I should try, really, I should, to answer their questions. But I just want to get as far away from my old reality as possible.
“We could go out on your boat,” I say to my dad, casting about for options. Maybe that’s what’s next?
“My fishing boat? You hate fishing,” he says with a sympathetic smile.
He’s not wrong.
“We could go eat veggie burgers,” I say to Emerson, since that’s her thing.
Her brow knits. “You’re not a stress eater.”
“Maybe now is the time to start,” I say, my voice hollow, as I try to figure out what the hell to do after being ditched. “Maybe that’s what I need to do. Scarf down French fries and wine. I bet that’s what you’re supposed to do when you’ve been jilted.”
My dad squeezes my hand. “If you want fries and wine, that’s fine.”
“Gah, I love you,” I say, all choked up. One of my parents understands the value of salt and liquor—the other stole my fiancé.
My phone bleats. I jerk my gaze to the device in my hand. My mother’s name flashes on the screen, and hate roils through me. I death-grip the device and lift my arm, poised to chuck it at the window.
My dad stops me with a hand around my wrist. “She’s not worth the cost of a new phone,” he says, gentle but firm.
I huff. I growl.
But he’s right. She’s not worth so much as a dime.
“And believe me too, when I say this—you never need to talk to her again,” he adds.
Letting the phone fall to the seat, I drop my head into my hands. “My life is a telenovela,” I say. But after a moment, I look up, determination kicking in, replacing the self-loathing. Apparently, emotions for jilted brides ride seesaws.
Who knew?
I build up a head of steam, letting the hurt drive me. “I know what to do.”
Emerson leans forward in her seat, eager. “Tell us.”
I’ve got a plan. Something my ex-groom would hate. Something his floozy would despise too. And, most importantly, something I love.
Twenty minutes later, the limo pulls over to a too-trendy axe-throwing brewery. I march inside, dress still on.
Ready to take on the goddamn world with my axe.
With a clenched jaw, I head straight for the lumberjack in green flannel at the check-in desk. “My fiancé left me for my mother twenty minutes before my wedding,” I bite out. “I need a big-ass bucket of axes.”
The bearded man blinks, his brown eyes etched with sympathy. “It’s on the house.”
For the next hour, I toss axes at a target.
It’s cathartic until Olive’s phone rings, and she steps away from our throwing stall.
“Hey, Jillian, what’s up?” she asks softly.
I turn away from the lane, my ears pricked, eager to hear what’s going down at the crime scene where my marriage was pronounced dead on arrival at four forty-five on a Saturday.
Olive’s jaw drops to the wood shavings on the floor. “For real?”
I groan in misery, my axe in hand, my heart in my throat. What now? I don’t know how this day could get worse, but I’m certain it’s about to.
Olive hangs up, takes a bracing breath, and says, “They’re flying to Dublin right now. They’re taking your honeymoon. He just posted it on social. They’re at the airport on their way.” She winces in sincere sympathy. “I’m sorry.”
But fuck sympathy. Fuck my mom. Fuck my ex.
I see red. I see all the bull’s-eyes in the world.
I turn to the target, raise the axe over my head, channel all the rage, and throw. The blade slices deep into the bull’s-eye.
Then I spin around, dust one hand against the other, and adopt a smile.
Apparently, I am making my way through the seven or seventy stages of getting-left-at-the-altar grief, lickety-split.
And right now, I’ve entered the burn-his-stuff-down phase.
“Can you guys go to my apartment, get rid of all of Silvio’s things, change the locks, and then bring me a key?”
The answer from everyone is a resounding hell, yes.
A few hours later, the deed is done.
My ex-fiancé has been kicked out of my place, where we lived together for the last month.
Good riddance. The man can’t tie a bow tie but can untie the knot like Benedict Arnold.
I push open the door and enter my now emptier apartment, fearful of how much it’ll hurt.
I brace myself as I drink it in.
His stacks of hardcover biographies are gone from the coffee table.
His framed photographs of moody skylines are nowhere to be seen.
His paintbrushes have vamoosed from the kitchen.
What’s left are my pink and purple pillows scattered across the couch, my wine is my friend corkscrew on the kitchen counter, and my For Fox Sake collection of pun art hanging on the walls.
This home is for someone who doesn’t take herself too seriously.
Only, I did take commitment seriously.
I sure as hell did.
And he did not. So I suppose I’m glad he showed his true colors now. Glad he revealed his trickery before I said I do.