?”
Sonya turned a circle.
“And that’s a wow. Killer look, Son. A ‘here’s what you’ll never tap again, asshole’ look.”
“That’s what I aimed for.”
“Direct hit. Listen, I’m going to take the spare key and your wedding binder. I’ll start canceling what we couldn’t reach on a Sunday.”
“Cleo, you’ve already given me Saturday and all day yesterday.”
“And I go nowhere until the locksmith comes today to change those locks, then I’m taking the binder and the key home with me. I’m in a good place on my project to take a few hours. So I’ll finish the rest of the calls. I’m guessing since there were alterations, you can’t just return the wedding dress.”
“No-return policy. Mom paid for that ridiculously expensive dress, Cleo.”
“I know. But I bet this isn’t the first time they’ve had this happen. So I’ll call, ask them for advice. Consignment shop, eBay, who knows, maybe they have someone who’ll buy it at a discount. I’m going to handle the dress for you, and what else I can. And you know you’d do the same for me.”
“I would. And when this is behind us, I’m taking you for a weekend. A spa weekend. Mom, too. Yours if she can fly up. Girls’ trip in lieu of honeymoon.”
“I’m all in for that. Are you ready to go kick balls?”
“They’re not combat boots, but they’ll do.”
As she drove through the madness of Boston morning commute traffic, Sonya reviewed her plan. In theory, it seemed simple.
She’d ask for a few minutes to speak with either of the co-owners of By Design—and keep that simple, too.
She’d called off the wedding after realizing she and Brandon weren’t suited, and weren’t ready for marriage. No further details necessary.
Due to the stress of that decision, she’d request, for the next few months, at least, she and Brandon not be assigned to the same project.
Brandon had seniority. While she’d worked at By Design for seven years, including an internship, he had nearly ten in. But they’d both climbed up the ranks, had their own offices, often headed projects, put their own teams together.
He specialized in advertising—billboards, television, and internetads. And he was good, she couldn’t deny it. He was very, very good. The dickhead.
Though digital art—websites, banners, social media—comprised the bulk of her work, she also designed visuals for companies and individuals. Created looks—consistency—in logos, business cards, letterheads, those websites, physical and digital signs.
Still, it was a small, privately owned company—exactly the kind of company she’d hoped to work for—and she and Brandon often worked on different parts of the same project.
She’d just ask for some breathing room. And promise to maintain a courteous, professional relationship with Brandon in the workplace.
Simple, she thought. Reasonable and clean.
Of course, in a small, privately owned company, there would be gossip. She’d handle it. In fact—despite Cleo’s objections—she’d take the blame.
Simpler, cleaner to say she’d realized she wasn’t ready, that she and Brandon had different goals in life. His being to screw her cousin, but no point in mentioning that.
And in a few weeks, the talk would die out, replaced by some other drama.
She could wait until then.
