Page 129 of The Rom-Commers

I would wear that dress.

WHEN CHARLIE HEADEDout in the late afternoon, I was so relieved that I didn’t ask him where he was going because I officially didn’t care.

Nor did I check in with him about what time he’d be back.

Yes. Objectively, on a night when you’re cooking dinner for someone, it is helpful to know what time that dinner should be served.

But asking seemed… needy.

Who cared, right?Whatever.

We usually ate around seven, so I just planned for that.

I went to the store alone and bought the ingredients for a beef Wellington—which was, everyone in my family at home agreed, the most mouthwatering, buttery, comforting, life-altering entrée in my very large repertoire—as well as vegetables for roasting and a bottle of real champagne from the actual French region of Champagne.

Also, I abandoned the doughnuts-for-dessert concept—trading it out for a snazzy lemon and rosemary tart, instead.

While the beef Wellington was in the oven, I dressed with a distinctgetting ready for promenergy. I even googled a tutorial for an “Inside-Out Ponytail Updo” and tried to wrangle my hair into submission. I FaceTimed Sylvie so she could walk me through the process of putting on eye shadow—and voilà: three attempts later, I had eyes that were, both Sylvie and Salvador agreed, “at least ten percent sexier than usual.” The sandals were half a size too big, but it was fine. I wasn’t going hiking in them. And then, the dress: miles of voluminous, foliage-printed fabric from the empire waist down—and almost nothing from the string-bikini-style top up. The spaghetti straps held up two simple triangles and then crossed over a nakedly open back.

Basically, the top would’ve been racy even on a Saint-Tropez beach, and the bottom was like I was wearing one of Maria von Trapp’s curtains—as a curtain.

But somehow it worked?

Did it feel soul-tinglingly vulnerable to wear a garment that left whole sections of my body exposed to the open air? It did. But was it also kind of a power move to be so fearless that I didn’t even need clothes?

Weirdly, yes.

Let’s just say it was a far cry from my strawberry hoodie.

Sylvie made me send a mirror selfie to our group chat—and when she saw it, she texted immediately back:That’s a life-ruiner.

Perfect. Exactly perfect.

I wasn’t trying to change Charlie’s mind about me.

I just wanted to ruin his life a little.

And so I set the patio table with his ex-wife’s decorator’s fanciest cloth napkins, and a little army of candles for mood lighting, and I figured out how to work his stereo system for a little background music, and I got everything ready just in time for the sun to set and Charlie to come home and find it all waiting for him like a glorious gift that he could not keep.

I took the beef Wellington out of the oven to rest and took off my apron, and I sat down at the patio table, struck a pose of nonchalance like I wore tropical-foliage-print maxi dresses all the time, and waited.

And waited.

Seven o’clock came and went.

By seven thirty, I was feeling pathetic enough to open the champagne as a gesture of defiance—so that when Charlie got home, at least I’d be doing something fun.

I was pleased to discover that I’d accidentally bought a sweet champagne.

It was, in a word, yummy.

Too yummy. By nine o’clock, I’d accidentally imbibed the entire bottle.

Oops.

I’ll note that I wasn’t a big drinker, and I hadn’t touched any food all evening, so a full bottle of champagne on that empty stomach was—how to put it?—way too much.

By the time I realized I’d emptied the bottle, it was too late.

---