Page 12 of My Wife
The ruined wedding cake rides in the passenger seat. I gather a clump and stuff it into my mouth as my thoughts flail, much like my life, much like the red windsock tube man outside a car dealership gusting in the wind with a sign that saysZero Percent Financing.
I feel like a big zero. So far, the scoreboard of my life has me down points and the opposition in the lead.
Today, I went from the highest of highs to plunging into the pits of despair.
Driving in silence, I don’t stop until the little red low gas indicator light dings when I’m still outside Las Vegas. That means I’ve been driving for about four hours since leaving Los Angeles, primarily on autopilot. That also means I could stop, track down Rexlan, and give him a piece of my mind—but not a piece of the remaining and slightly lumpen, soggy wedding cake. No, instead he deserves a knuckle sandwich, but even that might be too good for him and I tell myself not to waste another thought on the jerk.
Running on fumes and—okay, fine—some very nasty fantasies of Rexlan accidentally falling out of a window (into the hotel pool), I don’t want to make his new wife a widow, but maybe he can experience that terrible swooping in his stomach as his world speeds by. Or losing every last cent at a casino or waking up outside a twenty-four-hour club (I’ve heard the sidewalks can get mighty gross).
I tap the dashboard. “Come on, Shy Eye Good Guy. We can do it.”
I’m heading back to the small town I declared home after years in and out of the homes of foster care families until I landed at a little house on Silver Queen Street and my life changed forever.
On the upside, I’ll soon be in Grandma Dolly’s meddling arms. At least there will be cookies.
After getting gas, I head toward the rest stop building. I can’t help but feel people staring at me. A little girl’s lips quiver and she whispers to her mom about the scary lady. It’s getting late and I’ve taken a personal safety class. I prepare to attack if anyone comes at the pair as they get into their car.
After going to the bathroom, I gird myself as a terrifying woman emerges from the stall. Her hair is plastered to her head like a wet cat. Makeup streaks down her cheeks, reminding me of a sad clown, and her beauty pageant gown droops like a tulip in desperate need of water and sunlight.
Oh, wait. That’s me.
My hands slap my cheeks. I’m the scary lady!
I tug on the paper towel from the automatic dispenser, but the machine doesn’t refresh them quickly enough. I need a bath, now. My look is horror movie bride and it’s not pretty.
Rubbing the rough paper against my face until my cheeks are pink, I manage to remove much of the waterproof makeup. Using my fingers, I try to add body to my limp and damp hair while smoothing it at the same time, resulting in my looking like a windblown ball of yarn.
Head down, I hurry outside and get behind the wheel of the Nissan. I drop my forehead against it.
What. Am. I. Going. To. Do?
In a fit of embarrassment and uncertainty, I started driving out of LA. But now what? My whole life is back in Los Angeles. At least I have my purse, which contains chocolate. Three pieces, which will not be enough no matter if I return the way I came or press on.
Even though I look like a zombie bride—at the next rest stop, I grab a variety of chocolates, reminding me of Granny Dolly’s cure for everything.
Chocolate chip cookies.
It will be nice to visit her, especially since she couldn’t come to the wedding that wasn’t … because I didn’t invite her. I realize now that perhaps I was lured a little farther down the Skink Society path than I realized. But for once, it was so nice to be wanted, to feel like I belonged somewhere, even if it was a thinly glazed lie.
My responsibilities back in Los Angeles are minimal, namely the houseplants I can’t seem to keep alive. Maybe this means marriage, motherhood, and family life aren’t in the cards for me.
Wilting, I hang my head.
After a canceled wedding, I’d expect my phone to beep with messages and ring with calls from people checking on me and offering support, or to get the juicy gossip. However, it remains painfully silent, highlighting the life I had with Rexlan and his family was more in my mind than rooted in reality.
Likely, I’m part of a social media post about a jilted bride. I don’t dare check.
After also getting a large coffee, I resolve to continue north to Nebraska. When I cross the Colorado border, a sane person not dressed in their wedding gown would book a hotel room, but I’ve been battling insomnia for months. My mind wanders down a rabbit trail as the beams of headlights pass in the other direction.
My sleeping issue started shortly after Sorsha insisted Rexlan and I get married. During the next hours, I try to connect the dots, analyzing situations and circumstances that should’ve been red flags, warning me that the long hours he spent with Cassleigh were suspicious.
But the painful truth is that my relationship with Rexlan and the idea that I was part of his family was one big stamp of approval.
The girl who’d been abandoned was adored.
The girl who was guarded could trust.
The girl who came from nothing had a future.
