Page 6 of Heat Island
Maybe this could work if I approach this strictly professionally. There isn’t anything stopping me from treating them like any other clients. Keep it strictly business.
But will they? Or is this some elaborate game to them?Some way to prove they made the right choice by rejecting me?
In a move as crazy as I feel, I grab my laptop and pull up their social media profiles. The investment firm that they founded after business school has quintupled in size. They have real estate projects in Dubai and Singapore that were just announced this year. According toBusiness Today,they single-handedly insured the successful IPO of some tech start-up I’ve literally never heard of before today.
My jaw drops when I see a number with ten zeroes behind it.
It barely even makes sense that they’re packed up to begin with. Sure, it makes finding an omega easier, but you’d think three egos this big would be enough to suck all the oxygen out of any given room.
They always wanted a traditional omega, and Josephine has always been destined for pack life, just like our mother.
Everyone is happy.
And here I am, surrounded by wedding samples, alone on a Friday night.
My phone buzzes on the table
JosieGrossie: have you started brainstorming yet? im thinking lavender and blush for colors
I’m the wedding planner and I don’t even know what color blushis supposed to be. A particularly pretentious shade of pink, maybe?
I stare at the message, my finger hovering over the reply field. What do I say? That I spent the afternoon drinking and crying over men who dumped me years ago? That I’m terrified of facing them again, of having them see exactly how much I haven’t changed?
The truth hits me like a cold cock to the left tit. That’s what I’m really afraid of. Not seeing them again, but having them see me. Still single. Still career-obsessed. Still proving them right.
Maybe I could just delegate one of my employees to handle the details and stay behind the scenes. Hide out in the wedding party and do my best to stay on the other side of the room for any wedding-related activities.
But that would be admitting defeat before the battle even starts. And if there’s one thing Trinity Jones doesn’t do, it’s admit defeat.
My home is filled with beautiful things that I chose and paid for myself. The walls of my downtown office are hung with awards, accolades, and news write-ups of my work in the society pages. I have a whole scrapbook of thank-you cards from satisfied clients.
This life is something I built without making a single compromise of who I am.
Maybe I’m still single because I refused to be someone I’m not. Maybe that’s not a failure at all.
I take a deep breath and text Josephine back:
TrinTrin: Thinking lavender and champagne might be a more elegant combo. Let’s talk tomorrow
Then, I open a new document on my laptop and title it: “Operation Wedding Survival.” If I’m going to do this, I’m going to do it my way. With boundaries. With professionalism. With my dignity intact.
One more message pings my phone.
JosieGrossie: Sounds grt! I need the name of your plus one ASAP, btw. still dating that beta journalist, maybe?
Ah, hell.
I text back a quick thumbs up and then set my phone on do-not-disturb.
I lie to my sister all the time.
Little white lies, like telling her I’mtotally winning, thanks girliewhen I’m actually drowning in impossible deadlines. Or saying her banana bread isthe best I’ve ever tastedwhen it’s consistently undercooked in the middle.
But this lie feels different. Bigger. More devastating.
Or just devastatingly pathetic.
I grab my phone again and stare at my last message to Josephine. A thumbs up. A digital confirmation of a boyfriend who no longer exists.
